Seven hundred miles east-northeast of Theedalit, a more prosaic ship had docked, a lumber schooner. Ashore, in an office of a small residence, the sunlight through the door cut off, and Sallvis Venettsio looked up from the manifest the ship's mate had given him two minutes earlier. There'd been no sound of boots on the wooden porch, and now he saw why: It was a moccasined barbarian that stood looking in at him, one he didn't like but had to put up with.
"What brings you down the river, Bloody Sword?" Venettsio asked.
The broad, strong-framed warrior stepped inside and across to Venettsio's table, eyes and mouth hard, hostile. Two other warriors followed him. "Factor, another boat has come from your country. My brother demands to know what word your father has sent about teaching men to make steel."
"The news won't please Killed Many. My father sends word that he will send more swords and tools for your people, but he will not sell them the secret of making steel."
A large sun-darkened fist slammed down on the factor's table, making the mate jump. The factor, on the other hand, didn't blink. "Your father cheats us," the warrior snarled. "He knows we need swords, and would force us to buy from him!"
The factor did not get up. "Bloody Sword," he said calmly, "my father cheats no one. He takes rock from deep in the earth, which requires much labor, turns it into steel, which takes more. He makes swords for your tribe—more work—and sends them to you on a trip of many days across often stormy water. And trades them to you for trees which we cut down and take away without effort of your people. And charcoal made from trees, which we also make without effort of yours."
The warrior scowled. "Your father cheats us," he repeated. "We do not need to give you anything, or have anything to do with your womanly race. My brother demands to know how steel is made!"
The factor leaned back in his chair and spoke calmly. "Bloody Sword, you are a man of ugly words. I will be glad to speak with your brother, but I will no longer speak with you."
Their eyes locked, blue on blue. Then abruptly the warrior's sword was in his hand, pointed at the factor's chest. "You will speak with whoever my brother chooses to send, or you will speak no more. And my brother has sent me!"
The factor's arms were folded across his stomach. Very carefully, very deliberately he answered: "Bloody Sword, leave this dwelling and do not come back. Tell your brother to send some . . ."
With a thrust that seemed to take even Bloody Sword by surprise, the thirty-inch blade darted at the factor, stabbing him through the base of the throat. Blood spurted as the factor crashed over backward in his chair. The mate screamed. For just a moment, Bloody Sword stared chagrined at his weapon, as if it had played him false. Then he snapped a brief order to the two warriors with him, and turning, they left. The mate stared bulge-eyed after them, till after a long half minute he left too, hurrying to find the deputy factor.