12. The Invisible Hand (2)
The next day, after breakfast and into the night once more. Zaid visited the forge, Barakah, to coordinate various matters.
"An auction? Are you in your right mind in this situation, Barakah?"
Zaid's voice cracked. It was right after I'd proposed the secret auction method.
To block the spies' eyes, I'd fully lowered the awnings and instructed Rashid not to stop hammering the anvil to cover the noise with sound. Relying on a single torch, I crafted the Sirion Armor with sounds smaller than hammer strikes, using the clattering as white noise while we sat face-to-face and talked. His eyes were filled with surprise and worry.
But I casually lifted the nearly completed Sirion from beside the furnace. The steel plates, densely overlapped and riveted like a snake's scales, gleamed coldly.
"Mr. Zaid, one-sided deals mean enslavement. The moment we take one side's hand, we'll become the public enemy of the other. But if we bring both to the same table and let them bid against each other, things change."
I continued riveting the Sirion leisurely. "While they wear themselves out checking each other, we enjoy safety atop the gold they pour out. As a merchant, what better deal is there?"
At my words, Zaid propped his chin and stared piercingly at me. It wasn't wrong. And as a merchant, it was the right calculation. If those pressuring him were weakened, it benefited Zaid himself and us, the makers of his gear.
"You're saying to invite both envoys and hold the event in the forge's front yard? What if they draw swords?"
"Are you scared enough to abandon this honey pot? With your skills, Mr. Zaid, you can control it. And why our shop's yard? Don't you have an auction house you can use?"
My look implying "Is that all?" made Zaid chuckle hollowly before slapping his knee.
His eyes began to sparkle with greed and energy. He seemed to take my rude glance as praise.
"Ha! A blacksmith sharper than a caravan master. Fine, if you doubt my skills, I'll prove it. We'll open the secret caravanserai my guild manages. It's completely cut off from the outside—perfect for my men to control."
Zaid stood abruptly and beckoned his guards.
"Ali! Turk! Prepare to move the goods now! Tonight will be the most expensive night in Souk Wadi Barada's history!"
The underground banquet hall of the caravanserai Zaid prepared was thick with tense killing intent. Torches licked the stone walls with flickering red light, and beneath them gathered the invisible hands shaking the Levant.
On the left sat the envoys from Damascus's Malik, Duqaq, stiffly. On the right, the Crusader knight Guillaume and his entourage exchanged murderous glares. Recent rising mercenary union figures filled the gap, completing the three-way standoff.
"For a heathen forge to hold such treasures—God must be angry. Or does it not matter since it's forged by the Eastern Silla?"
Guillaume murmured low, hand on his chainmail.
A Damascus envoy sneered. "Well, it's no toy for loudmouthed Franks. This weapon was born for our atabeg's army."
As swords seemed imminent, Zaid mounted the platform and raised his hand high.
"Everyone, thank you for coming! Tonight is a special auction consigning Master 'Barakah's' famed swords and maces."
The early items were stock left at the forge: the hexagonal flanged mace infamous as the "knight killer" from Galilee Hills, and the Mi'yar Swords.
They scoffed at Zaid calling it special for already-known items. No matter how important, it wasn't exceptionally special for his reputation, so skepticism dominated.
Under Zaid's skilled hosting, swords and maces sold first. Proven in battle, bids soared sharply.
But the envoys' eyes remained hungry. They craved the "new technology" like the mercenaries' Galilee miracle—gear worth bleeding for to claim glory.
Regardless, under Zaid's veteran lead, the forge stock found owners one by one.
"Next, 'Mi'yar', 'Mi'yar' straight swords! The ones that sliced three chainmails on Galilee Hills. Starting bid: 80 dinars!"
"80!"
"120!"
"150!"
With each number, venom filled their eyes. Proven performance, standardized quality—this sword wasn't just a weapon but a "guaranteed advantage" boosting win rates.
When the hexagonal flanged maces, the "knight killers," sold for 210 dinars each, the hall's heat hit critical.
But I watched indifferently from the platform corner. Their eyes were still hungry. The "technological edge" to overwhelm foes hadn't appeared.
When heat peaked, I stepped to the platform. Wrapped in black tob, face masked, showing only thick, soot-blackened hands and bulging muscles—for mystery and intimidation.
In my hand: an odd-shaped item wrapped in black silk.
"Swords and maces are fine weapons. But they mean nothing if the user doesn't survive."
At my voice, Guillaume and the Damascus envoys held their breath. I slowly unveiled the silk. Torchlight slid over steel scales, rippling.
"This is Sirion. Unlike any armor you've seen."
I held up the arm piece. It looked like rough linen cloth, but inside: heat-treated special steel plates, intricately riveted, interlocking.
"Chainmail resists slashes but not blunt impacts. Solid breastplates defend well but are slow and heavy. This is different."
I donned the arm piece and slammed a hammer down mercilessly.
Clang—! The sharp metallic ring echoed. Envoys leaped up in shock.
A blow that would shatter bones through chainmail left my arm unscathed. Their cognitive dissonance—from artisan striking himself—flipped to awe.
"It uses more materials than chainmail, but time, labor, and protection are incomparable."
No need for extras. Their minds were ignited.
Frenzied envoys saw the sleek scales back on auction as the signal, itching to throw their gold.
"This is unfinished—just the arm. But it comes with priority negotiation rights for the full Sirion. The winner gets first dibs on the complete set soon."
Zaid's timely words made them frenzy like oil on fire. Owning the partial meant limited disassembly, but no time for that—they mobbed to offer it to their lords, driving bids with their funds.
Zaid shouted as if waiting.
"Starting bid: 500 dinars! Bid for the right to live in the 'Sirion' era!"
That was the signal. Before Zaid finished, the basement roared like a battlefield.
"500 dinars!"
Crusader knight Guillaume fired first. Greed hotter than faith burned in his eyes. Having felt chainmail's limits in the First Crusade, these steel scales promised survival they'd desperately craved.
"550 dinars!"
Damascus countered instantly.
"750!"
"900 dinars!"
Four figures. When 1,000 dinars leaped out, the air froze. Enough for a whole city forge.
But they pressed on. Bidding not for an arm piece, but power to shift battlefields.
From below the platform, I coldly observed through the mask. 'Keep bidding higher. The more you pay, the stronger my foundation.'
As bids passed 1,200 dinars, a young Crusader knight, unable to contain excitement, approached Miriam guarding the display.
Drunk on auction heat, he lost reason, tapping her shoulder smugly.
"Hey, miss. Too pretty to serve a craftsman in this dust pit. Come to Jerusalem with us—I'll give jewels worth more than this scrap. How about it?"
His hand reached for her chin. But Miriam didn't flinch. She drew the mace I'd used to save her, lifting it to his chin.
Swish— The heavy mass touched his skin.
"Sorry, but I prefer this steel to jewels. You types who just swing without effort shouldn't speak of Teacher's toil. Touch me rudely again, and this mace to your jewel-like head... you get it?"
The auction's madness ignored the incident amid minor bidders. So I stepped in.
Approaching the retreating knight, I patted Miriam's shoulder and whispered.
"Miriam, calm down. Can't embarrass a valuable guest. He's emptying his fortune for my next work."
At my joke, she beamed innocently.
"Right! I overdid it. You'll need lots of money to win—good luck!"
The knight retreated dazed. The auction peaked.
"1400 dinars! No higher? Sirion's value, 1400! 1400! 1400!"
After three calls, Zaid hammered the gavel.
The Damascus winner ascended smugly amid glares, claiming the arm. Failed Crusaders eyed each other bitterly for non-cooperation and left.
Envoys gone, torches flickering quietly. Zaid stared at the gold pile, murmuring dazedly.
"This isn't a dream... 1,400 dinars for an arm piece and a 'priority' paper. You're incredible. No, terrifying."
I tossed the sweat-soaked mask. Facing human greed hotter than the furnace left a bitter taste. But results exceeded expectations.
"Not time to celebrate, Mr. Zaid. Now the real start."
"What? We made money, and neither envoy dares touch you now."
I gazed at the dark shadows trailing the departing envoys, murmuring low.
"Now they'll watch each other more than steal my tech—fearing rivals get it first. No need for me to fight. As long as their greed holds knives to throats, this forge is the Levant’s safest sanctuary."
Zaid swallowed hard. He finally grasped my "invisible hand."
I gripped my hammer, turning to Miriam. She polished her mace, grinning—more pleased by the forge's peace than the sum.
"Miriam, good work. Let's buy something tasty today."
"Really? Then lamb skewers at the market entrance!"
Her childlike laugh filled the quiet basement. To protect it, I vowed stronger steel.
Heading back, stars gleamed like cold steel shards. Just an arm now, but soon knights would storm fields in my Sirion.
If asked if I feared the bloodshed? One answer.
'To return to Earth, I need a legend here too...'
I relit the forge. In the roaring flames, a full brigandine vision shimmered.
Master Barakah's legend had just begun to hammer out.