“They are a weapon of Dulmun?” said Mag, as though she had not heard anything Smedda had said after that.
“They are,” said Smedda. “The skill of their making was passed to me by my master, whose family has dwelled here since the time of Roth. As I said, I have never seen them in any of the other kingdoms, and I have visited all of them.” She cocked her head again and regarded Mag carefully. “Would you like to feel it in your hands?”
“Yes,” said Mag at once.
“Mag,” I said, “are you sure that is wise? If you were to damage it in any way—”
“Do not worry,” said Smedda. “I will not hold you accountable. There is a light in your friend’s eyes, and I wish to see what it might illuminate. I have a small yard in back of my shop. Choose whichever spear you wish, and meet me there.”
She set off for the back of the building at once, leaving Mag alone to choose her spear in peace. But Mag hardly seemed to need the privacy—she scarcely glanced at the rack before selecting one of the spears. Its haft was somewhat thicker than the others, its head a bit broader and a bit shorter.
Mostly, I noticed that it looked to be the most expensive spear on the rack. Mag had that habit, too—walking into any shop and choosing among its wares at random, she would inevitably gravitate towards the priciest item in the place.
But that thought fled my mind as Mag handled the spear. She tossed it lightly from hand to hand, and then she spun it on either side of her like a staff. The movement was natural and fluid. That was hardly a surprise, for I had seen Mag with all sorts of weaponry, and she was always formidable. But I could tell at once that this was different. The spear had become part of her almost from the moment she laid her hand upon it. Thunder did not crash in the sky, but it felt like it should have. A shaft of sunlight did not pierce through a high window to illuminate her, but it felt less like something that had not happened, and more like something that should have happened, but which the sky had forgotten about.
Silently I followed her out the back door into the yard. Smedda waited there—and to my great shock, she had thrown on a set of light padded armor, and in her hands was a blunted training spear of the same kind as Mag’s.
“That looks good in your hands,” said Smedda, nodding towards Mag’s weapon.
“It feels … familiar,” said Mag.
“I thought you said you had never seen such a weapon before,” said Smedda.
“Not that I remember,” said Mag. “Yet holding this one feels like embracing an old friend.”
Smedda nodded slowly. “I have seen such things before, though rarely. Come. Let us spar, and we shall see what you can do with it.”
A pit formed in my stomach. “I am not sure that is wise,” I said at once, stepping between the two of them. “Mayhap you should let me face off against Mag.” Thoughts raced through my mind of the unimaginable wrath we would bring down on ourselves if Mag were to injure the king of Dulmun’s personal bladesmith.
“Afraid she will hurt me, are you?” said Smedda, and she laughed. “Do not be a fool. You know your friend better than I do, but even I can see that that blade will not kiss my skin unless she means it to—and she does not mean it to. Do you, girl?”
“I swear I will do you no harm,” said Mag solemnly, gripping the spear in both hands and taking a wide stance. Then she smirked. “No lasting harm, that is.”
“That is the spirit,” said Smedda, grinning. “Now, let me see what you can—”
And then suddenly she was on her back, the tip of Mag’s spear a fingersbreadth away from her throat.
“What—” gasped Smedda. Her face scrunched up, for all the world as though she was searching for a distant memory. “You tripped me.”
“Yes,” said Mag. She put up her spear and lowered a hand to help Smedda rise. “Your reaction almost saved you, but it was just a tad too slow.”
“A tad?” said Smedda, frowning. “I did not even know what had happened until it was done.”
“Is the spear all right?” I said, leaning forwards and peering at it.
“You stop that,” said Smedda, glaring at me and holding up a finger, like a grandmother scolding her progeny. “No warrior can fight while worrying about the state of the blade in their hands. No matter a weapon’s value, no matter its heritage, when you fight with it, it has only one purpose: to be a tool with which you enact your will.” She turned back to Mag. “If you would indulge me: I would like to try attacking you and see how you defend yourself. One of the great strengths of a spontoon is its use for protection as well as for aggression.”
“Of course,” said Mag. “Whenever you wish.”
“First,” said Smedda, going to the side of the yard. From the wall she pulled a battered practice shield, tossing it to Mag. “Use that. It is imperfectly balanced, but it should serve for this purpose.”
Mag began to slip her left arm through the straps—and Smedda struck
