فصل 43

Let the Crafting of Decorative Metal Waterfowl Begin

KENNING SQUARE looked like a basketball court without the baskets. A chain-link fence bordered a stretch of cracked asphalt. Along one side stood a row of stone pillars carved like totem poles with dragon heads, centipedes, and troll faces. Along the other side, bleachers were packed with dwarf spectators. On the court, where the free-throw lines would’ve been, two open-air blacksmith shops were ready for action. Each had a forge with bellows to stoke the fire, an assortment of anvils, a few sturdy tables, and racks of tools that looked like torture equipment.

The crowd seemed prepared for a long day. They’d brought coolers, blankets, and picnic baskets. A few enterprising dwarves had parked their food trucks nearby. The sign for ?RI’S HANDCRAFTED CONFECTIONS showed a waffle cone topped with a three-story ice-cream palace. BUMBURR’S BREAKFAST BURRITOS had a line twenty dwarves long, which made me sorry I’d eaten stale doughnuts at Blitz’s place.

As we approached the court, the crowd gave Blitzen a smattering of applause. Sam was nowhere to be seen. She’d never come back to the apartment the previous night. I wasn’t sure whether to be worried or angry.

Junior was waiting, leaning on his gold-plated walker. His two bodyguards stood behind him, dressed like their boss in overalls and leather gauntlets.

“Well, well, Blitzen.” The old dwarf sneered. “Mossglow started ten minutes ago. Were you getting your beauty sleep?”

Blitzen looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He’d spent the past hour worrying about what to wear, finally deciding on gray slacks, a white dress shirt with black suspenders, pointy black shoes, and a porkpie hat. He might not win for his crafting, but he would definitely get the vote for best-dressed blacksmith.

He glanced around distractedly. “Get started?”

The crowd cheered. Hearthstone accompanied Blitzen to the forge. After a night on Blitzen’s tanning bed, the elf’s face had a rosy sheen as if he’d been infused with paprika. Before we left the apartment, he’d cast a rune on Blitz to help him feel rested and focused, which had left Hearth exhausted and unfocused. Nevertheless, Hearth stoked the forge while Blitzen puttered around his workstation, staring in confusion at the racks of tools and baskets of metal ore.

Meanwhile Junior scooted around on his walker, barking at one of his bodyguards to fetch him a lump of iron and a sack of bone chips. The other bodyguard stood watch, scanning for anything that might disrupt his boss’s work.

I tried to do the same for Blitz, but I doubted I looked as intimidating as a muscular dwarf in overalls. (And, yes, that was depressing.)

After about an hour, my initial adrenaline rush wore off. I began to realize why the spectators had brought picnic lunches. Crafting was not a fast-moving sport. Every once in a while the crowd would clap or murmur approvingly when Junior struck a good hit with his hammer, or plunged a piece of metal into the cooling vat with a satisfying hiss. Nabbi and two other judges paced back and forth between the workstations, scribbling notes on their clipboards. But for me, most of the morning was spent with the Sword of Summer in my hand, trying not to look like a fool.

A couple of times I had to do my job. Once a dart shot out of nowhere, heading for Blitzen. The Sword of Summer leaped into action. Before I even knew what was happening, the blade sliced the dart out of the air. The crowd applauded, which would have been gratifying if I’d actually done anything.

A little later, a random dwarf charged me from the sidelines, swinging an ax and screaming, “BLOOD!” I hit him in the head with the hilt of my sword. He collapsed. More polite applause. A couple of bystanders hauled the dwarf away by his ankles.

Junior was busy hammering out a red-hot iron cylinder the size of a shotgun barrel. He’d already crafted a dozen smaller mechanisms that I guessed would fit together with the cylinder, but I couldn’t tell what the final product was supposed to be. The old dwarf’s walker didn’t slow him down at all. He had some trouble shuffling around, but he could stand in one place just fine. Despite his age, his arm muscles were ripped from a lifetime swinging hammers at anvils.

Meanwhile, Blitzen hunched over his worktable with a pair of needle-nose pliers, connecting thin sheets of curved metal into some kind of figurine. Hearthstone stood nearby, drenched with sweat from working the bellows.

I tried not to worry about how exhausted Hearth looked, or where Sam was, or how many times Blitzen dropped his tools and wept over his project.

Finally Nabbi yelled, “Ten minutes until mid-morning break!”

Blitzen sobbed. He attached another sheet of metal to his project, which was starting to resemble a duck.

Most of the crowd focused on the other workstation, where Junior was attaching various mechanisms to the cylinder. He hobbled to the forge and reheated the whole contraption until it was glowing red.

Carefully, he set the cylinder against the anvil, holding it steady with his tongs. He raised his hammer.

Just as he struck, something went wrong. Junior screamed. The hammer went askew, flattening the cylinder and sending attachments flying everywhere. Junior staggered backward, his hands cupped over his face.

His bodyguards rushed to his aid, crying, “What? What it is?”

I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but apparently some kind of insect had bitten Junior between the eyes.

“Did you get it?” asked one of the guards.

“No! The little pest flew off! Quick, before the cylinder cools—”

“Time!” shouted Nabbi.

Junior stomped his foot and cursed. He glared at his ruined project and yelled at his bodyguards.

I went to check on Blitzen, who sat slumped on his anvil. His porkpie hat was pushed back on his head. His left suspender had snapped.

“How you doing, champ?” I asked.

“Horrible.” He gestured at his project. “I made a duck.”

“Yeah…” I searched for a compliment. “It’s a really nice duck. That’s the bill, right? And those are the wings?”

Hearthstone sat next to us on the asphalt. Ducks, he signed. Always ducks.

“I’m sorry,” Blitz moaned. “When I’m stressed, I default to waterfowl. I don’t know why.”

“No worries,” I said. “Junior had a setback. His first project is pretty much ruined.”

Blitz tried to brush the cinders off his white shirt. “It doesn’t matter. Junior’s first item is always his warm-up. He’s got two more chances to destroy me.”

“Hey, none of that.” I rummaged through our supply bag and handed out canteens of water and some peanut butter crackers.

Hearthstone ate like a starving elf. Then he sat back and shone a flashlight on his face, trying to absorb the rays. Blitzen barely sipped his water.

“I never wanted this,” Blitz murmured. “Crafting contests, magic items. All I ever wanted was to design quality clothing and sell it at reasonable prices in my own store.”

I stared at his sweat-stained collar and thought about what Freya had said: Blitzen is a genius at fabrics and fashion. The other dwarves don’t appreciate his expertise, but I think it’s marvelous.

“That’s your dream,” I realized. “That’s why you drank from Mimir’s Well—to find out how to open a clothing shop?”

Blitzen scowled. “It was more than that. I wanted to follow my dream. I wanted other dwarves to stop laughing at me. I wanted to avenge my father’s death and restore the family’s honor! But those things didn’t go together. I went to Mimir for advice.”

“And…what did he say?”

Blitzen shrugged helplessly. “Four years of service—that was the price for drinking from his well. He said the cost of knowledge was also the answer. By serving him, I would get what I wanted. Except I didn’t. Now I’m going to die.”

No, Hearth signed. Someday you will get your dream.

“How, exactly?” Blitzen asked. “It’s a little hard to cut and sew fabric when you’re decapitated.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I said.

In my chest, several ideas started to smelt together into a usable molten ingot—unless that sensation was just the peanut butter crackers. I thought about my sword that could turn into a pendant, and Sam’s hijab that was magical high-tech camouflage. “Blitz, your next two items are going to be awesome.”

“How do you know? I might panic and make more ducks!”

“You want to make clothing, right? So make clothing.”

“Kid, this is a forge, not a haberdashery. Besides, fashion is not a recognized craft.”

“What about armor?”

Blitz hesitated. “Well, yeah, but—”

“What about fashionable clothing that doubles as armor?”

Blitz’s mouth fell open. “Balder’s Bling…Kid, you may be on to something!” He shot to his feet and began hurrying around the workspace, gathering tools.

Hearth beamed at me—literally, since he still had the flashlight aimed at his face. He tapped his free hand to his head—the sign for genius.

When Nabbi called time, I took over at the bellows to give Hearth a rest. He stood guard. Stoking the fire was about as fun as riding a stationary bike inside a baking oven.

After a while, Blitzen took me off the bellows and had me assist with the crafting. I was hopeless at it, but being forced to give me directions seemed to increase Blitz’s confidence. “No, put that here. No, the big tongs! Hold it steady, kid! That’s not steady!”

I lost track of time. I didn’t pay much attention to what Blitz was making—something small, woven from chain. Instead I kept thinking about the Sword of Summer, now back in pendant form around my neck.

I remembered walking from the docks to Copley Square, half delirious with hunger and exhaustion, and the imaginary conversation I’d had with the blade. I considered how the sword either hummed or stayed silent, either guided my hand or lay heavy and inert. If it had a soul and emotions—then I hadn’t given it enough credit. I’d been treating it like a dangerous object. I should be treating it like a person.

“Thanks,” I said under my breath, trying not to feel ridiculous. “When you cut that dart out of the air earlier, you saved my friend. I should’ve thanked you sooner.”

The pendant seemed to grow warmer, though standing next to the forge, it was hard to be sure.

“Sumarbrander,” I said. “Is that what you like to be called? Sorry I’ve been ignoring you.”

Hmmm, the pendant hummed skeptically.

“You’re much more than a sword,” I said. “You’re not just for slashing at things. You—”

From across the courtyard, Nabbi yelled, “Ten minutes until lunch break!”

“Oh, gods,” Blitzen muttered. “I can’t—Kid, quick! Hand me that texturing hammer.”

His hands flew, snatching up various tools, making minor adjustments to his creation. It didn’t look like much—just a flat narrow length of chain mail—but Blitz worked as if his life depended on it, which it did.

He folded and crimped the chain mail into its final shape, then soldered the seam.

“It’s a necktie!” I realized. “Blitzen, I actually recognize what you made!”

“Thank you. Shut up.” He raised his soldering gun and announced, “Done!” just as a crash reverberated from Junior’s workstation.

“GAAHHH!” screamed the old dwarf.

The entire crowd surged to their feet.

Junior was on his butt, cradling his face in his hands. On his worktable sat a flattened, misshapen lump of cooling iron.

His bodyguards rushed to help him.

“Damnable insect!” Junior howled. He was bleeding from the bridge of his nose. He looked at his palms but apparently found no squashed bug. “I hit it this time, I’m sure! Where is it?”

Nabbi and the other judges frowned in our direction, as if we somehow might have orchestrated a kamikaze insect attack. I guess we looked clueless enough to convince them otherwise.

“Time for lunch,” Nabbi announced. “One more item shall be made this afternoon!”

We ate quickly, because Blitz was raring to get back to work.

“I’ve got the hang of it now,” he said. “I’ve got it. Kid, I owe you big-time.”

I glanced over at Junior’s workstation. His bodyguards were glaring at me, cracking their knuckles.

“Let’s just get through the contest,” I said. “I wish Sam was here. We may need to fight our way out.”

Hearth gave me a curious look when I mentioned Sam.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head and went back to eating his watercress sandwich.

The afternoon session went quickly. I was so busy on guard duty I barely had time to think. Junior must have hired some extra saboteurs, because every half hour or so I had to deal with a new threat: a spear thrown from the audience, a rotten apple aimed at Blitzen’s head, a steam-powered predator drone, and a pair of dwarves in green Spandex jumpsuits, wielding baseball bats. (The less said about that, the better.) Each time, the Sword of Summer guided my hand and neutralized the threat. Each time, I remembered to thank the sword.

I could almost discern its voice now: Yeah, okay. Mmm-hmm. I suppose. Like it was slowly warming up to me, getting over its resentment at being ignored.

Hearthstone rushed around the workstation, bringing Blitz extra materials and tools. Blitz was weaving a larger, more complicated piece of metal fabric. Whatever it was, he seemed pleased.

Finally, he set down his bezel roller and shouted, “Success!”

At the same moment, Junior suffered his most spectacular fail. His bodyguards had been standing close, ready for another kamikaze insect attack, but it made no difference. As Junior brought down his hammer for a masterstroke, a dark speck zipped out of the sky. The horsefly bit Junior on the face so hard he spun sideways under the momentum of his hammer. Wailing and staggering, he knocked both his guards unconscious, destroyed the contents of two worktables, and swept his third invention into the forge before he collapsed on the asphalt.

It shouldn’t have been funny—an old dwarf getting humiliated like that. Except that it was, kind of. Probably because that old dwarf was a spiteful, nasty piece of work.

In the midst of the commotion, Nabbi rang a hand bell. “The contest has ended!” he announced. “Time for judging the items…and killing the loser!”