The Malmillard Codex by K.G. McAbee Page B

and
studded—studded, mind you—with nails of silver." Baragin gave Val a
gentle shove with one unwashed finger toward an errant sunbeam that
had managed somehow to find its way into the shop from the street
outside. "By your leave, my dear lord, but just allow me to measure
your length of arm and breadth of shoulder. A professional such as
my humble self would never deign to offer you anything that would
not be of a correct and proper size and weight, naturally. Why, I
have been the purveyor of the most desired and treasured blades for
years, aye, and my father before me and his mother before him."
    A strip of coarse linen, marked off in
regular increments, appeared from under Baragin's grimy robe. Val
good-naturedly allowed himself to be positioned by the meager
shopkeeper in the brightest section of the shop. Slender dirty
fingers handled the ribbon of measured linen as if it were a thing
alive, whipping it across Val's shoulders and along his arm. These
swift movements were accompanied by mystical mutterings,
interspersed with cries of wonder and amazement.
    "Remarkable. Astounding. Incredible,"
chirped Baragin as he whirled and spun about, his scent thick in
the cluttered, musty room. Madryn gave a disapproving sniff and
stayed as far from the little man as she could.
    At last, the measurements were done to the
master's satisfaction. Baragin stood back, gazing in unabashed
admiration at Val.
    "Sir, I think that I have the perfect weapon
for you. Pray step to the back with me, so that you may see it and
judge for yourself. Also," he added with a wink, "there's a bit
more room, so that you may swing the blade and give me your expert
opinion as to its weight and heft. Sir, my lady. If you will follow
your poor servant?"
    Val threaded his careful way past the
multitude of obstructions in the shop, followed closely by Madryn.
Their diminutive host twisted and turned, his flowing robes keeping
clear of sharp and pointed metal by some familiar magic of its
own.
    The back door of the shop opened onto a
wide, debris-littered alley that smelled of fish and garbage.
Still, there was an open area just outside that was wide
enough—just—to swing a sword.
    The blade that Baragin had seized on his
way, in a sleight-of-hand fashion that Val was barely able to
notice, was a wide bladed beauty that glittered like silver in the
sunlight. Its hilt felt comfortable in Val's grip, as welcoming as
an old friend. He swung it with pleasure, happy to have a weapon to
hold again. His days as a gladiator had been far from happy—what
slave ever had happy days?—but there were some few pleasant
memories. The studies in the vast, dim libraries, full of tomes on
ancient and modern methods of fighting—for gladiators were the
princes of slaves, all taught to read early in their training, to
increase in yet another way their knowledge of mayhem and
destruction. The daily training with every sort of weapon and with
bare hands, the satisfaction to see abilities and knowledge grow
day by day, the joy in remaining alive when others about you are
dying, some by your own hand…these things had brought some small
measure of pleasure.
    Val cut at a pole that protruded from the
side of the building, giving it a glancing blow that rang the steel
in his hand like a bell. He nodded in satisfaction and grinned at
Madryn.
    "It seems that you have made a sale, Master
Baragin," said Madryn. "How much for such a magnificent blade?"
    Thus, Baragin and Madryn entered into the
time-honored bargaining phase of the transaction. Val continued to
swing and turn with the blade, testing its strength and weight
against his own. The murmur of offer and counter offer died away
behind him as he gazed at the shining steel with admiration and a
kind of gloating satisfaction. A slave would, could never be in
possession of any kind of a blade, no matter how small, unless
fighting in the arena for the entertainment of his or her betters.
The sheer exhilaration of simply holding