Iron Jackal by Chris Wooding Page B

shook his head in despair. ‘You’re such a child.’
    Ashua waited expectantly.
    ‘Although, now I think about it,’ Frey continued, ‘I don’t much like carrying cargo when I don’t know what it is.’
    ‘Dangerous for all concerned,’ Ashua agreed.
    ‘Your fingers are smaller than mine. You might have better luck.’
    ‘You haven’t even tried yet. Might be you do the job just fine.’
    They stared at the case for a while.
    ‘Will you just open it?’ Ashua snapped suddenly.
    ‘Alright!’ Frey cried, throwing his hands up in the air. He stalked over to the case and ran his fingers over it, searching for a way in. It had a strange texture, somewhere between stone and metal. There was no seam that he could find. If he hadn’t been warned not to open it, he wouldn’t have guessed it opened at all.
    He should probably just leave it alone, he decided. But he didn’t like to look bad in front of a woman. Even if she was a gobby, tattooed street-rat he probably had a decade on.
    ‘Try the other side,’ Ashua urged him.
    ‘I was getting to it,’ he replied irritably. He turned the case around and felt along the edge, where he encountered a faint row of depressions in the surface. ‘There’s something here.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I—’ Then he stopped, because the case was slowly, silently opening with the lazy gape of a crocodile. He stepped back. ‘Reckon I did something right.’
    The case split open as if hinged on one side, although there were no hinges to be seen. Inside lay a weapon of some kind. It took up the entire length of its container, resting in a delicately wrought cradle of metal. The relic.
    It looked like some kind of enormous double-bladed sword. At its centre was a handle of carven bone, big enough to grip with two hands. Projecting from each end of the handle was a long, narrow blade. The blades curved slightly in opposite directions. They were not made of metal, but a stone-like substance which had no lustre. It was beautifully fashioned, but there was an unsettlingly alien quality to the delicate whorls and curves cut into the surface. He saw patterns of circular indentations and tiny clusters of incomprehensible symbols.
    On the inside of the lid was a teardrop-shaped emblem wrought in shining grey metal. It looked like a stylised wolf, or some kind of dog. Frey glanced at it for a moment before returning his attention to the infinitely more attractive item beneath it.
    ‘Now that looks like it would fetch a few ducats,’ he commented. ‘How old do you think it is?’
    Ashua crowded close to have a look. She was dusty and filthy and the attractive new-sweat smell of her had been replaced by a stale odour now they were out of the sun. None of which stopped Frey being suddenly very conscious of her proximity.
    I need a shower , he thought to himself. Very long and very cold.
    ‘Well, the Sammies have been around longer than anyone,’ said Ashua. ‘First civilisation, and all that. So if this counts as a relic to them . . .’ She shook her head slightly. ‘Doesn’t make sense. It could be thousands of years old, but it looks like it was made yesterday.’
    ‘Maybe they built things to last back then. What do you reckon the blades are made of?’
    ‘Dunno. Touch ’em and see.’
    ‘Hey, I opened it. Your turn.’
    ‘Frey,’ she said. He turned to meet her gaze. Then, very slowly, she puffed out her cheeks and began to cluck like a chicken again.
    ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a bad influence.’
    She grinned at him. He put out his hand and laid it on the flat of the blade. It felt completely smooth, almost glasslike.
    ‘I think it’s some kind of ceramic,’ he said. ‘Weird. Never seen a blade like that, in Samarla or anywhere. Not even up in Yortland, and they make weapons out of any old shit up there. Seal bones and bear teeth and whatnot.’
    ‘Try it out,’ Ashua suggested.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Go on. Take it out, give it a swing.’ When Frey rolled his