“If you lot want ta’ bear arms against a guest for doing nothin’ more than defending her own reputation, then ya’ can bloody well do it under another company’s roof!” he bellowed, misshapen eyes fixed on the back corner. “Anyone who draws another blade in my presence tonight will have their contracts terminated and be handed over ta’ the Vigil for disruption and disturbin’ the peace! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!”

  Vasser’s last question echoed clear in the suddenly-silent common room, broken shortly thereafter by a loud—if not entirely uniform—response of “Yes, sir!” from the recruits as a whole. Owlet’s friends sat back down slowly, releasing the hilts of their weapons with resigned anger, though one or two refused to look away from Ester.

  The half-elf, for her part, turned her back to them without so much as the hint of a care. “It’s a fine sword, you’ve got here,” she said to the huddled form of Owlet after she’d moved to stand over him, studying the unblemished steel with interest. “Hasn’t seen much action, but I didn’t much get the impression it would have, judging by its owner…” The subtle jab was awarded with another, if more subdued, round of laughter, and Ester turned her green eyes on Vasser. “May I keep this?”

  The office-master didn’t hesitate. “In exchange for forgivin’ the rudeness one of mine has shown you, please do. The Iron Wind is better than tha’, as Declan will tell you. We’ll call it fair ransom, if you’d be so kind as ta’ consider the matter settled.”

  “Done,” Ester said with an inclination of her head before considering the scabbard tangled about Owlet’s twitching knees. Grimacing at the ostentatious thing—lacquered wood dyed black and ribboned with more gold threading—she settled for sheathing her knife and letting the blade of the saber rest on her shoulder. Rejoining them, she eyed the stairs like nothing in all the world out of the ordinary had just happened.

  “Shall we?”

  Bonner, whose generally cheerful disposition had been buried under rigid, pale anger, seemed to come back to himself. With something that was almost a snigger he took his daughter by the arm, joining her as they made for the steps.

  Declan was right behind them, held up only for a moment as Vasser stowed his mace away again and whispered at him: “Mother’s word. The bloody well do they need you for, lad?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  They claimed a trio of clean beds in the far corner of the common quarters, that night. Once everyone was settled, Declan descended again to trade stories with Vasser for an hour or so over a glass of good brandy procured for them by the outpost staff. The night was deep before he bade his old brother-at-arms goodnight and farewell, not likely to catch him in the morning as the man had rounds to attend to about the city. Declan returned to Bonner and Ester to find that Ryn had joined them, having taken to his hawk’s form and flown through an open window in the west wall, much to the astonishment of the handful of other men and women sharing the chamber with them. The yr’Essels had been busy regaling the dragon in quiet whispers of the evening’s excitement, and Declan joined them eagerly, happy to repeat the tale from his own point of view for Ryn’s general delight.

  Treated to their first real beds in days, and with no need to post a lookout, the party slept so soundly they were only roused the following morning by dusty sunlight streaming in through the east windows over the neighboring buildings, several hours after dawn’s rise. Waking first, Declan and Ester took advantage of a couple of screened-off bathing barrels set in a small courtyard behind the outpost for just the purpose. It felt good to be clean, even if they had to don the same clothes they’d worn into the city afterward, and by the time they made it back to the common quarters Bonner and Ryn had awoken to the smell of breakfast provided by the kitchens of The King’s Flag next door. The four together dined on a filling breakfast of fresh bread, oatmeal, and bacon, Declan, Ester, and Bonner surreptitiously sneaking their meat portions to the dragon. As the trays were being cleared by office staff, their funds were presented to them by a clerk in dark robes adorned with the Iron Wing’s mark across her left breast. Despite their protests, the woman refused to leave until she’d personally watched them count the coins down to the last, including the promised sack of one hundred copper pennies, four to the leht, twenty to the lever.

  Once left to their own devices, it wasn’t more than ten minutes before the four of them were back on the bright streets of Ranheln, Declan and Ryn taking the lead again. The dragon found an empty alley in which to transform back into a horse, and so the clop of hooves rejoined them while they walked, pressing through the morning crowd that only tightened with every step they took towards the market districts. The buzz of the city was abound, far more so than it had been the night before, and there was plenty to take in as they moved. Ester’s head craned this way and that, mesmerized, and even Bonner’s intrigue was apparent, the man muttering in interest at everything from the diamond-paned shop windows to the architecture of the buildings themselves.

  It was nothing to what awaited them.

  Ester positively squeaked in excitement when they turned a corner and the bazaar opened up before them, a sprawling cacophony of endless color and writhing people. Comprised of some hundred semi-permanent booths and more heartily established wooden stalls, the market swallowed up the massive rectangular square at the end of the sloping road they found themselves descending. Taking a note from the city itself, the place was even more vibrant and eye-catching than the walls of the greater buildings looming over it in a colossal perimeter, surrounding it almost like a park. Cloth overhangs were patterned and striped with myriad shades of greens and reds and blues, and banners—some simply hoisted to draw attention to their stalls while others showed the emblems of established enterprises—fluttered and danced over everything in the gentle wind of the day. There were no shortages of sights and smells, either. Despite having already eaten, Declan felt his mouth begin to water as they pressed into the bazaar proper, his nose teased by the scent of whole roasting chickens nearby, intermingling with the aroma of lavender and smelting iron and burning wood. The cacophony of voices was tumultuous, family and friends shouting out to each other through the crowd while peddlers and merchants hollered of the quality and value of the wares along every corner and line. Still, even over the controlled chaos, music could be heard coming from every-which-direction, here and there as a crafter demonstrated the fiddles or flutes of their trade, but more often when a troupe of street artists took up their performance to the accompaniment of partnered musicians. Ester—so calm and collected the night before—squealed in surprise and clutched at Declan’s arm instinctively when a gush of flames shot out over the heads of the crowd to their left, spewed by some fire-breather who’d timed himself with the thunderous climax of heavy drum nearby.

  Declan laughed, not pulling his arm from hers, then only harder as Bonner whooped and hurried to watch from a closer vantage. Ryn went after him with a roll of his white-gold eyes, the dragon’s voice murmuring some unimpressed comment about “parlor tricks” as the fire billowed upwards again.

  After the mage had been dragged back by the loose hood of his robes, protesting all the way, the four resumed their push into the market. As they walked, Declan was hardly displeased to find himself casually arm-in-arm with the woman at his side as they went about their business.

  They found, first-and-foremost, a saddler to outfit Ryn with a packing-harness, a request that made the leatherworker’s face fall in dismay, clearly having expected a grander order when presented with the handsome black stallion he undoubtedly saw. Regardless, the man did his job admirably, and Declan watched in amazement as he took height and girth measurements without flinching, his hands never seeming to feel the patches of scales they occasionally brushed over while he labored, the illusion encompassing and complete.

  The saddler had a harness, it turned out, that fit Ryn quite well at his current size, and so not a half-hour later—and most of their pennies lighter—they were moving again, the dragon’s new packs bouncing along his sides while they walked. After a short deliberation, it was decided the smith should be next to visit, provision and clothes being the easiest things to procure even if they were short on funds later. Ester caught the sleeve of a passing hawker, a boy selling apples from a wicker basket under one arm, and the lad was all-too-happy to point them in the direction of the first of Vasser’s suggested forges when Declan pressed a copper into his hand. Together the group made their way in the indicated direction, slow and steady through the heartbeat of vibrant activity.

  Declan knew instinctively, as soon as the shop came into view, that the office-master hadn't steered them wrong. The place, a smithy called simply Stern’s Anvil, looked to take up the bottom two floors of one of the west buildings which looked down into the bazaar. Its massive doors, all three of them, had been heaved open to allow as much fresh air into the space as possible. From within Declan heard the breath of bellows and the ring of hammers striking hot metal long before he made out the orange glow of the fires themselves. Each opening was barred to the public, blocked by an assortment of mismatched tables upon which the establishment’s works were in full display, and even from a distance Declan’s hand began to itch, seeing the sheen of the steel in the morning light. A fire-tanned apprentice kept a careful eye on the wares, watching for thieves. He gave them a wary look as the four approached, breaking through into the narrow width of empty space many of the uninterested shoppers had left to be free of the thin haze of lingering smoke.

  His attitude changed in an instant when Declan showed him the winged sword on his chest and presented the parchment in which the name of the Anvil was written in Vasser Timoth’s own hand.

  “Always happy ta’ accommodate the company, sir,” he said in a cracking voice that betrayed his age. “I’ve nothin’ more than a few hand-and-a-halfers, longswords, and shields set aside for the Wind at the moment, but if you’ll allow me, I’d be happy to fetch them…?”

  “Just the blades would be fine,” Declan said with a nod.

  The moment the apprentice was gone, Ester gave a sigh of desire for which Declan couldn’t blame her, slipping her arm from his elbow to bend over the closest of the tables.

  A veritable arsenal was arranged in careful order atop a heavy layer of worn black cloth, the collection impressive enough to put any qualified garrison’s stock to shame. There were blades of every shape and size, punch daggers and dirks laid out in the spaces between short-swords and bastard swords and claymores whose hilts and tips hung off the edges of the display. Combat lances and spears, their hammered points shining in the morning sun, were leaning in careful order against the nearby wall, and heavy axes stood against the corners of the table alongside flails and clubs and heavy awls, every one of meticulous quality. To their right, one display was devoted entirely to a presentation of dozens of different arrows, the innumerable uses of their varied heads as unfathomable to Declan as Bonner’s alphabet of runes.

  “I almost regret claiming this one, now.” Ester was tapping the onyx pommel of her new saber, tucked carefully into the loop of her belt, a wrap of cloth salvaged from one of her more worn shirts acting as a makeshift sheath. She was examining a matching set of stilettos with a covetous eye, running her other hand over their silver guards in appreciative reverence.

  You’re better off with the sword, Ryn told her, pushing his head between Declan and the woman to himself examine a massive two-hander set in the very center of the table. The five-foot blade was so long Declan suspected the piece was meant more as an eye-catcher than a functioning weapon. More versatile, at the very least.

  “And it makes for a better story, anyhow,” Bonner chuckled from behind them, the only one to show little interest in the impressive assemblage.

  At that moment the apprentice reappeared, assisted by two grimy-faced boys who couldn't have been more than ten. Each carried several sheathed blades in their arms, scabbards all of matching black leather and plain wood, with unadorned guards and pommels of brass and iron for sensible counterweights.

  Declan accepted the first of them keenly as it was offered to him over the table, drawing the steel of the longsword halfway to examine the quality of the metal. Satisfied, he unsheathed it completely to test the balance, and was pleased with the feel of the weapon in his hand. Despite the simplicity of the design, it was masterfully crafted, and weighted towards the hilt as was his preference. It was shorter than he typically preferred his blades, but lightened by a wide fuller that extended from guard to tip. Pleased, he slid the sword back into its scabbard, then reached for the next one.

  With Ester’s help the pair went through the proffered arms quickly. In the end they settled on a hand-and-a-half that had fit Declan particularly well, choosing to also purchase the longsword he first tested, agreeing it a good spare for himself or the half-elf if either were ever in need. The cost of the blades was more than reasonable—something he thanked Vasser silently for as he dug through their purses for thirteen levers.

  He was about to hand the gold over when Ryn’s voice had him take pause.

  Declan. The two-hander in the center. Can you tell me if it’s well made?

  The request was a puzzling one, to say the least, and Declan kept himself from looking back at the dragon by eyeing the massive sword dubiously. Ryn had never before expressed interest in a blade, aside from offering his opinion on Declan’s own past purchases. Then again, as a horse, at what point would he have had much use for a weapon of any kind? With this consideration, Declan moved over and made a polite request of the apprentice to handle the claymore in question. The boy looked surprised, confirming the suspicion that the sword hadn't actually been forged to be wielded, but nodded his consent.

  Declan gave an involuntary grunt as he hefted the weapon, his still-stiff left arm nearly giving in under its weight. Though it wasn’t anything he himself would have been able—much less preferred—to carry, he knew enough of the type to deduce its favorable balance and secure tang. Despite the sword’s decorative intent, it was a well-forged piece, and battle-sharpened, if requiring a monstrous strength to wield to any effect.

  “Quality work,” he announced, speaking to the apprentice with deliberate choice while very carefully easing the sword back onto the display. “Not so much as a shiver between blade and hilt, and a hammered edge to boot. Impressive.”

  The boy’s appreciative response was lost to Ryn’s private intrusion. How much is it?

  Declan inquired, and the apprentice looked stumped, glancing back at his two helpers, who’d lingered to watch the testing of their blades. Neither could give him an answer. Clearly this was the first time anyone had actually asked after the cost of the sword. After a few seconds deliberation, one of the pair hurried back into the forge to exchange a few words with the large silhouette of an older man outlined against the light of the kiln, returning not long after.

  “Master Stern says he ain’t much liken ta’ sell it fa’ less tha’ ten levers,” the lad squeaked, his peasant’s slur so thick it was almost beyond comprehension, “but since you’s already bought two blades, he’ll let i’ go fa’ eight an’ three.”

  A hefty chunk of their funds, even if Ester’s theatrics the night before had saved them replacing her own sword. Declan looked at Ryn apologetically, and the dragon seemed distinctly disappointed, his ears drooping just the slightest bit.

  But, before Declan could regretfully turn down the offer, the older apprentice spoke up again, seeing the refusal coming. “Sir, if I might…” he motioned to Ester’s hip, where the saber was questionably slung, most of the blade bare to the elements. “The lady looks in need of a scabbard. I’d be happy to provide one, free a’ charge, if she’ll lend me the sword for an hour or so. I’ll also—” he glanced at the bow slung across the half-elf’s back “—throw in two-score basic arrows, and knock off the three silvers from the two-hander personally, if it’ll temp ya’. It’s less than I’ll make off commission for sellin’ the thing, and you’ll still have earned me half-a-week’s wages with your other purchases as is…”

  “Tempt” wasn’t the word Declan would have used, his eyes going wide. The boy had just turned the offer from a questionable one into a steal of some proportion, if his calculations were right. The scabbard itself, even if it was plain, was likely to be worth a little under a lever, and the arrows on top of it…

  Declan eyed the quiver slung across Ester’s lower back. She was skilled at retrieval, but even so the journey had left her with no more than a dozen projectiles to her name. Making up his own mind, he glanced over his shoulder again.

  Bonner nodded in Ryn’s stead, patting the dragon’s thick neck, having apparently exchanged a private word.

  “Done, friend, and much appreciated,” Declan said, looking back to the apprentice and reaching into their purse to retrieve the eight additional gold pieces. “One can see why Vasser Timoth put your forge at the top of the list, now.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy flushed with pride, the red in his cheeks barely noticeable beneath his bronzed skin as he accepted the levers and motioned to his helpers to see to the massive claymore. He himself handed over the bastard and longsword one after the other, but when the pair returned with the two-hander in a long, light sheath of leather rimmed with bleached wood, he seemed unable to help himself. “Can… Can I ask what you intend ta’ do with the blade, sir? No disrespect intended, but I’m not thinkin’ it’s well fit for ya’…”

  He trailed off, and Declan gave him a grin and a wink as he handed the smaller swords to Ester and took the claymore himself in both hands. His silence, of course, wasn’t for any desire to leave the lad with some sense of mystery.

  It was because Declan himself was at an utter loss for an answer.