Only her hair remained to mark her as different from any woman crew member on leave, for, though she kept it braided tightly, it still formed a heavy crown for her head. That, Jofre also knew, she would not part with willingly, for it was a weapon she might call upon in need.
'Istarn,' Zurzal repeated first a little blankly as if he had not heard the name before, and then added with more force, 'Istarn—but of course—it was he who turned up the Balakan mirror dispatcher that Zanquat has in his collection. I have never met the man but I thought he dealt mainly in antiques—not the weapons of this day.'
'Learned One,' Jofre said, 'we of the issha have been trained with weapons those of these strange worlds believe to be primitive, for the use of barbarians only. However, it might be that this Istarn would put a collector's price on what he has to offer and that would be too great to pay.'
'Istarn himself does not deal here on Wayright,' Taynad continued to impart information the other two began to wonder how she gathered. 'His shop is on the Second Way—where those bored while they wait for their ships spend time and money on things which seem strange and new to them, but have little real value. We have the knowledge to pick from among rubbish that which will serve.'
Zurzal gave his hissing laugh. 'I do not know how you got this information—'
For the first time Jofre saw Taynad's lips curve in a true smile. 'Learned One, I listened—after asking a question or two. Yan,' she patted the head of the Jat that, as usual, was clutching at the edge of her tunic, 'is very much an interest to the maidservants. They have come and asked to see our little one. And they talk freely when doing so. I have learned of the best shops, those which have quality merchandise and do not put up the prices when a passenger ship planets, the eating places and the speciality of each, again where one may expect to get the best service for the credit outlay. So eventually I learned of Istarn.'
'To our benefit,' Zurzal returned. 'Very well, let us off to this establishment and I shall leave it to the two of you to equip yourselves with what you believe will be most useful.'
In the arms courts of the Lairs a weapon was judged for efficiency. The truth of a blade was in its forging and edging, of all other implements for battle in their usability and strength. Valley lords of Asborgan might prance about with gem-hiked sidearms. A hilt wrapped with well-seasoned lacing to keep it from slipping in the hand was what the issha-trained judged by—and no one could fault the value of any Lair wrought blade, lance, hand hook or the like, that value rested in the weapon itself and not in any ornamentation.
What confronted Jofre in the shop of this so-called weapon merchant were not the tools of his trade but rather trumped-up bits of glitter misnamed for the blades he knew. He stared at the display of what the shopkeeper spoke of as 'swords of value from Vega' and thought privately that one good blow from any one of those would speedily separate blade from hilt, perhaps even shattering the blade. These caught the eye most certainly but not the eye of a warrior. What did he care if a hilt was of tri-gold in the form of a washawk with emerald eyes—or something of the same stupid description when he could see very well that the blade attached was not nine times forged, or even six times worked!
'These are toys,' he said in Lair tongue to Taynad. 'What does any want with such—unless to pick out the jewels, melt down those hilts and use the blades for hide scraping?'
'Those off-worlders who are the buyers here do not intend to USE them,' she replied as softly. 'They are for show only. But there is a second display beyond. Perhaps—'
He was impatient enough to move away and lost any other word she might have said.
Yes, there was a second display—or rather it was not an arranged display to show off the offered weapons, rather a pile, in a darkish corner, of dull metal, long uncared for, with nothing in that mass to catch the untaught eye. Only when he stopped there and looked for himself—could he mark possibilities. This clutter might be what was tossed aside in some smith's forge, things to be melted down and reworked—at least that is what it looked to be at first sight.
However—no arms master would have been so quick to devalue—that! His gaze fixed upon the peeling leather sheaths, twins, and the matched blades they sheltered. He plucked one forth. Dulled, needing a honing, yes. But the steel—ah—that he knew for what it was. Heartened, Jofre drew the second knife and found it as sound as its twin.
Taynad was busied separating a choice of her own from the rusty jumble. Luckily the proprietor had been detached from them by the entrance of several off-worlders whose rich robing proclaimed hearty credit ratings and who were fascinated by the gemmed display.
At the end of some careful choosing, even a bit of surreptitious testing of the elasticity of blade, Jofre had at his hand for bargaining the twin knives, a short sword, and a collection of wicked-looking hooks which, when wedded to a length of chain he had loosed from the pile, would make a Makwire far more suitable even than that which had served him on Tssek. Unfortunately other familiar aids to a guardsman were not to be found. Perhaps he was lucky that he had discovered as much as were useful among these apparent discards as he had.
Taynad had a blade which was near the length of a short sword encased in a sheath once covered with a grimy brocade which was now peeling from it in strips. At the top of the scabbard showed also the hilts of two small knives and she had worked one out of the damaged sheath to show, unrusted, an almost needle-thin weapon perhaps as long as her hand. Such were perhaps meant for eating purposes but they were close to those weapons the Sisters were well-known to hide in hair coils or hanging sleeves, and Jofre had no doubt that she would be able to put them to the best service. She also had a Makwire chain, which she was twisting about now inch by inch to test it, for there were stains of rust on her fingers where she handled it. However, beneath that surface flaking it appeared to be strong enough to satisfy her.
'Gentlehomo and—Gentlefem—' The salesman looked at Taynad as if she were indeed an oddity in such a place, or else her air of knowing exactly what she wanted from this dingy heap was a surprise to the seller. 'Have you made some discovery—? But this—this is of second rating. You would be better with the swords from Lanker, or the ruby-headed daggers of Grath. Now those are proud weapons.'
'They are,' Jofre returned, 'but not to our purpose—'
'No,' Taynad struck in, 'we do not seek weapons of fine show, but rather ones we can use to demonstrate various forms of fighting. We think to display combat for show.'
'So? Are you then from the Arms Court of Assherbal? It is known that his battle displays are very lifelike— close to the real—blood spilled, even.'
'Something like is what we aim to do.' Jofre picked up her hint quickly. 'No, Gentlehomo, what price is put on these?' He indicated what they had set aside. The salesman eyed their selections with a disdain he did not attempt to conceal. Certainly his attitude had become brusque—that of one dealing with persons below the social rating of those he commonly served.
