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After we had traveled nearly fifty rods down the narrow street, crossing yet another, wider street like the one on which the Travelers’ Rest was situated, Myrten slowed.

We stopped before a narrow storefront. The planks were carefully painted in rust, and the shutters were black, trimmed in the same rust color. A square iron hook the size of my fist held open the iron-banded red-oak door.

“Norn’s—Weapons” read the square sign above the iron grate that covered the single narrow window.

“Shall we?” asked Myrten.

I tried to sense what sort of place Norn’s might be…and failed. At least the shop did not radiate chaos. Neither did I feel any underlying sense of order. “It feels all right.”

Myrten hadn’t waited for my assessment. So I followed him inside, suspecting a neat and dark shop with rows of weapons racked on dusty walls. I was wrong. The bright space inside, no more than ten cubits wide, stretched back nearly twenty cubits, light coming from a high roof that seemed more glass than timber. Ranged along the left wall were four large cabinets, each standing open to display its contents.

First I checked the nearest cabinet—lightly oiled, polished, with dovetailed and mitered corners, made of solid grayed oak, originally probably red oak, with a tracery of fine lines bespeaking age. It contained knives, even more varieties than I had seen in Gilberto’s armory.

“May I help you?” The tanned and white-haired man who waited by the second cabinet stood a half-head taller than me. Spare, wide-shouldered, but his eyes seemed to twinkle.

I studied him for a moment—deciding that he was indeed what he seemed.

Myrten, for some reason, looked at me. I nodded.

“We were…bequeathed, as it were…this blade.”

The white-haired man smiled faintly. “You’re clearly from Recluce, and someone wanted to take advantage of you early.”

Myrten frowned.

“Why do you say ‘clearly’?” I asked.

“Your friend”—he gestured at Myrten—“could be from Dirienza or even Spidlar. You, on the other hand, would never seek out Freetown. A ship from Recluce ported yesterday, with passengers staying at the Travelers’ Rest.”

I nodded. “It’s that well-known?”

“Not quite that well-known, but known among those who make their living that way.”

Something about his speech tickled my recall, but I couldn’t place exactly why.

“About the blade…” prompted Myrten.

“Oh, that? May I see it? You could set it here.” As he spoke, he pulled out a sliding shelf from the cabinet. “By the way, my name is Dietre.”

The cabinet’s workmanship was first-rate, since the polished flat wood scarcely whispered into place. Myrten set the plain sword on it.

Dietre studied it carefully, then reached toward the base of the cabinet and pulled a small pendulum from a narrow drawer, adjusting it before letting it swing over the steel of the blade. “Hmmmm…neutral, at least.” He looked up. “Would you mind if I pick it up?”

Myrten looked at me.

“No.”

“You’re either trusting or very confident, young man.” Dietre smiled.

“Myrten is good with his knives,” I observed.

“I suspect you’re better with that staff, and I, for one, unlike the past owner of this blade, would not care to test you.” He held the blade lightly, moved it around, balanced it, and then set it back on the wood. All his motions were deft.

I felt my earlier suspicions were confirmed, but wondered how Myrten had known about the shop.

“Interested?” asked Myrten.

“It’s a serviceable weapon. Nothing more. Relatively untainted, but unordered.” Dietre shrugged. “The going rate for one of these is around a gold pence. My markup would normally be two silvers. On the other hand, you probably saved Freetown some trouble by handling this quietly, and I am the West Side councilor. Say, a gold penny.”

“Fair enough.” Myrten didn’t hesitate on that, but he glanced at the third case, the one with the pistols.

“You have some interest in the pistols? Firearms aren’t much good except for hunting, and pistols are scarcely the best for that.”