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here.
    “Eight nights ... that
will cost you fourteen silvers – and that’s cheap. You look like a
country folk so you probably can’t afford it.” He chuckled at a
private joke. “Tell you what, lad,” he went on before Roland could
reply. “You work for me for the next week, and your board and food
is free.” He smiled broadly. “Show him to his room, Alfeer,” he
told his son, returning his attention to the plate of food.
    Alfeer led the confused
Roland up a set of rickety, wooden stairs. “Don’t let it bother
you,” he said seeing Roland’s expression. “He gets carried away
sometimes, but my dad’s a good man. His name’s Oldon. You’ll
probably clean once we close at night and help set up in the
morning. It won’t be hard work. Well, here we are.” He opened a
warped door and Roland automatically stepped inside.
    “Tonight’s on the
house. Come down for food when you’re ready.” He closed the door
and Roland heard footsteps going back down the stairs.
    The room was a small
one, containing only a bed with a straw filled mattress. Roland
stepped to the window and looked outside. Half his view was blocked
by a building and the other half looked over the market square. It
was early evening and the merchants were busy packing up. Roland
dropped onto the bed, sending up a small puff of dust.
    What a strange bunch,
he thought, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter
4
     
    C arla gently turned the wax figure
over in her hands. It was modelled into a brooch, the motif a round
shield with a leaf in the centre. The wax had been taking shape in
her mind since the events on the Swallow and she had finally
finished it three days ago.
    She laid the wax brooch
on a soft cloth and lifted the clay mould. The mould was a round
ball, tightly wrapped with string and painted with resin. She had
prepared it as soon as she had finished shaping the wax brooch. She
had used a mixture of clay and cattle droppings as the combination
gave a smoother imprint and was less likely to crack when dry.
Using two soft pieces of the clay mixture, she had pressed it over
the wax brooch, leaving an indentation in the centre of the clay.
She had then waited for the clay to dry, smoothing out any
imperfections in the imprint. Once the clay had dried, she stuck
the two pieces together using a blend of boiled fish bones and tree
sap. Again, she waited for it to dry. A day later, she had wrapped
the mould with string and resin.
    She felt her heartbeat
quicken. It was ready. Her uncle watched her with one eye squinted
shut. “Never seen you so worked up before, lass,” he said, his deep
voice resonating through the workshop.
    She smiled at him and a
slight tint appeared high on her cheekbones. “I think it’s ready
for casting, Uncle.”
    “Are you sure you want
to use silver?”
    Carla nodded. “It has
to be silver. It fits the motif best.”
    “You better be sure
your mould is ready.” He scratched his red beard, studying the
mould. “Silver melts at a higher temperature than bronze. The heat
can crack your mould like a rotten egg.”
    “I know, Uncle, but
it’ll hold.”
    “If you say so, lass.
Come to the furnace. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
    Carla worked the
bellows, her green eyes fixed on the silver nuggets inside the
melting pot. Small droplets of sweat ran down her face as the
charcoal turned white hot. Her red hair caught the glare, and it
looked as if a blazing fire surrounded her head.
    The melting pot turned
a fiery red, and the silver nuggets started falling in on
themselves, slowly filling the bottom of the crucible with flowing
silver.
    “Careful now, you don’t
want to overheat the alloy,” warned her uncle, secretly pleased
with her work. She let go of the bellows, wiping the sweat from her
face. A smear of soot covered her cheek.
    “Pour it now, lass –
quick!”
    The clay mould rested
inside a bucket filled with sand to the side of the furnace. Carla
grabbed the long-steel tong, hooked its