“I could have taken him,” Mag muttered once we were safely away from the man.
“I know you could have,” I said. “But it might have put a damper on our experience here. Now you can peruse the weapons without worrying about constables showing up.”
It is customary for shopkeepers to put their finest wares on display in the windows, using them to draw in customers. But I could hardly have said the weapons in the window were any better than the ones we found inside. Every new blade I saw seemed to be the finest I had ever beheld, until I saw the next one. I am and have always been an archer first and foremost, but I know my way around a sword, and I found myself transfixed by those on display. They were made in the Dulmun fashion—longer and heavier than those in Calentin—but that did not prevent me from appreciating their quality.
After a moment I looked up and realized that Mag and I had become separated. I sought her out quickly, as I still did not trust her not to make trouble if anyone should bother her. I found her standing before a display of spears. The weapons were arranged in racks that held half a dozen each. These were no long infantry spears, meant for fighting in formation, and which are usually much taller than the soldiers that wield them. These were Dulmish dueling spears. If you have never seen one, they can appear a bit strange. They are usually only a little taller than the shoulder—just long enough to serve as a walking stick, not so long that they are burdensome for long journeys. Their spearheads are larger than those of infantry spears, and they have long edges so that they can be used to slice and cut, not just to pierce. There are smaller, curved blades just behind the head, almost like a hilt, that you can use to entrap and entangle the weapon of your opponent.
I had never seen anyone wield such a spear before—after all, most of the battles I had seen had been formation fighting. It struck me as curious that Mag was so transfixed by the weapons, for I had had no inkling that she knew how to use them.
“Mag?” I said, for she did not appear to have seen me. “What is it?”
“These spears,” she muttered, and it sounded almost as if she was talking to herself. “I … I almost remember.”
“Remember what?”
She only shook her head. And then came a voice from close by, startling both of us out of our thoughts.
“It is rare to have someone lavish so much attention on my spears.”
Mag and I turned quickly. Before us stood the woman who I knew must be the master of this shop. She was of medium height, but as broad as a barn. Her arms, like any good blacksmith’s, were thicker than my thighs, and her torso had several more layers of weight over thick muscles. The back of her hair was done up in a tail, but the front cascaded like the wings of a crow wrapped around her moon-shaped face. Over her shoulder, I saw the door guard surveying us, his face stern but impassive.
“Do we have the honor of addressing the owner of this fine establishment?” I said, speaking just loud enough that I hoped the guard could hear my courtesy.
“You do,” said the smith. “Smedda of the family Stalhert is my name.”
“I am Albern of the family Telfer,” I told her, placing a hand over my heart. “And this is Mag.”
Smedda cocked her head. “Sellswords, I suppose. What brings you to my shop?”
“Why, only the desire to gaze upon your incomparable wares,” I said.
“Flattering,” said Smedda. “I am not in the habit of entertaining those who wish to peruse and not to buy, but courteous words can go far in changing my mind. I imagine you did much the same to Bronhil at the door, or he would not have let you in.”
“We impressed upon your noblest and most loyal servant,” I said, projecting my voice in Bronhil’s direction with all my might, “that our appreciation for your work was nearly limitless. Truly, your purse must overflow with wealth from grateful patrons.”
“Only one patron, really,” said Smedda. “King Lannolf, of the family Valgun. Once I secured his custom, it is rare to find anyone else who can match the coin my wares fetch.”
I had two curious sensations at the same time: I felt as though the walls were pressing in upon me, and at the same time it was as if I had shrunk to the size of a mouse, and the shop had become incomprehensibly vast. I gasped suddenly, realizing that I had forgotten to breathe for the space of several long heartbeats.
“You are King Lannolf’s armorer,” I said, my voice a mouse’s squeak. Mag had stopped paying attention to the conversation and was looking at the spears again. I smacked her hard between the shoulder blades, trying to get her to turn around. She ignored me.
“I am one of his smiths,” said Smedda. “He has others. And I rarely attempt armor. It is not my passion, and therefore my work is not as good as it could be. But when it comes to weapons: yes, I arm the king, and all his kin, and anyone else who catches his favor or fancy. And I am well rewarded for it.”
At once I dropped into a deep bow. I noticed that Mag still seemed to be paying no attention to what we were saying, and I smacked her again. “It is our deepest honor to be in your presence.”
“I can tell,” said Smedda, eyeing Mag, who had not stirred despite my actions. “May I ask why you are so—”
“What do you call them?” said Mag, turning suddenly and pointing at the spears. “I have never … that is, I do not recall ever seeing spears like this before.”
“They are rare, even here
