As Paks walked back toward the inn, leading Star, she tried to think how much money she actually had. She was hungry; by the sun it was long past time for lunch. How many hours, then, had she been closeted with the moneychanger? She had seen the spiky columns of figures climb up the pages of his account book, as he added the value of coins, jewels, the small pieces of weaponry. But she couldn’t make sense of it in terms of her salary in the Duke’s Company. He spoke of gold crowns and silver coronets and halflings instead of the natas and nitis she was used to. But it seemed she could send home twice what she thought her dowry had been and have plenty left. She could buy a riding saddle for Star—perhaps even a full-sized horse. She need not take the first guard job that came along. She had left most of her money on deposit with Master Senneth, but she had enough with her to order a few new clothes, and eat the best The Jolly Potboy offered for that night’s dinner.
On the way back, she remembered Sevri’s directions to the smithy, where Master Doggal shod all the horses for miles around. Now she turned from the main road, and led Star between two small stone buildings down an alley that led to the forge. In the paved courtyard before the blacksmith’s shop, the tall, rough-looking man from the inn was haggling with the smith over the cost of shoes; his black warhorse, its ears twitching nervously, stamped and shifted, the shoes in question ringing on the stones. Paks recognized it by the blazed face; it had tall white stockings on all four legs.
“I charges fair,” the smith rumbled. “Nobody says but what I charges fair. That beast of yours has feet so big, and stands so bad—aye, he come near tearing loose, that he did, and kicked me as near as maybe. It’s not the shoes being set wrong has him tittupy like that: he’s a wrong ’un, and too handy with them white socks.” The smith was a head shorter than the other, but his massive arms and shoulders made his hammer look small.
The tall man put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but the smith hefted his hammer.
“You just pay me, now,” the smith went on. “Pay as you ought, and we’ll have no trouble.”
“And if I don’t?” The black horse shied at that harsh voice; the tall man jerked the bridle viciously. Neither man had noticed Paks, but the horse winded Star and stood still, head high and ears pricked, snuffing.
“Well, if ye don’t, I’ll have the law on ye—”
“The law, is it!” The tall man laughed contemptuously. “In this town? What law here could touch me?”
“This,” said the smith, and quick as a snake’s tongue his hammer tapped the man’s shoulder.
With an angry snarl, the big man dropped the reins, drew his sword, and swung at the smith. The black horse walked over to Star as Paks dropped the lead and whipped out her own blade. Only then did the smith see her.
“Another one of ye, eh?” He blocked one swipe of the big sword with his hammer; she noted that he handled it as if it were weightless. “Well, I can take two of ye, no doubt, but still—Aieeeh! By the Maker!” His bellow split the early afternoon stillness. Paks heard a startled outcry in the distance, as she ran forward.
“Not against you, Master Smith,” she said as her sword rang against the other. “But you, you coward. I can see that horse has new shoes—and you owe the smith—and you’ve no business attacking an unarmed man with a sword!” The swordsman had turned, furious, with her first blow, and now concentrated on her.
“Unarmed, is it?” cried the smith. “And you a woman? Is any smith unarmed that has his hammer and the strength of the forge in his arm?” Paks made no answer; the tall man had more skill than she’d expected from a bully, and she saved her breath for the fight. The smith threw his hammer on the ground and bellowed at them both. “Is it a barton of Gird you think I have here, and not a smithy? By the Maker, is a smith to be reft of his fight by any wandering female? I can collect my own debts, you silly girl, without your help. I was just teaching this fellow a lesson—” Paks quit listening. The tall man had the reach of her, and a heavier blade. She missed her helmet and shield; he had a round iron pot on his head, and heavy bracers on both arms. His black eyes gleamed from under the helmet.
“Eh—the girl from over the mountains! A wild one, I see. I like wild ones.” He grunted as her sword pricked his shoulder. “I’ll tame you, little mountain-cat, and then I’ll see to him—” He jerked his head at the smith, without giving Paks an opening.
“You will, will you?” yelled the smith. “By the Maker, you’re a fine one, if you think you can!” And before Paks realized what he was about, he darted behind the tall man and brought the hammer down on his head with a resounding clang. The tall man sagged to his knees and fell over in a heap. The smith glared at Paks over the crumpled body. “A sword,” he said severely, “is a pitiful weapon, young woman, and only fit for those that don’t have the strength for a hammer. It was by the hammer that Sertig the Maker forged the world on the Anvil of Time. The hammer will always win, with the strength of the faithful behind it.”
Paks had dropped the tip of her sword and stood panting. “Uhm—yes—”
“Don’t forget that.”
“No—” She took a deep breath and wiped her sword on her leg before sheathing it.
“Not that yours isn’t a fine bit of work,” the smith went on. “It’s just that swords are inferior weapons.” Paks did not feel like arguing with him. She was, however, a bit disgruntled. She’d only tried to help someone.
“Doggal!” A shout from the alley. “Need help?” Paks could see two hefty men, armed with clubs.
“Nay, nay. ’Twas a bit of trouble with a fellow from outside, that’s all.” The smith sounded smug. “He’ll have a headache, if he wakes at all.”
“Will you need someone to take him away?”
“He’s not dead yet. He’s still snorting. If this lady will lead his horse back to the inn, I can throw him over—” He turned to Paks. “If you’re going that way, that is.” The men waved and turned back up the alley.
“I was coming here,” said Paks. “To get my pony shod. But if—”
The smith suddenly grinned, and looked like a different man. “Oh? That’s no problem. He’ll keep a bit, just there. I did wonder what you were doing up my alley, to be sure, but if it was on business, then—” He looked around. “That your pony, with the star?”
“Yes. Just a moment.” Paks started toward Star, who stood stiffly, nose-to-nose, with the black horse. Both shifted away from her, eyes wide.
“Come on, Star,” said Paks crossly. She felt the smith was laughing at her. “Come on, pony.” She rubbed her thumb on the gold ring. The wildness left Star’s eyes, and the pony minced toward her. The black horse, too, lowered his head and stretched his neck.
“Catch up that fancy-socks, if you can,” called the smith. “Be carefuclass="underline" he’s a mean one, but he’ll do no good running loose.” Paks caught Star’s lead, and rubbed the ring again, talking softly to the black.
“Come on, then, big one. Come on. I’d like to have one like you someday.” The black horse came forward step by slow step until she could reach the reins. She talked on as she led them toward the smithy itself. She could feel the horse’s fear trembling in the reins as they neared the building.
“Well!” The smith sounded surprised. “You’ve a rare way with a horse, that you have. I’ll take the pony, then, if you’ll hold that one. What sort of shoes? Are you going into the mountains again?”