2.

"I can't bide long," Prince Inri said.

He was on his way back from the Village of Ligo-by-the-River. There was a woman there who was growing exotic herbs from distant lands or at least trying to. The venture could not be said to be going well. The humid air of the area of Tellus fought her every effort.

His old friend, Voith the Blacksmith, looked up from tending his garden, which had purely decorative value. It currently looked rather over-tended.

"You should let the poor things grow a few leaves," Inri remarked as he tethered his patient mare to the gate. "Before you cut them off again."

Voith huffed and threw down his pruning knife. "I suppose I am taking out my vexation upon the hedge." He smoothed back his curly graying hair, shaking lose only a few of the flecks leaves and lichen caught within it.

Inri stamped the mud off his riding boots on the path. "Is this a new vexation, or the same one as ever."

"Those so-called SageWomen—"

"The same one then." Inri walked down the side of the cottage to the well.

Voith followed close behind him. "How am I to make the goods the village needs with them declaring all these high holy days when forge cannot be worked!"

"To be fair," Inri replied as he lowered the bucket. "I think you'll find they were made high holy days long before any of us were born."

"And then, and then!" Voith shook his fist, face flushed with wrath. "They have the neck to complain that I am taking so long with their socle that it will not be done for whits-fair. I ask you…"

Inri was tired from his journey and not paying close attention to the tirade which varied in its details but not its theme each time he passed by this way. He might do better to break the habit of visiting. By some quirk, Inri resembled Voith somewhat, enough that there had been gossip about their association.

The blacksmith ranted on, his curly hair bobbing over a long, expressive face and the burly body his trade produced. Their resemblance was mostly about the eyes and nose. Inri was about as tall but skinny and mellow in temperament where Voith was easily rankled.

Inri took the water bucket to his horse and returned it to its place, Voith following behind all the way, venting his innumerable complaints.

Inri sought a space to move into the matter that interested him better. "So, a socle then? And what's that?"

"Ah, ah. You come and see. It's taking most of the coal I have and all of the iron. The next horse that throws a shoe will have to wear straw slippers to work, for HighSage Deft must have her socle."

Voith led the way back to his workshop. He flung open the doors, wide enough to admit a goods-cart, and revealed a sizeable black-metal structure about waist high and wide as an altar. "This, my boy, is a socle."

Inri winced. It was not a turn of phrase he would want to be overheard by the gossips. Nor was it the way one was supposed to address even a lesser prince. Not that Inri was generally a stickler for courtesies.

"So… it's a…" Inri started the sentence before realizing; he was really no closer to knowing the answer.

Voith circled the object. "Bloody great new effigy, they have," he said, gesturing to the space above the socle. "All made of stone it is and heavy as grief. But can't have stone under it because offering, to be made proper, must be under the Gadis feet. So there has to be a place under. They could have some pillars on each side, but it leaves less space for the offerings, and they don't want that. So bloody Deft says we must have Master Voith make us a black-iron socle as they have in Berat. And there they are ornamented and gilded and shines like the sun for morning service. Where she plans to find gold—"

Inri ran his fingers over the solid bars of the great box. "You are using more char," he remarked.

"Oh, aye. To make it strong enough, but it's a right bitch to work. I about threw my hammer arm outta its socket pounding out these bars."

"It seems, in that regards, only fitting then that you be given ample rest."

"That'd hardly be the point. Those women—"

Inri waved his hand, deflecting a continuation of Voith's gripes. "Maybe it's the Gadis then ensuring your rest. But I'll admit I am more interested in how things are going with your sprung bow than the table for the Dea's statue."

"Oh." Voith rocked back with a knowing look. "An' here I was thinking you come visit me for my charm an good looks. Come see…"

He led the way into a smaller room in the back of the building where different pieces and parts were lying about, making the lack of iron for nails seem like a bit of an exaggeration.

Picking up one piece, Voith said, "This is the first success I've had making a lathe for the sideways bow. But I am having a hard time figuring how to fit it to a spar, and the draw on it will be harsh. It'll probably need to be held down with a foot and draw up with both hands." He mimed the gesture.

"Just so," Inri agreed, pulling a folded piece of rag paper from his belt-pouch. "I procured another account of the weapon from our ambassador to Skirla. He includes a picture of the arbalest, that's what they call the men who employ these things, doing just as you say."

Voith snatched the letter from him. "If you could just get me one of these bows to look at," he said. "Trying to create is from vague descriptions is making hard work of it, to be sure."

"They keep a close accounting of them," Inri replied. "They know the worth of the secret, and we can't afford the provocation of being caught pilfering one."

Voith set to reading the letter, sounding the words silently.

Inro looked back at the sky. The day was sliding away, and he must be back by dusk. The twentieth anniversary of his natal year, and the time his father, the king, would confer his first title. It would be an unlucky occasion to miss or even delay. The title was meant to determine his place in the family, in society, in history.

[In truth, the titles going vacant were either too mundane for a prince, or too bloody important for a prince who is not within spitting distance of the crown, now that both of his brothers had sons of their own. Because once assigned to him a royal title could only, by tradition, descend to his heirs—who would only become even less relevant to matters of rein. A significant role or duty could not be thusly squandered. In fact, the only excitement in court about the whole issue was whether the king would need to invent a whole new title to solve the problem of what to do with a prince who was important without actually being, well, important. If you see what I mean.]

"I could ask my mother," Inri said, "About getting an exemption from the forging ban for work done to serve the Church."

"Hmm," said Voith vague, turning the letter sideways to better see the scratchy illustrations.

Inri shook his head and turned to return to his mount. And to discover what the future held for him.