The Two of Swords: Part 12 Read Online Free
Author: K. J. Parker
barrels on solid-looking trestles. “This is a bloody fine time to show up,” the stallholder said irritably. “We’d almost given up on you. What kept you?”
Musen explained about the bridge being down, though he wasn’t sure the stallholder believed him. But what the hell, better late than never, and the stallholder’s sons would unload the barrels if he’d point out the cart. And presumably he wanted paying? Three angels.
Musen walked away, turning the coins over in his hand. He stopped by a stall selling fancy metalwork, and pointed to a dear little three-legged stand for a teapot.
“That’s nice,” he said to the woman.
“Mezentine,” the woman replied. “If you turn it over, you can see the mark. Twenty stuivers.”
Musen grinned. “I haven’t got a teapot. What about that?”
“The knife?” The woman picked it up and put it in his hand. “That’s Blemyan work, very rare. Pre-war, that is. Fifty stuivers.”
Musen gave her an angel. She raised both eyebrows, then scrabbled frantically for change. “Where’s Blemya?” he asked.
“What? Oh, way down south somewhere, other side of the sea. Bloody hot, so they say, which wouldn’t suit me.” She gave him a full handful of coins, which he stuffed in his pocket without counting. The woman leaned forward a little. “They do say,” she said, “Blemya’s going to come in on our side in the war, any day now. It’s all settled, apparently. And then we’ll show that bastard Senza what he can do.”
It was a very good knife, in fact, and he felt sure that if ever he got a chance to draw it he’d be able to put up quite a fight. But against the man who crept up on him and cut his throat in his sleep, he couldn’t see how it would be any use at all.
For one angel eighty-five he bought eight big jars of flour, a side of bacon, six strings of smoked sausages, a sack of carrots, four sacks of oats, four jars of dried fruit, five honeycombs, four good coats, two hats, three pairs of boots, two linen shirts, four pairs of trousers, two iron pots, a ladle, two wooden bowls and four matching cups, a shovel, an axe, a pick, a sledgehammer, a carpenter’s cross-pein hammer, a frame saw, four chisels, a dozen five-foot oak floorboards, two blankets, a tinderbox, a coil of rope, three iron splitting wedges, a small oilskin tent and a pair of stockman’s gloves. He arranged them in the back of the cart so he’d be able to find what he was looking for, covered them over with the tent and took the right-side horse to the smith to have its shoe seen to. It was dark by then, and the usual crowd of old men, boys and hardened drinkers had wandered away. The smith was a young man, not much older than Musen; he worked quickly and well, but the effort he had to put into striking suggested that his hammers were too heavy for him.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Musen hazarded.
“Only been here six months,” the smith replied, working the bellows. “Got this.” He pointed to his foot; it looked perfectly normal to Musen. “Which got me my demob, praise be, and I got on my donkey and rode west till my money ran out, and here’s where I ended up. This place was all boarded up, so I had a word with the old smith’s widow and got the whole lot for fifty stuivers a month, tools and fixtures included.” He grinned, and splashed water all round the edges of the fire from a copper can on a long handle. “I lit the fire the first day and it hasn’t gone out since.”
“You were a smith in the Service, then.”
“Farrier.” He pulled the shoe out of the fire with the long tongs, inspected it, shoved it back under the coals, worked the bellows a few times. “But if you can make horseshoes you can make pretty much anything. Mostly round here it seems to be gate fittings, nails, busted tires and general mending. You can’t get coal, but charcoal’s quite cheap.”
“My uncle’s a smith,” Musen said.
Out came the horseshoe,
Musen explained about the bridge being down, though he wasn’t sure the stallholder believed him. But what the hell, better late than never, and the stallholder’s sons would unload the barrels if he’d point out the cart. And presumably he wanted paying? Three angels.
Musen walked away, turning the coins over in his hand. He stopped by a stall selling fancy metalwork, and pointed to a dear little three-legged stand for a teapot.
“That’s nice,” he said to the woman.
“Mezentine,” the woman replied. “If you turn it over, you can see the mark. Twenty stuivers.”
Musen grinned. “I haven’t got a teapot. What about that?”
“The knife?” The woman picked it up and put it in his hand. “That’s Blemyan work, very rare. Pre-war, that is. Fifty stuivers.”
Musen gave her an angel. She raised both eyebrows, then scrabbled frantically for change. “Where’s Blemya?” he asked.
“What? Oh, way down south somewhere, other side of the sea. Bloody hot, so they say, which wouldn’t suit me.” She gave him a full handful of coins, which he stuffed in his pocket without counting. The woman leaned forward a little. “They do say,” she said, “Blemya’s going to come in on our side in the war, any day now. It’s all settled, apparently. And then we’ll show that bastard Senza what he can do.”
It was a very good knife, in fact, and he felt sure that if ever he got a chance to draw it he’d be able to put up quite a fight. But against the man who crept up on him and cut his throat in his sleep, he couldn’t see how it would be any use at all.
For one angel eighty-five he bought eight big jars of flour, a side of bacon, six strings of smoked sausages, a sack of carrots, four sacks of oats, four jars of dried fruit, five honeycombs, four good coats, two hats, three pairs of boots, two linen shirts, four pairs of trousers, two iron pots, a ladle, two wooden bowls and four matching cups, a shovel, an axe, a pick, a sledgehammer, a carpenter’s cross-pein hammer, a frame saw, four chisels, a dozen five-foot oak floorboards, two blankets, a tinderbox, a coil of rope, three iron splitting wedges, a small oilskin tent and a pair of stockman’s gloves. He arranged them in the back of the cart so he’d be able to find what he was looking for, covered them over with the tent and took the right-side horse to the smith to have its shoe seen to. It was dark by then, and the usual crowd of old men, boys and hardened drinkers had wandered away. The smith was a young man, not much older than Musen; he worked quickly and well, but the effort he had to put into striking suggested that his hammers were too heavy for him.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Musen hazarded.
“Only been here six months,” the smith replied, working the bellows. “Got this.” He pointed to his foot; it looked perfectly normal to Musen. “Which got me my demob, praise be, and I got on my donkey and rode west till my money ran out, and here’s where I ended up. This place was all boarded up, so I had a word with the old smith’s widow and got the whole lot for fifty stuivers a month, tools and fixtures included.” He grinned, and splashed water all round the edges of the fire from a copper can on a long handle. “I lit the fire the first day and it hasn’t gone out since.”
“You were a smith in the Service, then.”
“Farrier.” He pulled the shoe out of the fire with the long tongs, inspected it, shoved it back under the coals, worked the bellows a few times. “But if you can make horseshoes you can make pretty much anything. Mostly round here it seems to be gate fittings, nails, busted tires and general mending. You can’t get coal, but charcoal’s quite cheap.”
“My uncle’s a smith,” Musen said.
Out came the horseshoe,
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