The Shadow at the Gate by Christopher Bunn

and bore swords on their belts. This was also noticed by a blacksmith’s apprentice as the pair proceeded down a row of stalls, small shadow in tow.
    “Sharpen yer swords, sirs!” bawled the apprentice. “Copper an edge!” In the stall behind him, a cloud of steam rose as the blacksmith plunged a glowing knife into a tub of water. The two Harthians stopped.
    “Only one copper an edge,” said the apprentice. He wiped his nose and then rubbed his hands together, sensing a bit of business.
    “I fear this blade of mine has no need for the stone,” said the taller of the two men. He glanced over the weapons displayed on the planked tables within the stall. The offerings were mostly unimpressive—serviceable blades, bundles of arrowheads, axe heads, and even a helm or two—but there was a collection of three knives that seemed to catch his eye.
    “The Hearne air, sir, puts a rust on any iron,” returned the apprentice.
    “What think you, Stio?” said the man to his companion. “Would my lady sister be pleased by such as these?” He indicated the three knives.
    “Has your father’s court become so dangerous that gentle ladies would need knives?” said the other. “Faith, my lord Eaomod, her beauty is weapon enough, for keenly do I still bleed from her edge.”
    Eaomod laughed and picked up one of the knives. It was an elegant weapon, the blade inlaid with delicate whorls of silver. With a careless flick of his hand, the man sent the knife dancing across his fingers. It whirled and spun through the air, though at every moment it seemed the blade must surely draw blood.
    “My master’s a right hand with the anvil, my lord,” said the apprentice. “Just as you surely are a weapon master.”
    “I doubt you not,” said the Harthian. “Yet I fear his anvil did not see the making of this blade.”
    The apprentice grinned and shuffled his feet. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered, attracted by the sight of the flashing blade. Jute edged closer as well and relieved the apprentice’s pockets of two copper pieces. The blacksmith wiped his hands on a rag and stepped up. He cuffed his lad good-naturedly.
    “Right you are, my lord,” he said. “Someday I might be making a pretty little thing like that. I’ve many years to live yet before I learn the secrets of such smithying.”
    “I think you will have to travel to Harlech to learn art as made this,” said the Harthian.
    He might have said more, but Jute had already moved away. A breeze brought him the scent of raisins and he drifted along its trail, listening to his stomach grumble and jingling the two coppers in his pocket. Never before had he seen the square so crowded. Even on days when such extravagant fairs weren’t being held it took quite some time to walk from one end to the other. Now, it would take all day long if he was to see every stall, every barrow, and every delightful oddity being hawked.
    And what if he himself was seen?
    Jute sobered at the thought, even though he had not seen a single familiar face since he had climbed out the window. Yet he might be spotted without his knowledge. He quickened his pace and slipped down a row of carpet merchants, sash sellers, and handkerchief vendors. Just ten minutes more and then he’d hurry back to the university and safety. He’d investigate a few pockets and then be on his way. No one would be any the wiser, and besides, Severan himself would never know. He hardly ever saw the old man.
    A crowd of people had gathered at the intersection of several rows of stalls. Jute could smell the raisins close by, and he slipped through the people, helping himself to pockets as he went. He emerged beside a confectionery’s barrow, from which a delicious steam rose. Biscuits studded with raisins and glazed with honey cooled in a wire basket. A griddle sizzled over a brazier glowing with coals. Behind him, a cheer went up from the crowd. He looked to see what had roused them, but he was too short. At any rate,