Caj’s 15th name day started like most days for him. Narm came into the small corner of his living area that passed for Caj’s room, walked up to the hammock that Caj was sleeping in, and rolled it over. Caj came, rather unwillingly, awake with a start, snapping out of a pleasant dream regarding the Postman’s Daughter Genevieve. Caj blinked his eyes rather dumbly, trying to wake up completely. Once he did, he had the absurd fear that Narm knew what he had been dreaming about. He fought to keep his face from flushing, and Narm cuffed him soundly on the ear.
“Did you even hear me boy?” He asked in a growling tone, Caj blinked again, wits confused still by sleep, and opened his mouth to reply, but Narm cut him off sharply. “I said stop meditating on your dream of the postman’s daughter and WAKE THE HELL UP!!!” Caj felt his mouth gape in shock, and then in horror. He could feel the flames rising in his cheeks and was certain that he was red up to the roots of his hair. Narm’s bellow of a laugh took him by surprise and made him jump. He only now processed that Narm’s face was split into the slightly less-scary-than usual grin that marked him as happy. Caj opened his mouth, and forgot to use manners when he asked,
“How…” he gulped in shock, “How did you know?” Narm started laughing harder, shoulders shaking with laughter, chest heaving with it. He even started to hiccup with it. Caj was shocked, he’d never seen Narm laugh so hard. Narm wiped a tear from his eye and responded, in somewhat strangled tones,
“Oh lad, how could I not?” he chuckled, “I didn’t always have grey in this beard” he said with a smile, “And I was young once. Happy Name Day Caj.” Caj continued to gape, somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of it all. He wanted to say thank you, he wanted to take a solid swing at Narm for poking fun at him and extort a promise to never speak of this again. To anyone. Instead, he settled for a numb
“Huh?” Narm chuckled again, seeming to gradually start reverting to the Narm Caj knew, not the training Narm, or even the Courtier Narm, but the Undertaker Narm, the version that Caj thought of as the “Real Narm”.
“Get up Caj,” Narm said, “We’ve got much to do today. No leave your vest and breeches, wear your Frippery Accoutrements.” Caj had to smile, Frippery Accoutrements were what he and Narm called his polite clothing. It really wasn’t much insofar as courtiers dress went, just roughly hemmed shirt and trousers that had long ago belonged to a younger Count Isaac. The name Frippery Accoutrements came about when Caj was first put into those clothes, and Isabelle had called them his “Accoutrements of Finery” to which Narm had responded, “It’s all just Frippery, you can pass for a snotty ass without any of it really.” Isabelle had been scandalized, but both she and Narm had chuckled when Isaac said distractedly from his seat across the room, “You can’t truly be a royal ass though, unless you wear Frippery Accoutrements.” Ever since, the clothes were always referred to as such, even so worn as they were.
Caj laid down the white vest he had just picked up and shuffled over to the small wardrobe that held Narm’s Dress Vest for important funerals, and his Frippery Accoutrements, and pulled out the old shirt and trousers that he had been wearing on special occasions for over a year now. It had long since gone tight across the chest and arms, and the seat of the pants was uncomfortably tight, but he managed to get them on. Narm eyed him up and down before grabbing his dress vest out of the closet and throwing it on. Narm looked at the uncomfortabel fit and sighed.
“That’s one more thing for us to take care of today.” He murmured. "Those clothes won't do, we'll have to settle for your every-day ones."Caj looked at him quizzically.
“What are we doing today Narm?” he asked. Narm grinned that wolfish grin of his and replied,
“Why, my boy, we’re going shopping.”
***
Caj could hardly believe it. He and Narm were meandering down the broad byways of GoldStern, turning this way and that, and Narm was walking about with a bounce in his step and humming. He was actually humming. The only vestige of blackness left to him was the looks he shot the occasional street-rat who eyed his bulging purse. But aside from those, Narm strode along, nodding to city guardsmen, and humming to himself and occasionally singing in a deep monotone under his breath.
“A true swords mark is the way it rings, when two blades meet, their steel should sing!” Caj walked along behind him as they entered the more prosperous portion of the city, and down towards the merchant’s district, just off the lower docks. He listened keenly as Narm sang to himself, thinking that perhaps if he remembered the song, he might be able to find out something about Narm’s past. He had long since decided that Narm must have been a soldier at some point, perhaps a bodyguard of a lord or some such, given what he knew about manners. He was jarred from his thoughts as Narm ended his refrain.
“High and low and in between, these weapons produce a harmony! Spear and shield, ax, and sword, they all give out a beautiful chord. Good Steel makes a song you see, but great steel makes a symphony.” They were standing in front of a smithy, Caj realized. A very large, very muscular man exited the shop. Burn scars on his hands and the crossed hammer and sword sigil on his chest marked him as both weaponsmith and senior blacksmith of the forge. The man was a veritable mountain by Caj’s estimation, standing at over two meters in height, and covered in thick foliage of deep black hair. It was truly impressive that the quantity of hair that the man possessed did not catch fire in his line of work. With a beard down to his stomach and thick hair rolling down his back he looked like some sort of monster you would hear about in tavern stories. Caj could just make out the hint of teeth through the man’s facial hair, and the crinkling around his eyes suggested that he was smiling.
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“Good morning Undertaker,” his voice boomed, his accent marking him as Elforian as surely as his swarthy complexion. “I can’t say I’ve heard that tune sung in the last ten years, but any man who knows it’s words is welcome in my forge.” He held out his forearm and Narm grasped it firmly, wearing a smile of his own. Caj knew that most people found Narm’s smile disturbing and intimidating, but if the lupine grin bothered the smith, the man didn’t let on.
“That is fortunate Forgemaster, as the young master and I have business in your establishment on this day.” Narm gave a precise bow to the smith, or “Forgemaster” as it were. Caj recognized it as a bow meant for someone who was of roughly equal rank but held in high regard or respect. He realized that he had performed the exact same bow on instinct. Probably for the best, he didn’t want to come across as disrespectful after all, not if Narm had business with the man. The Forgemaster let out a short bark of laughter that had a tinge of sadness in it.
“Forgemaster …” he said softly, “I haven’t been called that in nigh on 16 years now.” He sighed heavily “Last man to call me that was Duke Donovan. May he rest in the shelter of the Reapers Harvest.” He shook his head sadly. Caj was curious, Narm had never said much about the former duke and duchess of the sea, other than to say that they had been killed just a short time before he came into Narm’s care, and that it wasn’t a matter for a “lad as young as he” to worry about. Caj had his own thoughts on the subject, but before he could think any more on it, the Smith stole his attention once more with his booming voice. “Well Undertaker, any man who hails me with such respect gains access to my forge and to a friend. How can I help you today?” Narm nodded his head once in acquiescence. Caj nearly shook his in confusion. He couldn’t recall ever being taught that mode of address, although it’s meaning was obvious. As was its effect on the Smith. He would have to talk to Narm about it and other potential modes of address later. He focused back onto what Narm was saying and tried to keep from gaping in shock.
“The young master and I are out to procure a number of items today, Forgemaster.” Narm said. He had slipped into that almost posh accent of Greatriver, that cadence of speaking that did not at all match the grizzled, white-bearded appearance he presented the world with.
“The first items on our list are two longswords of the bastard variety, we want the best work you can give us and are willing and able to pay for it. Nothing fancy mind you, think of the sort of thing you might equip a bodyguard or high-ranking officer who wanted to keep a low profile. Elegant in its simplicity.” The Smith held up a hand to stop Narm, and Caj desperately wanted to do the same. Swords were expensive. Too expensive to afford on an undertaker’s salary.
“Let me get a parchment.” The Forgemaster replied evenly, apparently not at all shocked by the order. Caj for his part, was about to open his mouth in protest but Narm shot him a hard look. When the Forgemaster returned with his parchment and quill Narm continued to order a, in Caj’s estimation, very obscene amount of equipment. It took all of Caj’s control and practice of manners not to let his eyes widen and mouth gape as Narm prattled on for nearly fifteen minutes straight. They would need two axes in the pattern that the scouts in the military were issued, four heavy pattern dirks, two short-swords of the standard pattern, and two metal bucklers. The smith wrote furiously throughout Narms dissertation, never questioning the sheer number of items that Narm was ordering, or whether or not Narm could actually afford them. Apparently, he took the one-eyed old gravedigger at his word. When he finally finished writing, a good ten seconds after Narm’s spiel had finished, he looked up expectantly.
“Will that be all … Undertaker?” He said the title with a cocked eyebrow and a certain measure of doubt, probably wondering how in the name of the Reaper Narm could afford to ask for such work as an undertaker.
“Hmm? Oh yes,” Narm said, attention snapping back from the section of the shop where apprentices toiled away at anvils and billows, passing hardies and chisels and hammers between them. “We will of course require scabbards and cases for each of the aforementioned items, for both longswords we will require hip and back scabbards. If you have any spare or know where we could find some, I would also greatly appreciate two properly weighted wooden practice blades.” The Forgemaster muttered Narms last words as he jotted them down.
“-hip and back scabbards. Got it. I have a couple extra practice blades that we just got back from the Carpentry shop a few hours ago, I can sell you those. Now to talk price.” He made a final note on his paper and looked up to meet Narm’s eyes. “This is going to run you up about 2000 crowns, Half now and half when I finish up the work. Do you got that much?” Narm nodded, ignoring Caj’s bulging eyes, pale face, and heartfelt discomfort with the situation. A senior Undertakers salary was 600 silver crowns a year, providing that they worked full time like Narm did.
“Sounds fine to me, Forgemaster,” the smith smiled at the use of the title, and grinned even broader at Narm’s next words, chest puffing out just a bit with pride. “You seem like an honorable fellow, and I don’t much care for separating out money twice, and having to take a day to visit the city again. What do you say that I pay you up front, and you send the items to The Bone Yard, and foot the mailing bill in honor of our newfound friendship?”
“That would suit me just fine,” the Forgemaster replied. “I assume that you will be paying in royals, since I doubt you could fit 1000 silver crowns in that purse of yours. Lets see, 15 silver crowns to a golden royal, bring your total to about...” He looked skyward for a moment as if doing the calculation, but Caj interjected in a whisper, despair filling his tone.
“133 Royals and 5 crowns.” Caj felt truly despondent. He knew that the only reason Narm would’ve dragged him along for a purchase was if he were involved somehow, and this all seemed like too much. Because of his varied lessons with the Count, Isabelle, and Narm, he knew exactly how much Narm was spending on this. Well over a year’s wages. He realized that both men were staring at him, and he fell onto etiquette without thinking, just as Narm and Isabelle had taught him. “I mean, that is to say, good Forgemaster, that I believe our total rounds out to 133 royals and 5 silver crowns.” His voice sounded strangled on the last words, and he added an apologetic bow for good measure. When he straightened up, Narm was cocking an amused eyebrow at him now and the smithy just looked confused by his attempts at an apology. He felt his face flush slightly. Narm chuckled, relieving some of the tension that had built up inside Caj, although the bushy Forgemaster still looked a little bemused.
“That is correct” he said and jotted a note down on his parchment. The man opened his mouth to ask for the appropriate amount, but Narm simply reached into the large purse at his waist and pulled out a smaller purse.
“There are 150 royals in the bag,” he said, “I don’t have the patience to count out a hundred and thirty-four of them. I trust that you are an honest man, and will return the excess to me at the end of our dealings.” The smith weighed the bag in his hand and nodded, placing it in his own purse.
“Well then, have a good day… Undertaker.” And this time when he said it, there was clearly disbelieving laughter in his voice.