exited the room, leaving the king alone to study the faces on the tapestry once more.

3 Razor John

'Sure flights! Razor points!'

The fletcher's cry rang out over the marketplace. Other wandering sellers called, 'Nice red apples!' or 'Boots mended! Leather repaired!' The fletcher's call, borne by his deep, resonant voice, carried over these and other noises.

'Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!' Pausing a moment to settle the heavy cart in his hands, John the Fletcher took in the sights and sounds of Suzail's market.

It was a beautiful morning. Winter was finally loosing its grip on Cormyr, and the sun shone brightly in the cloudless azure sky. The nights were still chilly, of course, but the days were getting more and more pleasant all the time. The nice weather brought people out to the market, so merchants and shoppers now crowded the open area reserved for tradesmen like John. A few permanent tents and stalls dotted the dusty expanse, but the place was mostly packed with small-time sellers and farmers. Shoppers bustled from one stall to the next. Cooks frowned at unripe imported fruits and vegetables, and merchants smiled endearingly, trying to lure people toward their goods. Ham and beef and other, more exotic meats roasted over small fires, sending tempting smells and black, greasy smoke twisting into the air. Pack animals brayed, gulls screamed overhead, and people jabbered and bartered, creating a steady, roaring hum that would hang over the square until the sun set.

'Morning, milady,' John said to a passing flower peddler. He lifted his black felt hat with one gloved hand and grinned at the pretty young woman. John had seen her around the market before, and by the purple sash she wore around her waist, he could tell that she was a maiden looking for a mate.

She passed the fletcher by without so much as a second glance. John shrugged, hefted his cart again, and set off toward the docks.

'Sure flights! Only the best from Razor John!'

The fletcher had walked but twenty yards or so, calling out his wares, when a stout man signaled him to stop. The man's sunburned face was almost hidden by the fur cloak he wore over his earth-brown tunic. The fletcher immediately assumed him to be an itinerant mercenary from the grimy, unkempt state of his dress.

'What'll it be today, good sir?' John asked as he unrolled the cloth on the top of his cart. A dozen different types of arrows and crossbow bolts lay on display.

The man glanced at the weapons, then looked to the fletcher. 'I heard you call 'Razor John.' Is there anyone else in the market who uses that name?'

John rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. 'Not that I know of, though I'd wager there are other fletchers in Suzail who go by the name of John.'

The fur-clad man nodded. 'No, my good man. If you are the Razor John, then you're the only fletcher I seek.' He picked up a silver-tipped longbow arrow and turned it over in his hands. Sunlight glinted off the finely honed arrowhead.

'You've got a good eye,' John noted casually, studying the customer. 'That type of arrow is one of my specialties.'

'You make the arrowheads, too?'

'Aye. I've been trained as an arrowsmith as well as a fletcher.'

The man looked at John suspiciously. 'Do you pay dues in the Fletchers' Guild and the Arrowsmiths' Guild?'

John shrugged his left arm toward the customer. 'Of course,' he said, slapping his hand over two patches tied around his arm. The small leather circles had the symbols of the Fletchers' and Arrowsmiths' Guilds stamped into them. 'Licenses are up to date, as well.'

An odd smile crossed the man's face. 'A guildsman. Good. I'll take two hundred of your silver-tipped arrows, then.'

John raised one eyebrow in surprise. He was accustomed to selling such quantities of arrows, but only to ships' stewards, the royal guard, or the city watch. 'My apologies, good sir, but I don't have that many on hand.' John rolled the cloth display aside and opened his cart. He removed four batches of ten arrows each.

'I don't need them right now,' the customer said. 'I'll be in the market to pick up the rest in-' John held up one finger. 'A tenday, it is.'

They discussed how and where John was to deliver the arrows. The terms were simple enough, and the fur- clad man paid the fletcher thirty pieces of silver as a down payment. John was pleased with the sale, for it seemed to indicate that his reputation as a craftsman was spreading. Still, he wondered why the man wanted so many arrows.

'Outfitting a mercenary company?' John asked as he pocketed the silver coins. 'The king is going to be hiring well-outfitted sell-swords for the crusade against the barbarian invaders in Thesk.'

The man's sunburned face paled noticeably. 'You'd sell arrows to someone supporting Azoun's foolish plan?' he asked, his lips curling into an almost feral snarl. 'I'm tempted to cancel my order, even if you are a guildsman!' Not taking his eyes off John, he slipped his hand into his purse and removed a small leather badge similar to the ones the fletcher wore-this one, though, bore an open, jagged-toothed bear trap stamped into it.

John stared at the badge. The man wasn't a mercenary; he was a trapper. The opposition the Trappers' Guild was fomenting against the king was rumor throughout Suzail, but the trappers had yet to brave any truly public statement of their opinion about the proposed crusade. Suddenly, the fletcher realized that the grimy trapper might be needing the arrows for just such a statement.

'I may be a guildsman, but I'm also a good subject of the king,' John said gruffly. He dug the silver coins out of his pocket and dropped them into the dirt. 'I'll not be selling weapons to malcontents for them to use in a revolt.'

'Better a malcontent than a fool,' the trapper snapped. He quickly snatched up the coins and turned to go. 'You'll remember this when the king's tax collector takes your shop away.' Without another word, the fur-clad man disappeared into the crowded marketplace.

John simply shook his head in dismay and packed up his cart. He'd heard a great deal about Azoun's crusade-and the trappers' opposition to it-in the last few tendays. It was common knowledge that the king was meeting with important nobles and even the leaders of Sembia and the Dales, trying to get their cooperation. The fletcher wondered for a moment if he should report the trapper to the city guard, then decided he would that evening.

Not that he thought the trappers posed any real threat to the king. Azoun's army, known as Purple Dragons, could certainly thwart any minor uprising. More importantly, Azoun was going to make a public speech that very afternoon-a speech, rumor had it, in which the king would formally announce the crusade. After the official declaration of war, the government would swiftly equip the crusading army and move it to the east. If the trappers hadn't yet done anything to unify the scattered groups that were against the venture, it might soon be too late.

Shielding his eyes, John looked into the sky and estimated from the sun's position that he had enough time to make one delivery before the king's speech. He quickly lifted the wooden cart and set off for the Black Rat, a tavern near the docks, east of the marketplace. On his way through the crowded streets, the fletcher thought not of battles in faraway lands, but of the apprentice in his shop. He'd have to visit him before his delivery at the tavern.

A few blocks from the Black Rat, John left his cart at home. The fletcher lived above his forge and workshop. He sometimes sold his wares from the shop, but it was located far from the market. John found that by traveling part of the day, showing examples of his work, he could drum up much more business than came looking for him.

His apprentice was a young lad with sandy brown hair and nimble, long fingers. As the fletcher entered the bright, open-fronted shop, the boy was stripping feathers, preparing them to become fletching. 'Take time out at highsun to hear the king,' John told the boy, examining his work over his shoulder.

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