[center][h3]In the House of Sharp Edges[/h3][/center]

His Immanence drew glittering silks more tightly around him as a chill wind blew down from the Godsfangs, a premonition of winter descending. Once he had read that seasons in ancient times had come in regular succession and for fixed periods upon the face of Azoth, in accordance with the relation of the stars to the sun. An old myth, probably. The invention of blasphemous astrologers. 

Winter was never predictable, but always brutal here where the mountains ended and the river Tul began its lazy descent from flinty uplands to the paddies and fields around Nyssos, and if the cold fell now upon the Rainlands, taking crops and livestock with it, His Immanence did not foresee the young and embattled Shashul remaining much longer on his father's throne.

Not that he cared overmuch. Though the Servants of the Forge had for time out of mind served the Sashul in Nyssos- indeed, had long been the secret to their power- the emperors of late had been neglectful of the gods. Dagorvada's paranoia had extended to the devout, his patronage of the Servants had been half-hearted, his clerical appointees had proved imperial lapdogs, and his sacrifices few- leaving the gods displeased and ravenous.

Perhaps the gods would withdraw their protection the Salished Empire, and give it over to the rule of impious warlocks and devious slave lords. His Immanence Rael Amon, Master of the House of Sharp Edges and Foremost Placator of the Divine Hunger, was slightly surprised to find that, in his heart of hearts, he cared not whether the Empire lived or died. 

For he knew the Servants would endure. The Cult of the Forge would spread still. The sacrifices that sustained the world would continue, even in secret if necessary, for the debased magic of the Dratha had never been and never would be equal to power of the gods. 

A hoarse shout roused His Immanence from such reflections, and he looked down from the crumbling balcony on which he stood. In the cobbled square below him, the beardless acolytes practiced their sword cuts with lengths of bamboo, their eyes blindfolded. Oathmen walked among them, barking instructions. One of the boys had misplaced a swing and struck the acolyte next to him, who had shouted in pain. Amon watched as the Oathmen took the lad who had shouted by both arms and drag him screaming and struggling from the line of youths, who continued their synchronized exercises without pause. 

A missplaced blow was a part of learning, but showing pain was not permitted in the House of Sharp Edges. The lad would have his tongue removed for the offence. A tongue was not much needed in the life of a Swordarm anyway.

"Your Immanence," said a low voice behind Amon, who turned, grey eyebrows raised.

"What is it?" he asked of the bowing servitor who approached him.

"A message, sent by bloodhawk for you," said the servitor, "from the Ashlands."

He presented Amon with a small, tightly bound scroll.

Amon unsealed it and read, turning from the balcony as he did so into the darkened hall behind it. He reread the note twice as he walked.

Around him, the walls of the dim passageway were lined with rows of swords, their edges gleaming in the gloom. There were hundreds of them, and His Immanence knew them all, and all their histories. Every few feet, a sword was set apart in a stone shrine etched with the fierce and hungry likenesses of the gods, the intricate metalwork of the blade illumined by guttering candles.

These were the foremost treasures of the House of Sharp Edges. [i]Ghulbane[/i], which had been wielded by the Swordarm Sasan in his battle with the Devourer of Agan Tul, [i]Demon-Drinker[/i], which had cut down the Gorelord Incarnate before the founding of the Empire. 

Amon came to a shrine that had no sword set within it. He read his note again. It had been sent from some backwater with the barbarous name of Zar Yiin. 

The disgusting heathen Khalul and that crafty serpent Issrun were not the only ones with eyes and ears across the civilized and half-civilized world. The Servants had their spies too, though they cared little for the movements of armies and the treacheries of lords and mages. The Servants of the Forge cared for loftier things than mere politics. They were concerned rather with the secrets and mysteries of their faith, and with recovering what belonged to the gods of the Forge. 

Rarely was a Sword stolen from the Servants, for there were few who could wield such weapons without being wielded [i]by them[/i] in turn. Rarer still was it that a Named Blade was taken. But [i]this[/i] Sword had been, by some lowborn rake from the mountains no less, a man who dealt with godless wizards and aelg-men. 

The mercenary Olms.

Long had His Immanence wished to bring back this missing treasure, [i]Severian[/i], which had for centuries been wielded by the Lord Headsman of the reigning Sashul. Long had he sought for the wretched thief Olms.

And now he knew Olms was in the Union, cavorting with sorcerers, heading north on some strange errand.

"Bring me Swordarm Malik," said Amon to the servitor, "and bring me the blessed sword [i]Huntsman[/i]."