The Sinking (1)
Damascus old town outskirts.
In the suffocating heat that choked the breath from my lungs, I strained my facial muscles to keep my expression from twisting. This secret workshop, which our blacksmith guild had run covertly, was now completely overrun by knights and artisans from foreign lands. Sealed tight—even the chimney blocked to prevent smoke from leaking—this hidden space felt less like a forge and more like a torture chamber designed to pierce unhealthy lungs.
There were eyes peering at the artisans' hard-earned work from the shadows where the heat had ebbed. Their owner was Justus, smug in his self-importance. His gaze burned as hot as the glowing red steel chunks in the furnace. The weight of that stare fell squarely on the artisans, who hammered away diligently, ignoring it as best they could without a single curse.
But such hopes were futile before an impatient knight. "How goes it? Have you unraveled the secret of that foreigner's scales yet?"
At Justus's prodding—patience not even fit for medicine—the lead artisan, Hans, wiped the sweat pouring from his brow and spoke. "Not yet... it's still insufficient, sir. These scales feel like intangible ghosts. Just when you think you've got them, they slip away every time... Recreating them will take a vast amount of time. It feels like wandering through fog again, back in my apprenticeship days."
Idiots. Standing in the dim doorway, I sneered at the sight before slowly stepping into the furnace light. My outfit was the guild elder's garb, stuffed with all its pretentious pomp. As my eyes met Justus's, I plastered on a greedy smile, rubbing my hands as if I couldn't wait to sell out.
It was an act honed over decades of wielding the hammer—not for artisan pride, long since melted in the forge fire, but to save my house and family as a perfect patriarch. Pride? What use was that? It wouldn't save our necks.
Our damned guild was already a rotting ship sinking in the Malik's palm. Better to find a way out than drown with the strutting elders who didn't even see it. Especially that young, eerie foreigner gripping my leash. Cross the monster's industrial whims, and my family would share the other elders' fate. In this Damascus underbelly, survival meant worrying if our heads stayed attached.
To save them, I'd gladly play the clown before this nauseating Western knight.
"The secret seems to lie in the heat treatment."
Recalling key hints the industrial lord had dropped, my hushed whisper made the crude knight snap his head around in interest. No guilt pricked me—my words held no lies.
"Speak, old man. What exactly is the trick of that bastard who stole all your guild's work?"
I glanced around with exaggerated caution, lowering my voice like a traitorous whisperer of secrets. "From what I've grasped, the foreigner's quenching defies our common sense. He plunges it into lukewarm river water without minding the steel's twisting screams. Rumors say he laughs that oil is for cowards, and the markets are full of it."
At my words, the Western artisans—lifelong oil-quench purists who treated it as gospel—leapt up in outrage.
"Cowards...? And lukewarm water? That's killing the steel! Sudden cooling twists its innards—that's basic knowledge!" Hans bellowed, veins bulging.
But Justus crushed him with a cold glare. What did an arrogant knight care for artisans' common sense or pride?
"Quiet. The results prove it. His scales outmatch your whining lot by far. Even if the method baffles you, results justify the act."
Ignoring the artisans' twisted faces, Justus grinned sharkishly at me and nodded. "Continue, old man. I'll supply whatever you need. If I can humble that foreign whelp at the banquet before we leave and earn the Malik's awe."
"As you command."
I bowed deeply. A chilling, relieved sneer crept across my lips toward the floor, unseen by his arrogant eyes aimed skyward.
Farewell, foolish Western knight. Your stupidity is our family's shield.
The seal and ring Duqaq had given me carried far more authority than I'd imagined.
The envoy party's guest palace. My path to Sir Guillaume's office was smooth sailing. Malik's guards parted before me in the night air, and servants paled at my signet ring, guiding me eagerly. It paid off handsomely.
At the door, I knocked. A heavy voice answered from within. "Enter. The door's open."
Sir Guillaume greeted me upon entry. Diplomatic on the surface as befitted an envoy leader, but deep in his eyes lurked blatant displeasure at a mere common blacksmith walking in unbidden.
The room, carpeted in lavish rugs, carried cold wine scents and odd aromas. Was this Europe's air? The thick fragrances mingled with the tension, brewing unease.
"Industrial lord—or Baraka, was it? I'm curious why a blacksmith shows up late at night flashing the Malik's seal. As I recall, we share no diplomatic discourse."
Guillaume toyed with a wine goblet on a silver tray, flicking glances at my ring. Elegant poise, but aristocratic arrogance and thorny wariness dripped from his bones.
I didn't rush, rummaging my pouch. Papers from Jamal detailing Justus's collusion with Damascus's corrupt elders. I dropped them on the table.
"No diplomatic discourse, true. But it seems I'm the only one who can worry for your envoy party's safety."
"Safety? A mere blacksmith dares fret over our envoy party's safety?"
As his brow twitched, I tapped the table lightly with my ringed hand. The dull metal-wood clunk shattered the silence, easing the mood.
"I believe honor stems from actions, not status. Do you agree?"
He nodded slowly at my opener. It took mere seconds to halt.
"In that vein, the Malik takes Sir Justus's wayward steps poorly. A knight should stand proud on sacred Damascus soil, not skulk like a rat through underground markets, grasping beyond his station."
His eyes wavered at my blunt, manly speech—ignoring diplomatic fluff—like a lost goblet hovering in air.
"His conduct hardly befits the holy mission you bear, Sir Guillaume. What say you?"
As joint envoy head, he'd surely sensed Justus's solo acts. He couldn't not know. But hearing it from the Malik's ring-bearing proxy was another matter.
An unofficial warning, delivered through another to obscure the Malik's intent—political pressure no one relishes in uncertainty.
"Did the Malik say this himself?"
His sharp query met my shrug. Neither yes nor no—the most insolent, binding non-answer. Overstepping for a commoner, but the ring shielded me, not my station.
"The Malik's mood sours. He respects your party's face but frets over crossed lines. I trust your character, Sir Guillaume. I'd hear from your lips that this isn't the whole party's will."
Yelling "ignore the punk, I'll handle him" would just rile noble pride. Like bad cop, good cop: after the straight talk, I laid escape routes—elegant coercion to cut his own rot. Flawless business.
Unlike hot-blooded young fool Justus, Sir Guillaume was wise, aged, and cold. He fell silent. I could feel the mental abacus clicking.
As dew from the chilled goblet—cooled by night breeze—trickled down his hand, he spoke. His tone drew a cold line from Justus.
"...Justus is young and hot-blooded. If his acts displease the Malik, proper procedure demands fitting punishment. Our envoy party aren't such shameless lot."
Deal sealed. No fool sinks the ship for one rat; that's why he's envoy head.
I bowed lightly. "Wise judgment. May the Lord's grace be with you. I'll relay your insight to the Malik directly. On Sir Justus... the Malik will handle at the opportune time, ensuring no harm to your party. Worry not..."
As I turned to leave, his gaze piercing my back surely trembled faintly. The simple, stubborn artisan he'd pegged me as had shown courtier's cunning—must seem gravely mistaken.
He'd whip his party into line personally for a while; good news for the Malik.
Leaving the palace quiet for the plaza, cool night air flooded my lungs deep. Enough to wash away the choking wine and taut tension.
I fondled the heavy weight in my pocket. Malik's seal ring and token. In this barbaric age, these metal scraps had guarded my neck—legs nearly buckled realizing it.
Armed with modern knowledge? In an era where honor and duels loomed real, trading barbs with walking-tank medieval knights? Not easy when fists trump law, and one sword swing sends heads flying.
How not to flinch? I don't know such ways.
Whew... I'm beat.
Mouth parched. Brain cells felt roasted from outmaneuvering a seasoned noble with power and might to crush me.
Craved sweet lemon-honey tea to cleanse stress-fried neurons, so I strolled night streets. Outwardly casual, but sweat had slicked my back the whole talk.
Night breeze dried it to a chill shiver across skin; habit made my right hand pat my pocket. Seeking the partner always by my side before this hellish medieval drop. The familiar white cylinder between index and middle, thumb-flicked to spark with a click—god, I missed it.
But fingertips met only cold seal edges and rough cloth.
Ah.
Silent sigh at the sewer reality. Breath or swallowed gasp? Indistinguishable.
Didn't matter. Sigh or internal lament—what difference? No need to split hairs.
Who'd think I'd crave that harmful vice, unavailable for 800 years?
I clenched and unclenched empty fists, choking back bitter smile against withdrawal. Nicotine cravings aside, I couldn't puff hashish like Middle Easterners.
I inhaled deep the Damascus night air, dust and spices mingled. Half a year dropped here.
In this stark 12th century sans caffeine or nicotine, The poor modern industrial lord’s stress levels rose daily like dough.