Chapter 33: A Slippery Blade

Money must have had a scent. That was the only reasonable explanation for why every vendor within a ten-street radius suddenly seemed interested in their existence.

As the party moved past the fountain plaza toward the upper trade lane, the stalls grew denser, draped in striped canvas and smelling heavily of polish, cedar shavings, and sweet almond oil. Xavion slowed his pace as his eye drifted over the displays.

There was a surprising variety of goods here. One stall displayed rows of wooden figurines, each carved into the likeness of an animal, from tiny foxes curled around their tails to magnificent stags with antlers so intricately detailed that Xavion could make out every ridge. He paused before a particularly fine piece, leaning closer to examine the delicate lines along its neck. The craftsman had even carved the individual strands of fur, giving the little creature a lifelike appearance despite its small size. Xavion could only imagine how much patience it had taken to shape something so delicate without breaking it.

When the vendor noticed his interest and began explaining that the figurine had been carved from a single piece of pearwood, Xavion listened attentively, asking how long it had taken to finish. The man brightened at the question, proudly explaining that the work had taken nearly a fortnight, most of which had been spent on the finer details. Xavion smiled and told him the result was well worth the effort. The craftsman’s face lit up at the praise, and he thanked Xavion warmly, looking far more pleased than he had when the group first approached.

Xavion moved on without making a purchase, though he glanced back once more at the little wooden stag before leaving. It was beautiful, certainly, but he had no particular need for a wooden animal to sit on a shelf. Admiration did not necessarily require ownership, and he had never been inclined to buy something merely because it caught his eye. Besides, he had already acquired more belongings during this outing than he knew what to do with, thanks to a certain Grand Duke’s alarming conviction that a person could never possess too many spare garments.

He continued from stall to stall, admiring carved figurines, polished trinkets, and other little treasures. He listened whenever the vendors explained their craft, asked the occasional question, and offered genuine compliments when something caught his eye. Yet he bought nothing. The goods were lovely, but he had no particular use for most of them, and he saw little reason to purchase something simply because it was beautiful. He was content to look, appreciate the artisans’ skill, and leave them with a smile and a few kind words.

They wandered further down the cobblestone lane, and Xavion paused two more times and both times, Lioren looked as though he were physically physically restraining himself from handing over his entire coin purse to the astonished vendors.

Eventually, the steady flow of the crowd forced them toward the mouth of a wide, open courtyard where a dense circle of thirty or forty people had gathered near an elevated stone platform.

Loud, rhythmic drumming echoed off the stone walls, accompanied by the sharp whistle of a street performer shouting for attention.

"Come one, come all! Feast your eyes on the miraculous balance of Master Corvo!" the man boomed, waving his arms dramatically. He was a lean, wiry fellow dressed in a bright crimson vest, standing precariously on a thin wooden plank balanced over a heavy brass cylinder.

Xavion stopped at the edge of the crowd, curiosity getting the better of him as he had never seen anything like this in Ostharia.

Lioren instantly noticed Xavion’s lingering gaze and halted the entire procession on the spot. "We’re watching this," Lioren announced, elbowing Caldrin out of the way so Xavion could get a clear line of sight over the crowd’s shoulders.

"We have three more shops on Silver Street, Your Grace," Therin reminded him weakly from beneath his mountain of parcels.

"Silver Street can wait," Lioren dismissed with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t even looking at the performer. He was watching the side of Xavion’s face, a look of quiet, immensely smug satisfaction settling over his features whenever Xavion’s eye tracked the movement of the performance.

On the platform, Master Corvo was building up to his grand finale. He was already balancing a long wooden pole on his chin while standing on the rolling brass cylinder, and now he picked up three shiny metal props from a felt-lined chest beside him.

"And now, ladies and gentle-lords! The feat of pure danger!" Corvo shouted, tossing the three objects into the air in a fast, flashing arc.

The crowd gasped. The objects caught the bright sunlight, three long, lethal-looking blades with silver pommels and wickedly curved edges.

"Why would anyone juggle knives on a rolling pipe?" Evelia murmured, her tone a mix of mild disgust and genuine boredom. "It seems like a terrible way to make four coppers."

"It’s about the spectacle!" Lioren whispered back, leaning slightly closer to Xavion. "Look at the balance on that cylinder. It’s actually pretty..."

CLACK

A sharp, metallic snap echoed from the platform. The wooden plank beneath the performer’s boots gave a sudden, violent shudder as the brass cylinder beneath it caught on an uneven cobble.

Master Corvo let out a strangled yelp, his arms flailing wildly as his balance disintegrated.

The three spinning props went flying in three completely different directions. Two of them clattered harmlessly onto the wooden stage, but the third, a heavy, steel-bladed throwing knife with a iron pommel, was launched sideways by the momentum, sailing straight off the platform toward the front row of the cheering spectators.

"Watch out!" a woman screamed.

Panic rippled through the crowd as people ducked, shoved, and scrambled backward.

Xavion didn’t duck.

Before Lioren’s hand could even reach for his sword hilt, before Caldrin could drop his armload of boxes, Xavion moved.

Xavion recognized the danger at once. He stepped into the blade’s path and caught it by the handle with the ease of someone who had handled weapons for most of his life.

CLACK

His pale fingers clamped hard around the carved wooden handle of the flying knife mid-air, stopping the spinning steel three inches from a young merchant’s face.

A stunned silence followed.

Xavion stood motionless for half a second, the heavy pommel resting firmly in his grip. He didn’t look flustered. His breathing hadn’t even quickened. Xavion turned the knife in his hand, briefly testing its weight before approaching the stage.

The performer remained seated among his scattered props, his face drained of color. He stared at Xavion with wide eyes, looking as though he couldn’t quite believe the man standing before him had just caught a flying knife with his bare hand.

Xavion extended his hand, presenting the knife handle-first to the trembling man.

"A word of advice," Xavion said, his voice low, and completely steady, ringing clear over the quiet crowd. "If you intend to throw something near a crowd, choose props that won’t leave a hole in a spectator’s chest if your balance fails."

The performer babbled a series of incoherent, terrified thanks, taking the hilt with trembling fingers.

Xavion turned and headed back toward Lioren and the others. After a few steps, however, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"And mind your footwork," Xavion added mildly. "You favor your left foot too much."

Without waiting for a response, he stepped back into their group.

Lioren could only stare, his mouth hanging slightly open as he watched Xavion walk away as though he hadn’t just caught a knife in mid-air. His eyes practically sparkled with admiration, and he looked dangerously close to falling even harder for his betrothed. "That... was absurdly cool," Lioren breathed out, rushing up beside him. "You caught it right by the handle! I thought for sure it was going to cut your palm open! What would you have done if you caught the blade instead?!"

Xavion looked down at his own long, pale fingers, a faint, crooked little smile touching his lips. "Then I would have dropped it, Grand Duke. My hands are fine."

Evelia glided up beside them, adjusting her dark gloves with an amused smirk. "Honestly, Your Highness, if this prince business ever gets boring, you could easily join the carnival. You handled that steel with far more grace than our friend on the barrel."

"Evelia, hush!" Lioren snapped, glaring at his sister before turning back to Xavion with a look of intense, frantic concern. "No! We are not encouraging him to catch flying weapons for public entertainment! Are you absolutely sure you’re not hurt? Let me see."

Before Xavion could step back, Lioren reached out and grabbed both of Xavion’s hands in his own.

Lioren’s grip was warm, firm, and entirely unhesitating. He turned Xavion’s hands over, inspecting his long palms, running his thumbs lightly over Xavion’s knuckles, checking every finger for the tiny trace of a nick or a scratch from the flying steel.

Xavion went completely, rigidly still.

His eye tracked Lioren’s head as the Grand Duke leaned down, inspecting his left hand, then his right, with a fierce, concentrated frown that looked as though he were examining a crucial treaty document. The heat of Lioren’s skin sank straight through Xavion’s palms, sending a strange, sudden prickle up his forearms.

"No cuts," Lioren pronounced at last, letting out a long, heavy sigh of genuine relief. He straightened up, though he didn’t immediately let go of Xavion’s wrists. "Thank God. If you had cut your hand on your second day in the capital, Therin would have lectured me for three hours about guest safety protocol."

Evelia stood watching the two of them, watching Lioren holding Xavion’s hands in the middle of a crowded public street, completely oblivious to the fact that half the market was staring at them.

She let out a long, dramatic, suffering sigh, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Lioren," Evelia said, her voice dripping with sheer, unadulterated disbelief. "Do you intend to spend this entire outing treating His Highness like a priceless, fragile porcelain tea-set?"

Lioren blinked, finally realizing he was still clutching Xavion’s hands, but he didn’t look embarrassed. He merely turned his head to glare at his sister. "He just caught a flying knife, Evelia!"

"Precisely!" she argued, gesturing with one gloved hand toward Xavion’s tall, charcoal-clad frame. "He caught a throwing knife mid-air with his bare hand! He was a seasoned military commander! He is a strong, highly capable man who survived a three-year war, and he can clearly take care of himself!"

"I know he’s capable!" Lioren shot back, his fingers tightening just a fraction around Xavion’s wrists before he finally, reluctantly let them go. He looked back up into Xavion’s eye, his expression turning strangely earnest, quiet, and stubbornly set.

"I know perfectly well how strong he is," Lioren murmured, his tone dropping into a quieter register that made Evelia’s teasing grin falter just a bit. "I’ve heard plenty about what he did on the battlefield. But being capable doesn’t mean you’re immune to getting hurt, Evelia. And it doesn’t mean someone shouldn’t look out for you anyway."