“Want a Valium?”
“Huh? Are you still conjuring those things?”
“I haven’t taken it yet,” Linda said. “I’m debating.”
“If you think you need it, go ahead.”
Linda looked at the white pill in the palm of her hand. She closed her fist over it. “I don’t think I will … just yet.”
“Good.”
“I could use a drink,” Snowclaw said.
“Alcohol, you mean?”
“I don’t mean snow melt. I’ve been looking for a drink ever since I came into this place. Didn’t care for that smelly flower water they had upstairs.”
“What do you drink usually?”
“It’s called shrackk. Made from the blubber of a big land mammal.”
“Something like a seal?”
“What’s a —” Snowclaw regarded the ceiling with a look of mild surprise. “Yeah, I guess I do know what a seal is. Or at least I know what you mean. Right, it’s sort of a seal but with big teeth and claws. Pretty dangerous if you let one corner you. They can be outrun pretty easily, though. I hunt ’em. That’s my trade.”
Gene asked, “Is there civilization where you come from?”
“Oh, sure. I make it into town about two, three times a year. I sell my pelts, get drunk, kick some butts, rip a few heads off, generally have a good time.” He snorted sarcastically. “And lose all my money and wind up strapped again.” He yawned and snapped his massive jaws shut. “What a life. What a life.”
“Sounds like a colorful occupation,” Linda commented.
“It’s a living.”
They rested awhile, then left the room to continue down the winding stairs.
They reached a landing and went out into a hallway. Turning right, they walked for a while before coming to an intersecting corridor. To the left a short way down was a doorway spilling light. They went in.
“I don’t believe we found it,” Linda said.
Looking like a museum, the room was filled with ancient and odd-looking military apparel. Suits of mail hung upon wooden dummies, suits of armor stood by themselves. The walls were festooned with shields of various shapes and sizes. At the far end of the room was an opening and a counter. Behind the counter stood an elderly man dressed in a red-hooded shoulder cape. He was smiling, leaning on the counter with hands folded.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly.
“I guess this is the armory.”
The man nodded. “It is, sir. And I am the armorer.”
“Uh-huh.” Gene glanced around. “Do we just take what we need?”
“If you wish, sir. However, I am available to serve you should you need assistance. If you desire a weapon, I must fetch it from the storeroom.”
“Oh.” Gene knocked a knuckle against an iron breastplate. “Thanks.” He stepped over to examine a shield emblazoned with a particularly interesting coat-of-arms.
“Do you have any clothes?” Linda asked the man.
“I’m afraid I have nothing but military apparel, which would hardly befit a gracious lady such as yourself.”
“Oh. Do you know where I could —”
“I think you’d be wanting to see the seamstress, my lady.”
“Oh, good. And where —”
“I’m afraid her shop is a long way from here. It’s on the other side of the keep, on the twentieth floor of the Queen’s Tower.”
“Oh.”
Gene came back to the counter. “I want a sword,” he said. “And a knife.”
“A sword … and a knife.”
“Uh, yeah.”
The man sighed. “Would you have any idea as to the type of sword or knife you’d be wanting?”
“Well …”
“There are many varieties, you know. All lengths and sizes, all used for various and sundry purposes.”
“Well, I sort of want a general … you know,sword.”
“A sword befitting a general?”
“No, no. Your average all-purpose, general-utility thing.”
The man frowned. “Hmmm.”
“Something about yea long.”
“Ah, a longsword. Two-edged, then?”
“Uhhh … yeah. Two-edged.”
“Two-handed or one-handed haft?”
Gene shrugged. “Whatever. Two-handed.”
“Cross hilt or decorative?”
“Um.” Gene crossed his arms and rubbed his chin.
“I might not have the decorative in a two-hand-hafted longsword, come to think of it. One moment, sir, and I will look.”
The man went back to a row of free-standing shelves, returned with a huge sword and laid it on the counter. “Will this do, sir?”
“Holy heck.” Gene picked the thing up, grasping the haft with both hands. The sword was heavy and unwieldy, almost impossibly so, and about half again as long as it needed to be. He glanced at the elaborately wrought hilt and laid it back on the counter. “You have anything a little easier to handle?”
“Many things. Perhaps a shortsword would better suit you.”
“Yeah. What do you have?”
“Many kinds.”
“Uh-huh.” Gene shrugged. “Like … what?”
“Well, there are two-edged shortswords and one-edged shortswords. There are swords of various curvatures and of various blade widths. There are swords used for hacking, and there are those more suitable for thrusting at one’s enemy. And, of course, there are swords suitable for both. There are blades of various tempers and degrees of strength. There are broadswords and sabers, court swords and backswords. We have rapiers and épées, we have falchions and scimitars. There are swords with cup hilts, cross hilts, decorative hilts, basket hilts, and hilts molded to the individual hand.”
“Uh —”
“There are ceremonial swords, calvary swords, infantry swords, swords for infighting, and swords to keep a distance. Now, as far as knives —”
“Hold it.”
“— there are many different kinds. We have various styles of dirk and dagger, stiletto and poniard —”
“Hold it! Look, all I want is a sword about that long.”
“Are you sure a sword is what you want, sir? It may be you’d be better off with an ax or mace.”
“No, a sword.”
“A morning star? Perhaps a good, heavy club.”
“A sword.”
The armorer took a deep breath, folded his hands and smiled pleasantly. “And what kind of sword would you be wanting, sir?”
Gene’s shoulders slumped. “Morning star?” he said weakly.
“A spiked ball affixed to a short chain which is in turn attached to a handle.”
“Oh, yeah. No, I don’t think so.”
“A lance, then? Or a pike?”
“Umm …”
“A halberd, perhaps? Or a broadax?”
“Well —”
“Could you use a spear?”
“Spear?”
“I would, however, have to know if you intend to use it for throwing or for thrusting.”
“Not a spear, for crying out loud. I want something that I can fight with. Something that’ll do some damage.”
“Do some damage.” The armorer thought it over. “Perhaps an ax, then. Would you like to see one?”
“I guess.”
“Broadax, poleax, or taper ax?”
“Oh, boy.”
“Do you want something that will unseam a man from nave to chaps, or simply wound him mortally?”
“I —”
“This …” The armorer turned and walked off, then returned bearing a large ax with a long wooden handle. “… is a broadax.”
“Look, could you show me a couple of different swords?”
“Certainly, sir. What kinds would you like to see?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
Snowclaw, who had been browsing the room, stepped up to the counter. He picked up the broadax, looked it over once, raised it with both hands and crashed it into the countertop directly in front of the armorer, who shrieked and danced back just in the nick of time. The ax cleaved the counter in two, continuing down to split the boards underneath almost to the floor.