A Quiet Grip

“Set it down,” Orris said.

Malket’s fingers were still around the shield handle. He looked at Orris, then eased his hand away. The shield settled against the counter with a heavy clack.

The captain flexed his fingers once. He’d gone pale beneath the weather-brown of his face, though his voice stayed level. “You heard it too.”

“I heard the shield. You heard your name.” Orris kept his own hands clear of the grip. “I’d like you to leave it here while I look.”

Malket glanced toward the front door. “How long?”

“I can’t tell yet.”

“That’s a poor answer.”

“It’s the one I have.” Orris nodded at the shield. “The last thing it needs is another hand on that handle.”

Veyra had set her coffee down. A folded length of linen lay beside her cup, ready for Orris’s wrapped hand. “The captain should go beyond the shop threshold,” she said, solemnly. “The voice has already learned the way to him.”

Malket looked at her. “You think it can follow?”

“I think we should not give it another chance to try.”

Orris picked up the shield by its rim, keeping his palm away from the grip. “I’ll take it downstairs. The workshop is sealed. Wait at the west post, Captain. I’ll send word when it’s safe to test.”

Malket studied the shield. “I have a patrol at dusk. This is my only sound one.”

“Then I’ll work carefully.”

After a moment, Malket nodded. He stopped at the door and looked back once before stepping outside.

Veyra held the cellar door while Orris carried the shield down. She kept her coffee upstairs. The lead-lined workshop door shut between them with a firm click, and Orris set the shield on his padded bench.

Without Malket’s hand on it, the voice came only to Orris as a sensation inside the metal: a strained insistence, pressed thin by the buckled frame.

*Malket. Down. Malket. Down.*

Orris set a wooden wedge against the grip and pushed, a little at a time. The voice tightened with each fraction of movement. He stopped. The words had the blunt urgency of a warning. The shield was trying to make its bearer lower himself behind it. Its attempt to protect Malket had been forced through a cracked handle until the warning came out as his name.

He checked the inner leather. The captain’s name was scratched there beside the guard’s property mark. The shield had heard it during years of use. Its protective impulse had found the one sound most likely to make its owner look up.