Twisted Shadow (3)
The chill of dawn crept down the walls of Damascus, brushing through the deserted corridors of the palace. The daytime splendor had vanished into thick darkness, leaving only the sporadic torches—spitting embers as they burned—to pierce the heavy silence around us.
"This way, Guildmaster."
Following the soldier Duqaq had dispatched to the forge, we moved quietly. Our prior connections made the inspections a mere formality. Trailing behind me, Jamal trembled like a leaf in the wind, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. He'd jumped ship to ride with me a step ahead of everyone else, but the pressure of heading into the malik's private sanctum—the most dangerous place for him—must have been too much for the young elder to bear.
The room we were led to wasn't even the late-night audience chamber; it was a small study adjoining Duqaq's private prayer room. As the door opened, a haze of incense wafted out, and Duqaq—sitting amid stacks of books with a single candle lit—turned his head, making his presence known.
"I apologize for visiting unannounced and without proper courtesy at this late hour, Malik."
I bowed politely, and Duqaq lifted his weary eyes to me. His cool gaze lingered briefly on Jamal, who was prostrated so low his nose nearly touched the floor, before settling back on me.
"Baraka, if you've come to me at this hour of the night, there must be good reason. I've heard reports of the envoy scum scurrying like rats in the markets, caught a few times by my soldiers... but it seems this time it's not something we can let slide so easily."
Duqaq's voice was low, but the killing intent coiled within it was sharp as a blade. Without a word, I unpacked the bundle I'd brought tucked under my arm. Out spilled the secret letters Jamal had smuggled from the envoys, stamped with the seal of that puffed-up Edessa knight, Justus de Rethel.
"The hard evidence might be thin. But we've secured an insider witness who orchestrated it all. I've learned the name Justus quite well myself this time around. A cunning bastard, really. He layered assassins and mercenaries for protection, but in the end, he couldn't hide his name from me. As we say back home, if your tail's too long, it'll get stepped on eventually."
Duqaq pinched the bridge of his nose and let out an amused chuckle at my casual Korean idiom. A man who'd dealt with countless vipers in his life, he seemed to find the metaphor refreshingly novel. And since it carried good news that benefited him too, how could he not enjoy it?
I nodded at Jamal to lift his head slightly. In a quavering voice, he confessed everything: his contacts with Justus, the list of technologies the West had tried to steal, and how the elders had fallen for sweet talk to sell out Damascus. Duqaq listened in silence to the end. He already knew several envoys were scheming behind the scenes, so Jamal's testimony merely underlined a report—but it was more than enough to make a solid case.
"Justus... that arrogant whelp dares test my patience. Your words ring true—if the tail's too long, it gets stepped on."
Murderous intent flashed in Duqaq's eyes. But true to his seasoned rule, he quickly regained composure and addressed me.
"But Baraka, without decisive proof, this isn't enough. You know diplomacy is a battle of pretexts. Even if that cocky young knight denies it to my face, if it's not ironclad, they'll just bury it."
Realistic advice, as expected. And as if probing if I had more, he continued.
"Even as the rightful ruler of Damascus, forcing out an entire envoy delegation brings more loss than gain. With just a blacksmith's evidence and testimony, we can't crush their spirit or silence Sir Guillaume."
Duqaq's point was spot on. In medieval diplomacy, a knight's honor outweighed a hundred words from common blacksmiths. But I curved my lips in a faint smile and pulled a small pouch from my bosom—the very clue that would serve as the decisive evidence he'd just mentioned, a single flawed scale Jamal had brought yesterday.
"That's why I propose this, Malik. Bring this mudslinging 'diplomacy' right under your feet."
I extended my hand courteously toward Duqaq.
"When they toast with the fake spoils they've stolen and strut about, here's the proof to turn them into a laughingstock. Forgive me, but might I borrow the dagger at your waist for a moment?"
A bold request before a ruler, asking for his own weapon no less—but Duqaq drew it smoothly, intrigued, and handed it over. Matching his boldness, I placed the flawed scale flat on the study floor.
"This is a reject made by the exact same process as what Justus's mercenaries stole. At a glance, it looks identical to the Sirion scales I presented to you, doesn't it?"
Duqaq narrowed his eyes, inspecting it. Smooth sheen, feather-light weight. To the naked eye, it was indistinguishable from the top-grade output flooding from my forge.
"Strike it. Let your own eyes confirm what trash this 'invincible steel' Justus swears by truly is."
At my nod, Jamal gripped the dagger with trembling hands and scraped the scale's surface. A faint friction sound, a puff of metal dust. As Duqaq's brow furrowed, Jamal raised the dagger vertically and slammed it down.
Clang!
With a shattering crack like breaking glass, the steel scale exploded into dozens of fragments, scattering across the floor. Duqaq's face hardened coldly at the sight of the silvery powder.
"As you see, it's a trap. Deliberately twisted internals from extreme processing—designed so one impact shatters it, and the rest crumbles like a toppled pillar. No matter how skilled their artisans try reverse-engineering, copying this flawed structure will end in disaster."
I met Duqaq's gaze squarely.
"Set the stage for that arrogant knight to show off his flawed creation under some pretext. Before all Damascus's nobles, when it shatters to pieces, there'll be no justification left for sheltering a man bold enough to steal tech yet fail so spectacularly as to offer defective goods to you, Malik."
Duqaq's silence didn't last. Staring at the scattered powder, his broad shoulders began to quiver faintly—then a booming laugh shook the study.
"Hahaha! Brilliant, Baraka! A vicious, ingenious scheme!"
He rose, picking up a shard. Rubbing the powder between his fingers, his eyes gleamed with rare, pure delight at the game—and approval for me, the one setting it up.
"Imagining that whelp Justus thumping his chest with this glass-like scrap, prattling about chivalry and valor before me... my mouth waters already. Wagging his tail, oblivious to digging his own grave!"
Duqaq sheathed his dagger and clapped my shoulder heavily. His grip was more insistent than usual—a sticky possessiveness, like a swamp determined to bind a useful man fully to his side.
Ah, that look would be intense even from a woman, but from a young guy like that, it's pretty damn gay...
The random thought crossed my mind at his gaze, but reality—in his presence—left little room for distraction.
"Baraka, you're too big for just hammering steel. I'd love to appoint you to office and keep you close, but I know you won't wear that collar meekly. So for now, we'll leave it at this."
Duqaq caught his breath, then retrieved a heavy wooden box from a deep wall safe. Inside lay a gold ring stamped with Damascus's seal of power and a token to requisition a detachment of Mamluks.
"Take this: my sealed ring and a token for twenty Mamluks. The stage to humble the envoys and punish the ungrateful guild is yours. Show these to my atabeg, and he'll back you fully; my hajib will prepare what you need. So... don't disappoint."
Duqaq leaned in close, as if to slip the ring on my finger himself, his piercing gaze like a bird of prey. Ruthless greed and ruler's calculation mingled there—a true power's weight, worlds apart from the guild's doddering elders. His eyes scanned me several times before he simply placed it in my hand.
I stared silently at the items. The authority he'd granted exceeded my expectations—burdensomely so.
The cold weight of the ring and token in my palm made me swallow dryly inside. Accepting it fully, I bowed slowly.
"I'll chain them with sure and sturdy bonds and drag them to the judgment stand, Malik."
As we left the study, the night air had grown even colder. Beside me, Jamal stood dazed, barely holding himself up. Young among the elders, but the time before the much younger Duqaq had weighed heavily. Recent events seemed to have aged the mentally fragile old man by a decade at once.
Glancing at the sealed ring and token in my palm, Jamal flattened himself to the ground without daring a straight look.
"G-Guildmaster..."
I stopped and looked down at him. The study’s thick incense clung to my clothes, but my senses were dominated by the cold metal in my grip.
Power has its own scent. Fishy yet cloyingly sweet, like liquor stripping the soul and cigarette smoke seeping from wrist to veins.
"Jamal, snap out of it. Your role isn't over yet."
I casually pocketed the ring. Leaning low toward the trembling man, I issued orders.
"Jamal, starting tomorrow, don't sneak to the forge like this. Go back to the guild and act normal, like before. If they ask why you haven't shown up, make excuses—they're idiots, it'll be easy."
Doubt and fear of being discarded flickered in Jamal's eyes.
"B-But Guildmaster, if I go back to them, what am I supposed to..."
"Simple. When Justus's Western artisans disassemble and reverse-engineer those fake scales, you'll be there to subtly help. Whenever they sniff out structural flaws, divert their attention slyly."
I patted his stiff shoulder.
"The more you guide them to copy the fatal design errors with your 'expert' insight, the better. No need to touch it yourself—just plant certainty in their mistakes and tweak the fine process details ever so slightly."
Jamal swallowed hard, grasping how thoroughly this would doom them to a dead-end pit.
Throwing him in made things effortless—no need for my direct meddling. A few well-placed words from him, still a guild member, would refine the arrogant fool's output to perform exactly as desired.
"Remember: the better you lead the artisans, the more spectacular his flop—the more the Malik will spare your house and life."
"...Y-Yes. I'll keep it in mind. I'll disrupt them enough to make them believe their creation is perfect... But if they test it and notice...?"
I answered his fearful glance.
"Each scale's toughness holds up, of course. But if assembled right, it'll withstand a longsword swing easily. And unless they target one spot with a mace, it'll endure. Guide that part well too."
Jamal bowed deeply and vanished into the dark alley before dawn broke.
Alone, I fingered the ring's chill in my pocket, staring toward the envoys' lodgings. Power's fishy scent still lingered at my nostrils.
Gazing at quiet Damascus night streets, I muttered softly.
"Justus... that prick whose name doesn't even roll off the tongue is such a pain in the ass..."
I worried how tightly the Malik would cling after this, but inhaled deeply, reminding myself the priority was the process to crush that bastard. Dawn's humid, murky air filled my lungs.
Unconsciously, I reached into my other pants pocket, rummaging the empty space.
"Ah, shit..."
Only empty fabric met my fingers. The urge to suck in acrid smoke deep into my lungs and exhale long. On stress-maxed nights like this, the craving hit reliably—for modern indulgences this era lacked: instant coffee and a cigarette.
Power in hand or board perfectly set, to a K-blacksmith, it was still a harsh night yearning for nonexistent modern vices.