Gavin wanted to go home. He was sick of this city, and sick of L’Marc. He was mad at the driver. They had been all over, looking for this place, up and down the streets of Kalden. The driver was a fat and lazy man. Gavin hated him and everything else in this city.
His mouth hurt.
He had gotten out of the carriage four times and gone into four shops. He had finally found the showroom for the great Montegue’s Arms, only to be told the master wasn’t there. He demanded directions to the workshop. The sales girl warned him not to speak with Montegue without an appointment.
As though I need an appointment.
He opened the silver tin of mint leaves. L’Marc had given him mint to chew. It covered up the stench of his broken tooth. The dried leaves felt fuzzy on his tongue, but he forced in two more before he got out of the carriage. He made his way through the twilight towards an awful din.
The hammering had been audible from blocks away. It was now ringing in his ears. He forced his feet forward against the onslaught.
The smell of coal and steel was almost strong enough to burn away the stench of bile. Almost. Gavin had never been so happy to sink into a bath as he had been last night. L’Marc had a pipe that came out of the wall and it filled the tub with scalding hot water. He had soaked in it for hours, but he could still smell the vomit. The yellow spot of it on the jeweler’s perfect hand danced in his mind’s eye.
He approached a man with no shirt, just a heavy leather apron. His arms were wider than Gavin’s thighs.
L’Marc had lent him the use of his carriage for the day. Gavin begged L’Marc to come with him.
L’Marc said simply, “I know nothing of swords, but this man is said to be the best in the city.”
The carriage and the driver waited on the road. He felt singular and small.
Gavin’s voice cracked as he announced, “Sir, I’m here for a sword.” He could not hear himself over the anvils.
The man pumped the bellows and sparks flared from the forge. He did not turn.
Gavin took a shaky breath, and tried to raise his voice above the din, “Sir? Can you help me?”
The man cocked his head and shouted, “What’s that, boy?”
“I need a sword!” Gavin shouted as loud as he could. He watched spittle fly from his mouth.
The man pumped the bellows, “Showroom’s on Market Street! Only got the workshop here.”
“Are you Montegue?”
The man put down the hammer and turned, wiping his face with the back of a hand. “The master’s in the forge. What business do you have with him.” He peered at Gavin with narrow eyes.
“I would like to place an order for a sword. L’Marc Blanch said Montegue was the best swordsmith in the world.”
“Aye, that he is. He don’t make pigstickers for children, though.”
Gavin straightened his back at the brusque reply, “Do you know who L’Marc Blanch is?”
“Can’t say it’d matter to the likes of me. I can show you to the forge though. Can’t be bothering with a fancy fop, but maybe somebody else will know what to do with you.” The man spun around and marched into the bowels of hell.
The sound shook Gavin’s bones. The floor rattled beneath his feet. He was flanked on all sides by men two, three of him wide. They hammered. The pounding would fall into alignment and out into disarray. They swore loudly at one another, and at young boys running this way and that. The air was raining with sparks and smoke.
At the very back, an ancient giant was bent over a raw leather flap. As Gavin approached, he saw that in his hand was a ruby the size of a grape. The man poured a trickle of glowing liquid from a crucible he held with his bare hand. “Connor, I’m not to be disturbed,” Montegue shouted without looking up.
The metal went into a divot in a lead box. The man pressed the stone into the side.
“This kid’s an errand boy for someone called L’Marc.” Connor hurried away while he was still talking.
“We do our shipping with Hopwhist, no plans to change that, thank you.” Montegue still did not look up.
“There may have been some confusion, I would like to place an order for a sword?” Gavin was straining his throat raw to be heard. He could see the hammering now. Even if he closed his eyes, he could see it.
“Girls at the showroom handle orders.”
“L’Marc told me to ask for you especially.”
Montegue finally looked up. The metal around the ruby had darkened to black, “Why’s that?”
“He says you are the best swordsmith in the world! I have an audience with the king and my father wouldn’t let me have one of his.”
“Oh and who’s your da?”
“Duke Siegfried Llanarth of Ariland.”