The blacksmith’s street sang to Ari, though the birdsong was replaced by the gentle, rhythmic pinging of hammer on anvil. It was only a turn away from the riverside road between the crematorium and La Petite Mort. Here, wooden walls and thatched roofs gave way to houses made from bricks and clay tiles, protecting the city against the flames within the forges.

Stepping inside was like going back into Claribel’s body: it wasn’t the armoury in the Institute, but there was something about the smell of hot coal and quenched steel, entwined with a finish of beeswax, that felt like a second home.

Longswords, rapiers, daggers, hammers, maces… A host of shiny things vied for Ari’s attention, but she knew in her heart of hearts – beating to the same rhythm as the blacksmith’s hammer – that she and the tuck sword were meant to be. Or was it the curved blade that shone next to it? After all, she had chosen this shop upon a glimpse of that ripple-pattern blade, on display among door handles, nails and plain black cloak clasps with needle-sharp pins.

~Are you serious?~ Claribel poked at the razor-edge of the sword, fingers sliding through it unsliced. ~Can my body even lift one of those?~

~But not wave one around and hit people with it.~

~What I mean is–~

~Wait, what?~

~Your… baby? I’m sure she’ll be adorable.~

‘Excuse me,’ Claribel called to the blacksmith, who finally looked up, mopping away beaded sweat on his forehead, ‘does that sword really cut silk?’

The blacksmith’s eyes widened somewhere under his paint-brush brows. ‘Don’t judge a blade by the sheath, eh? You’re an expert on Tasrine steel?’

He drew out a palm-sized cushion from the pocket of his brown leather apron, leaving a smudge of black upon the cream mulberry silk, and unhooked the curved sword from the wall with the other hand, resting it against the workbench.

‘Are you going to buy it if it cuts?’

‘If I get to do the honours,’ said Ari, fingers itching to turn a legend into reality.

~Are you certain? Wouldn’t it be more impressive to test a sword’s strength against a brick or… or a log or… or anything really, because silk isn’t exactly…~

She balanced the silk cushion atop the blade’s edge, then watched it sigh and slide down into two halves.

‘Oh… I see. Well. In that case, everything from here to there…’ Claribel pointed from one end of the display wall to the other. ‘I’ll take them all.’

‘Uhhh… Are you planning to buy…’ The blacksmith turned around and counted under his breath. ‘… two Tasrine swords, four tucks, three battle axes, three maces, two rapiers, a halberd, five bollock knives, and twenty swallow-tail arrowheads?’

‘Do they come with a bow?’

‘We can wrap them up and tie it with a ribbon on top.’

‘I meant the bow that goes with the arrowheads.’

‘Oh that. You’ll need to go to down the road to Master Emery’s for that. Down and turn right. He’s the Master Bowyer I’d recommend. Got a fletcher working for him too, if you want the whole lot.’

‘Good,’ Claribel shouldered to the front once more. ‘I thank you for your help, and if you please, can you supply me with a holster to carry all the blades and…other weaponry?’

‘You… surely you don’t wish to carry them yourself?’

‘That’s exactly what I wish to do. All of them. If you please.’

‘But… they would be heavy all together, my lady.’

‘I may be unwise, but I am not stupid. Do your worst.’

There was an expression on Claribel’s face that she’d never formed before. Her mouth pressed into a thin, grave line, but she felt a twinkle in her eyes.

~You seem to be feeling better.~

~I want an apology for the fright you gave me when you dived out into… into the ground.~

~No. I want an apology through action, not words. Go ahead. Weapon-up and walk back to the carriage.~

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

~I believe you would know how to carry them without causing me an injury.~

~For carrying multiple maces and axes? After receiving a letter from Mother? No one would fault me for anything smaller than a siege tower. In fact, I have often fallen to misguided attempts to master some sort of weaponry or another before Mother’s visits. They have always gone the same way as your attempts to master magic.~

In that case… Ari dared to caress the maces, even though their love was not to be, star-crossed from an insufficient number of crossbody cable rows. Still, she could name them after familiar things, like the men of old, naming places anew: New England, New Hampshire, New York. She could name them New-Enfield, New-Hawkins, New-Glock.

‘And one of those clasps as well, if you please. The black one, with the ivy leaf design.’

Ari froze, fingers on the handle of the third mace.

~You have been staring at it long enough.~

~I know where my eyes are swivelling.~

‘My lady…’ For the first time, the blacksmith seemed to assess the silks that hung from Claribel’s body – a poor choice among the soot and coal dust that threatened to cling to the crevices in embroidered threads – and said, ‘my offerings are… perhaps not as appropriate to your station as what you’d find at the goldsmith’s, but if you are fond of the clasp, I shall wrap it for you as a gift for buying up half my wares.’

~Well?~

Well… She hadn’t really meant to look, if she’d looked at all. It had only reminded her of a different clasp, and for a moment, she’d wondered if the ones made from twisting, black metal would slide through cloaks more easily.

The blacksmith set the clasp in her palm, the size and weight of a skipping stone, plain black yet lovingly twisted and filed into entwined vines. Artistry and craftsmanship could turn iron into something as beautiful as gold. Just like everything else, it was about knowing how to mould it, how to wield it.

Ari nodded at the blacksmith and gave her thanks.

Moments after, she was lobbing unuttered curses his way as he buckled her purchases to a leather holster. It was hard to say which was worse: the concern in the blacksmith’s incessant questioning of ‘are you sure this is a good idea’ or the fact that she could feel the struggle in her muscles.

‘Errr… my lady, are you all right?’ Claribel’s guards for today – Marlon and Saber – rushed forth as soon as she stumbled outside.

‘Don’t. Talk. To. Me.’ Ari spat through gritted teeth, swatting their hands away. It was already hard enough to focus on her breathing with Claribel’s laughter tinkling in the background. She engaged what little core strength that lingered in this body. ‘I’m. Training.’

‘Oh. I’m sure Her Grace has no expectations… Errr… I mean… Not that you’ve failed those expectations before, but errr… You are already one of the best mages Ventinon has ever seen. There is no need to master the sword as well, even if you are her daughter.’

Ari unhooked the weapons one by one once she stumbled to the carriage, but she couldn’t detach herself from the gentle mantle of doom that each mention of the duchess brought to Claribel. It rubbed against her skin, chaffing in unfamiliar places. She’d shouldered disappointment before, dripping thick and heavy from the Chief’s lips, but this was soft and quiet.

Only the thump and fanfare as they stopped in front of La Petite Mort shrugged it from her shoulders.

*

A familiar attendant flanked her as soon as she stepped out of the carriage, and another swirled around in her fuchsia apron and ran inside, calling for Madame Lucretia.

‘Master Claribel! Welcome to La Petite Mort!’ cried the attendant she’d met when she’d pretended to be Natty’s wife, her one glass eye swirling with blue and gold. Though she still held herself tall, the way that she wrung her hands in Claribel’s official presence almost made her feel like a different person. ‘I’m Bleuet. Come in, come in! On behalf of Madame Lucretia and all of us, I want to welcome you and… and if there’s anything you need, just let me know! We have a private room set up, ready for the three of you to sample the full menu. I’m sure you’ll find our food worthy of a bronze certification!’

She led them past the mask-decorated walls, past the chrysanthemum table where Ari had sat before, mistaking Hesperus for the ghost of Max’s past, up the ramp that sloped up to the rooms above, half concealed by beaded curtains.

Peeling open the curtain that hung from the middlemost door, Bleuet led her down a ramp.

‘Sorry for the walk, my lady. The sun’s out, and we thought you might enjoy a better view.’

She was right. This ramp swept down into a whole different side of La Petite Mort, into a small, square garden. Despite the kiss of winter, it remained green thanks to a sprinkle of blue star junipers. All save one side of the garden was lined with private rooms, each neatly arranged with bamboo mats and low tea tables. The farthest side, however, hid a squat brick building, disguised by a fence of tall yew trees.

‘What do you think of our water feature?’ said Bleuet, dashing her a smile.

Ari tore her gaze away from the brick building towards the centre of the garden, where several shimmering red goldfish played among half-drowned stone masks.

‘Those fishies aren’t for eating, I’m afraid. They’re pets. A prince from Jumont stayed here a while back, you know, and he had such a good time that he gifted these to the Madame.’

Ari wasn’t desperate to eat someone’s goldfish when there was more standard fare being served, which was clearly the case, as the room that Bleuet finally ushered her into was already filled with breads and pitchers.

The symbols that’d marked the foods at the Queen’s Arms were draped over different sections of the table. She took her seat in front of the wind mage’s cloth.

‘I’m afraid you’re the first to arrive,’ said Bleuet. ‘Would you like to see a trick while we wait for the others?’

‘I’d love to.’ Ari gripped the hilt of her new dagger. Oftentimes, special tricks involved drawing a weapon and stabbing your enemy. How fast could Bleuet draw?

Instead, the attendant reached for her glass eye, and with a pop, she held it out for Ari to see.

‘It’s beautiful. Is it… Aquilon glass?’

‘You’ve got a good eye, my lady. Now for the trick.’ Bleuet threw the eye high into the air and spun like a ballerina, then caught the falling eye in her eye socket. She blinked in the eye and bowed.

‘Amazing!’

‘Unfortunately it does get old quickly. Shall I… I will ask Rose to bring your part of the menu. No reason to keep you waiting! In fact–’

In fact, Rose rolled in without any prompting at all, carrying trays of food on the back of her winged chair, right next to her lance, and, with a grin, started laying them out in front of her.

‘No, no, no! Hang on…’ Bleuet snatched a bowl of stew from in front of Ari and sniffed. ‘Mint. This is for the fire mage. I’m so sorry, my lady. We’re all feeling a bit mixed up after the news, you see. No excuse for mixing up stews though. It’s just… Tristram was a regular here. Had been one, at least, ever since he arrived for the tournament. We can’t stop talking about it and… and thinking about it.’

Ari leaned in, stew forgotten. ‘Of course. Is anything in particular bothering you?’

‘If you ask me – not that anyone will – someone needs to look into that Nanny What’s-Her-Name he’s been keeping around.’

‘Nanny Jesse?’ Claribel leaned in too.

‘Maybe. Got a wide-eyed face and a limp. That one. I didn’t catch her name, but I did catch all that boasting she did. She came here a few nights and got pretty merry after her master was out cold. You won’t believe the stuff that came out of her mouth. She was quite loud, wasn’t she,’ said Bleuet, nudging Rose on the shoulder.

‘Oh yes,’ said Rose, wheeling closer, ‘she was nearly loud enough to wake Tristram, may the Fated One savour him, and I said to Heather, I said, “He’s not going to be pleased to hear that, you mark my words.” She was saying he’d be leaving her a handsome bit of gold in his will, see?’

‘She said that… to you?’

‘To the Madame, of course. The Madame was taking new sign-ups for the next ship that the Captain of Sabline II was planning to build, and there weren’t many takers at the time. Not before the Sabline II actually returned, see? That Nanny drank up the Madame’s promises though.’

‘And her mead,’ Bleuet snorted, suddenly returning to the Bleuet she’d seen on a different night. ‘She signed the waiting list too, didn’t she? The Madame would know. We thought it was in bad taste at the time, talking about a man younger than you leaving you gold in his will, as it he’d die before his time…’

In perfect synchronicity, the attendants shivered, letting their words sink in.