Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,172

'But it's cursed?'

'Only in so far as all Blue Style weapons are cursed. As you know, the blade's core is twisted wire, five braids of sixty strands each. Five bars are fused to that core to produce the breadth and edge. Blue Style is very flexible, almost unbreakable, with one drawback. Finadd, touch the blade to any other here. Lightly, please. Go ahead.'

Brys did so, and a strange sound reverberated from the Blue Style sword. A cry, that went on, and on.

'Depending on where on the blade you strike, the note is unique, although each will eventually descend or ascend to the core's own voice. The effect is cumulative, and persistent.'

'Sounds like a dying goat.'

'There is a name etched into the base of the blade, Finadd. Arcane script. Can you read it?'

Brys squinted, struggled a moment with the awkward lettering, then smiled. 'Glory Goat. Well, it seems a mostly harmless curse. Is there any other sorcery invested in it?'

'The edges self-sharpen, I believe. Nicks and notches heal, although some material is always lost. Some laws cannot be cheated.' The Ceda drew out another sword. 'This one is somewhat oversized, I'll grant you—'

'No, that's good. The stranger was very tall.'

'He was now, was he?'

Brys nodded, shifting the first sword to his left hand and taking the one Kuru Qan held in his right. 'Errant, this would be hard to wield. For me, that is.'

'Sarat Wept,' the Ceda said. 'About four generations old. One of the last in the Blue Style. It belonged to the King's Champion of that time.'

Brys frowned. 'Urudat?'

'Very good.'

'I've seen images of him in frescos and tapestries. A big man—'

'Oh, yes, but reputedly very quick.'

'Remarkable, given the weight of this sword.' He held it out. 'The blade pulls. The line is a hair's breadth outward. This is a left-handed weapon.'

'Yes.'

'Well,' Brys considered, 'the stranger fights with both hands, and he specified two full swords, suggesting—'

'A certain measure of ambidexterity. Yes.'

'Investment?'

'To make it shatter upon its wielder's death.'

'But—'

'Yes, another incompetent effort. Thus, two formidable weapons in the Blue Style of Letherii steel. Acceptable?'

Brys studied both weapons, the play of aquamarine in the lantern-light. 'Both beautiful and exquisitely crafted. Yes, I think these will do.'

'When will you deliver them?'

'Tomorrow. I have no desire to enter those grounds at night.' He thought of Kettle, and felt once more the clasp of her cold hand. It did not occur to him then that he had not informed the Ceda of one particular detail from his encounter at the tower. It was a matter that, outwardly at least, seemed of little relevance.

Kettle was more than just a child.

She was also dead.

Thanks to this careless omission, the Ceda's measure of fear was not as great as it should have been. Indeed, as it needed to be. Thanks to this omission, and in the last moments before the Finadd parted company with Kuru Qan, a crossroads was reached, and then, inexorably, a path was taken.

The night air was pleasant, a warm wind stirring the rubbish in the gutters as Tehol and Bugg paused at the foot of the steps to Scale House.

'That was exhausting,' Tehol said. 'I think I'll go to bed.'

'Don't you want to eat first, master?'

'You scrounged something?'

'No.'

'So we have nothing to eat.'

'That's right.'

'Then why did you ask me if I wanted to eat?'

'I was curious.'

Tehol anchored his fists on his hips and glared at his manservant. 'Look, it wasn't me who nearly got us investigated in there!'

'It wasn't?'

'Well, not all me. It was you, too. Poking eyes and all that.'

'Master, it was you who sent me there. You who had the idea of offering a contract.'

'Poking eyes!'

'All right, all right. Believe me, master, I regret my actions deeply!'

'You regret deeply?'

'Fine, deeply regret.'

'That's it, I'm going to bed. Look at this street. It's a mess!'

'I'll get around to it, master, if I find the time.'

'Well, that should be no problem, Bugg. After all, what have you done today?'

'Scant little, it's true.'

'As I thought.' Tehol cinched up his trousers. 'Never mind. Let's go, before something terrible happens.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Out of the white

Out of the sun's brittle dismay

We are the grim shapes

Who haunt all fate

Out of the white

Out of the wind's hoarse bray

We are the dark ghosts

Who haunt all fate

Out of the white

Out of the snow's worldly fray

We are the sword's wolves

Who haunt all fate

Jheck Marching Chant

Fifteen paces, no more than that. Between emperor and slave. A stretch of Letherii rugs, booty from some raid a century or more past, on which paths were worn deep,