and never smiled.
Inigo loved him. Totally. Don't ask why. There really wasn't anyone reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Domingo loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.
Domingo Montoya made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Domingo Montoya? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Arabella that your footsteps led you to?
Nope.
You went to Madrid, because Madrid was where lived the famous Yeste, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon. Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and noblemen bragged to each other when they owned an original Yeste.
But sometimes—not often, mind you, maybe once a year, maybe less—a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Yeste could make. When that happened, did Yeste say, 'Alas, I am sorry, I cannot do it'?
Nope.
What he said was, 'Of course, I'd be delighted, fifty per cent down payment please, the rest before delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.'
The next day he would set out for the hills behind Toledo.
'So, Domingo,' Yeste would call out when he reached Inigo's father's hut.
'So, Yeste,' Domingo Montoya would return from the hut doorway.
Then the two men would embrace and Inigo would come running up and Yeste would rumple his hair and then Inigo would make tea while the two men talked.
'I need you,' Yeste would always begin.
Domingo would grunt.
'This very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of the Italian nobility. It is to be jewel encrusted at the handle and the jewels are to spell out the name of his present mistress and—'
'No.'
That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Domingo Montoya said 'no' it meant nothing else but.
Inigo, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.
'No.'
Yeste would use his wealth.
'No.'
His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.
'No.'
He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.
'No.'
Insults. Threats.
'No.'
Finally, genuine tears.
'No. More tea, Yeste?'
'Perhaps another cup, thank you—' Then, big: 'why won't You?'
Inigo hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.
'Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, 'Domingo, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,' and I would embrace you and cry 'Yes!' Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do.'
'For the last time I ask you. Please.'
'For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No.'
'I gave my word the sword would be made,' Yeste said. 'I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.' And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Domingo on Yeste's wedding day.
'Good-by, little Inigo,' Yeste would say then. 'God grant you your quota of smiles.'
It was forbidden for Inigo to interrupt.
'Good-by, little Domingo,' Yeste would say then. 'Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don't think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.' He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. '
'How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?' Domingo asked.
'I'm anticipating, don't bother me, let me die unpestered.' He brought the point to his skin, pushed.
Domingo grabbed the knife away. 'Someday I won't stop you,' he said. 'Inigo, set an extra place for supper.'
'I was all set to kill myself, truly.'
'Enough dramatics.'
'What is on the menu for the evening?'
'The usual gruel.'
'Inigo, go check and see if there's anything by chance in my carriage outside.'
There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.
And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. 'We would be partners,' Yeste would say. 'In Madrid. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.'
'No.'
'All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.'
'Have a good trip back.'
'WHY WON'T YOU?'
'Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Inigo, but I do not have to suffer fools.'
'You are an artist,' Yeste said.
'No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.'
Yeste entered his carriage. Domingo approached the window, whispered: 'I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.'
'Your secret is safe with me.'
Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.
Inigo remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. 'Inside there,' a voice boomed. 'Be quick about it.'
Inigo's father opened the door. 'Your servant,' he said.
