The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [61]
I raised my eyebrows. Most dealers would scarcely have mentioned leaving customers with a set of weapons. Dietre had some protection I hadn’t detected.
The white-haired dealer walked toward the back of the shop, where he laid the blade on a narrow workbench under a rack of tools. Then he walked back to the third case where Myrten was studying the weapons.
I ignored both of them, trying to figure out the patterns of the shop itself, an island of concealed order in an almost random section of Freetown. Behind the front door was a second archway, as thick as the outer wall. A single plank covered the bricks or stones. The framing pieces didn’t overlap the plank edges, though.
How it worked, I wasn’t sure, but it was mechanical, and no one was about to leave the shop without Dietre’s permission, open and unprotected as the place looked. The cabinets fit the same pattern—good solid workmanship that would have taken forever to break into once they were closed. Impenetrable to casual chaos-use.
“…three golds?” asked Myrten.
“That’s low.”
I really didn’t care about their bargaining, but I did want my five silvers. Buying Krystal her blade had been too impulsive, probably, and I realized that I could have used those golds. But she needed a good blade. Tamra hadn’t approved. I shook my head, wondering if anything I ever did would meet with her approval.
“Three and half it is,” agreed Myrten.
I turned back to the two, waiting for the settlement.
Myrten struggled to bring out some coins from the guarded pockets in his belt. “Two and half to you, and I give the five silvers to Lerris.”
Dietre nodded, neither smiling nor agreeing. “Whatever’s easiest.” He did not remove the pistol from the cabinet.
Myrten gave me the five silver pennies first, and I put them into the front pouch, the obvious one. Then he handed five more to Dietre, followed by two golds. Dietre checked all the coins with the pendulum.
“Chaos-counterfeiting?” I asked.
“You can never tell.” Apparently satisfied, he replaced the balance and walked toward the workbench. The coins vanished into an iron box bolted to the bench. Then he walked back toward us. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Not here,” I answered.
Myrten just shrugged.
“Then…good luck, especially to you, youngster. A lot of people don’t like the blackstaffers, even young ones, and there aren’t ever enough of you to dispel the myths. Good day.” He turned back toward the workbench.
I looked at Myrten. He looked at me. Then we left.
Outside, I stopped. “Is Cinch Street the next one ahead?”
“Yes. If you can trust the map in the inn. Good luck, Lerris.” He turned back the way we had come, and I started toward Cinch Street. The alleyway got narrower with each step, and the eaves of the second floors seemed to lean down on me. A shadow fell across the stones and refuse alike.
I started, then relaxed. A puffy white cloud had scudded across the morning sun, and the shadow lifted almost as quickly as it had fallen.
Outside of a beggar boy who scuttled behind a refuse heap as I passed, I saw no one until I reached the next street—Cinch Street. Myrten had been right.
Turning left, I started uphill. The slope was gentle, but I had to watch my steps. Many of the reddish sandstone paving-blocks had split or shifted out of place. Cinch Street had been added later, and more cheaply. The paving-blocks in the unnamed alley-street had been of granite and better placed, even though the way had been narrow and neglected.
I marched perhaps a hundred rods, almost to the top of the hill, before I reached the stable. “Felshar’s Livery,” proclaimed the weather-beaten sign carrying simple line drawings of a horse, a saddle and bridle, and a squarish object that I gathered was a bale of hay. The gray wood of the sliding plank door was pushed back.
After taking a deep breath, I stepped into the building, a wood-planked passageway into an unroofed space. Underfoot was hard-packed composite