Page 8 of Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles 1)

He took two breaths, closed his eyes, opened them again. He made the smile come back and deliberately chose to believe that the street urchin had just bumped into him, that he wasn’t a feral pickpocket trying to take advantage of a distracted stranger.

Searching for a swordsmith, Bannon emerged into a main square that overlooked the sparkling blue water and crowded sailing ships. A heavy woman pushed a cart filled with clams, cockles, and gutted fish. She seemed unenthusiastic about her wares. Older fishermen with swollen, arthritic knuckles worked at knotting and reknotting torn fishing nets; their hands somehow remained nimble through the pain. Gulls flew overhead, wheeling in aimless circles, or shrieked and fought over whatever scraps they had found to eat.

Bannon came upon a tanner’s shop where a round-faced man with a fringe of dark hair wore a leather apron. The tanner scraped and trimmed cured skins while his matronly wife knelt at a wide washtub, shoving her hands into bright green dye, immersing leather pieces.

“Excuse me,” Bannon said, “could you recommend a good sword maker? One with fair prices?”

The woman looked up at him. “Wanting to join Lord Rahl’s army, are you? The wars are over. It’s a new time of peace.” She ran her eyes up and down his lanky form. “I don’t know how desperate they are for fighters anymore.”

“No, I don’t want to join the army,” Bannon said. “I’m a sailor aboard the Wavewalker, but I’m told that every good man should have a good blade—and I’m a good man.”

“Are you now?” said the leatherworker with a good-natured snort. “Then maybe you should try Mandon Smith. He has blades of all types, and I’ve never heard a complaint.”

“Where would I find him? I’m new to the city.”

The leatherworker raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Are you now? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

The tanner’s wife lifted her hands out of the dye basin. They were bright green up near the elbows, but her hands and wrists were a darker color, permanently stained from her daily work. “Down two streets, after you smell a pickler’s shop, you’ll find a candle maker.”

The leatherworker interrupted, “Don’t buy candles there. He’s a cheat—uses mostly lard instead of beeswax, so the candles melt in no time.”

“I’ll remember that,” Bannon said. “But I’m not looking to buy candles.”

The woman continued, “Pass the dry fountain, and you’ll find the sword maker’s shop. Mandon Smith. Fine blades. He works hard, gives a fair price, but don’t insult him by asking for a discount.”

“I—I won’t.” Bannon lifted his chin. “I’ll be fair, if he is.”

He left the tanners and went off. He found the pickler’s shop with no difficulty. The tang of vinegar stung his eyes and nose, but when he saw large clay jars with salted fermenting cabbage, his stomach felt suddenly queasy, and unbidden bile came up in his throat. It reminded him too much of the stink of his old home, of the cabbage fields on Chiriya, of the bottomless prison pit that would have been his life back there. Cabbages, and cabbages, and cabbages …

The young man walked on, shaking his head to clear away the smell. He passed the disreputable candle maker without a second glance, then marveled at an elaborate fresco painted on the long wall of a public building. It depicted some dramatic historical event, but Bannon did not know his history.

He found the dry fountain, which was adorned with the statue of some beautiful sea nymph. Tanimura was so full of marvels, he almost didn’t want to leave here, even after being robbed and nearly murdered. Was that any worse than what he had left behind?

He had fled his home in desperation, but he also wanted to see the world, sail the oceans, go from one port city to another. It wouldn’t be right to remain in the first place he saw. But he was certainly impressed with that beautiful and frighteningly powerful sorceress, who was unlike anyone he had ever met on Chiriya.…

After spotting the sword maker’s shop at the end of the street, he sat on the edge of the dry fountain, pulled off his left boot, and upended it so that the coins fell into his palm; two silvers and five coppers. That was all. He had a blister from the coins in his shoe, but he was glad he had taken the precaution. He’d learned that lesson from his father.

Never put all your money in one place.

Bannon swallowed hard and walked up to the sword maker. Fine blades. Self-consciously, he touched his empty pockets again. “I need to buy a sword, sir.”

Mandon Smith was a dark-skinned man with a polished bald head and a bushy black beard. “I would imagine that to be the case, young man, since you’ve come to a sword maker’s shop. I have blades of all kinds. Long swords, short swords, curved blades, straight blades, full guards, open hilts—all the finest steel. I don’t sell poor quality.” He gestured to show an array of swords, so many types on display that Bannon didn’t know how to assess them. “What type of sword were you looking for?”

Bannon looked away, wiped at the bruise on his face. “I’m afraid you might not be able to provide the type of sword I need.”

Mandon palmed his bushy beard, but the hairs promptly sprang back out into its full brush. “I can make any kind of sword, young man.”

Bannon brightened. “Then, the sword I require is … an affordable one.”

The swordsmith was startled by the answer. His face darkened in a frown before he burst out laughing. “A difficult request indeed! Precisely how affordable did you mean?”

Bannon held out all of his remaining coins. Mandon let out a long, discouraged sigh. “Quite a challenge.” His lips quirked in a smile. “It wouldn’t be right to let a man go without a blade, however. Tanimura has some dangerous streets.”

Bannon swallowed. “I discovered that already.”

Mandon led him inside the shop. “Let’s see what we can find.” The smith began sorting flat blank strips of metal that had not yet been fashioned and forged. He rummaged through half-finished long swords, broken blades, ornate daggers, serrated hunting knives, even a short flat knife that looked incapable of anything more dangerous than cutting cheese or spreading butter.

The smith stopped to ponder one clunky-looking blade as long as Bannon’s arm. It had a straight, unornamented cross guard, a small round pommel. The grip was wrapped in leather strips, with no fancy carving, wire workings, or inlaid jewels. The blade looked discolored, as if it hadn’t been forged as perfectly as the other blades. It had no fuller groove, no engraving. It was just a simple, sturdy sword.

Mandon hefted it, held the grip in his right hand, tossed it to the left. He moved his wrist, felt the weight of it, watched it flow through the air. “Try this one.”

Bannon caught the sword, fearing he would drop it with an embarrassing clatter to the floor of the shop, but his hand seemed to go right to the hilt. His fingers wrapped around the grip, and the leather helped him hold on. “It feels solid at least. Sturdy.”

“Aye, that it is. And the blade is sharp. It’ll hold an edge.”

“I had imagined something a little more—” Bannon frowned, searching for words that would not insult the swordsmith. “A little more elegant.”

“Have you counted the number of coins you’ve got to spend?”

“I have,” Bannon said, letting his shoulders fall. “And I understand.”

Mandon clapped him on the back, a blow that was much harder than he expected. “Get your priorities straight, young man. When a victim is staring at a blade that has just plunged through his chest, the last thing on his mind is criticism about the lack of ornamentation on your hilt.”

“I suppose not.”

Mandon looked down at the plain blade and mused, “This sword was made by one of my most talented apprentices, a young man named Harold. I tasked him with making a good and serviceable sword. It took him four tries, but I knew his potential, and I was willing to invest four sword blanks on him.”

The smith tapped his fingernail on the solid blade, eliciting a clear metallic clink. “Harold made this sword to prov

e to me it was time he became a journeyman.” He smiled wistfully, brushing his spiky black beard with one hand. “And he did. Three years after that, Harold was such a good craftsman that he created a fantastically elaborate, perfect sword—his masterpiece. So I named him a master.” He squared his shoulders and leaned back with a wry sigh. “Now, he’s one of my biggest competitors in Tanimura.”

Bannon looked at the sword with greater appreciation now.

Mandon continued, “That just makes my point—it may not look like much, but this is a very well crafted sword, and it will serve the needs of the right person—unless your needs are to impress some pretty girl?”

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