The Argent Penance

Fiction

Lord Alaric shifted his weight on the crimson velvet settee. The movement produced a series of sharp, metallic clinks, the sound of a heavy platter sliding across a marble table. He looked at his forearm. The luster had gone. Where there had once been a mirror finish that reflected the candlelight, there was now a smudge of dull, matte grey. It looked like old lead. Thorne stood by the door. He held a small ceramic jar, the seal still intact. The steward did not move toward the lord; he simply watched the grey patch spread across Alaric's wrist. "The shipment from the coast was delayed," Thorne said. His voice was flat. "The salts are scarce this season." Alaric tried to stand. The silver of his joints ground together with a dry, grating noise. He felt the weight of his own skin, a heavy plating that made every gesture a chore. He reached out, his fingers clicking against the mahogany armrest. "You will open the jar, Thorne," Alaric commanded. Thorne stepped forward, but he did not open the jar. He leaned in, and Alaric could smell the caustic, sharp scent of the salts leaking through the ceramic pores. It smelled of ammonia and scorched earth. It was a scent that burned the nostrils and watered the eyes. "The cost has risen," Thorne whispered. "Not in coin. I find I have a sudden interest in the land deeds for the southern valley." Alaric stared at him. He tried to sneer, but the silver of his cheeks was stiff. A small flake of grey oxide peeled away from his jaw and fluttered down, landing on the velvet with a tiny, metallic ping. He was tarnishing. He was becoming a statue of common pewter. "You are a servant," Alaric hissed. "I am the man with the scrub," Thorne replied. He slowly unscrewed the lid. The stench of the salts filled the room, acidic and oppressive. He dipped a coarse linen rag into the white powder and stepped closer. He did not apply it gently. He pressed the rag into the dull grey patch on Alaric's wrist and scrubbed. Alaric gasped. The salts did not just clean; they reacted. The silver hissed. A thin wisp of acrid smoke rose from the skin, smelling of burnt ozone and sulfur. It was an agonizing heat, a chemical fire that stripped away the oxidation to reveal the blinding, conductive white beneath. Alaric shuddered, his silver frame vibrating against the upholstery. He looked at the brilliant shine on his wrist, then at the smug, fleshy face of the man holding the rag. He was a god of metal, but he was dependent on a man who smelled of old sweat and wool.