Chapter 19: Mind the Fourth

Chapter 19: Mind the Fourth

Garrick had meant to keep the price at sixteen.

Then he’d spent part of the morning adjusting a join that was already serviceable because he wanted to see whether he could make the transition smoother. He wasn’t charging the boy for that. Nor for the second sketch he’d made, or the third, which had very little to do with the commissioned set anymore.

By the time Rooke arrived that afternoon, Garrick had rewritten the bill.

The youngster paused beside the counter. "Are they ready?"

"Wouldn’t have told you to collect them otherwise."

Garrick unrolled the cloth.

The four pieces lay in separate folds, plain steel with no polish beyond what the work required. Rooke’s hand moved toward one and stopped.

"May I?"

Garrick nodded.

The boy lifted the first piece with his Talent, holding it low over the counter. He turned it slowly. Then he raised the others and arranged them beside it, watching their movement closely enough to forget his usual expression.

Garrick allowed himself to enjoy that for a moment.

"Put them down. I’ll show you the fit."

He assembled the longer form and passed it over. Rooke tested the balance with both hands before suspending it above the cloth. His control was careful. Garrick had sold weapons to plenty of young people who treated a first purchase as permission to wave sharp steel near somebody’s face.

At least this one listened when tools were involved.

They went over the care instructions. Rooke asked two sensible questions about wear, checked the separate pieces again, and reached for his slate.

"Twelve remaining?"

"Four."

The boy looked up.

"Eight for materials," Garrick said. "You’ve paid half." He rubbed the side of his nose, found soot there, and wiped it on his apron. "Leave the labor. I wanted to make the thing."

Rooke looked at the amended bill for long enough that Garrick began to regret the gesture.

Then the boy smiled.

He had the features for it. Unfortunately, the way his mouth curled while his pale eyes remained fixed on Garrick made the old smith’s neck prickle. It looked as though he had just discovered something he could use against him.

"Silly old man," Rooke said, almost fondly. "You could have told me."

Garrick’s boot struck the floor.

"I could charge the full amount."

"Of course." The smile stayed. "Send the bill through."

For a moment Garrick considered doing exactly that. Instead, he sent the four-silver balance and rolled the steel into its cloth, more tightly than necessary.

"Oil it after cleaning. Don’t put it away damp."

"You told me."

"And I’ll tell you again if you come back with rust."

The payment arrived. Garrick pushed the wrapped set across the counter and went into the workshop before he said something that might lose him access to the boy’s next drawing.

Silas left the shop in an excellent mood.

Oh, he’s one of those.

All that scowling, then half the bill vanished. The old man had practically chased him out rather than accept a little friendliness.

Silas tucked the wrapped set more securely under his arm. He would bring the next design here, if this one worked well. Perhaps he could ask Evan what Holt drank. There had been a teapot in the workshop, though judging by the color of its spout, cleaning it was a distant memory.

Fourteen silver remained from the new commission. Silas checked the balance once as he walked, then put the slate away before someone saw him grinning at it.

He had booked a practice lane before leaving home. The attendant met him at the entrance, inspected the new equipment, and had him sign for a padded vest.

"No living partners with an untested set," she said. "You’ll use the moving targets. I’ll run the return arm."

"That suits me."

She pointed to the far lane. Silas took the vest and went to set out his weapons.

Outside the residence, the steel felt heavier than it had in his imagination. He raised all four pieces over the sand, separated them, and moved each through a slow turn. They responded cleanly. He could feel the strain increase when he spread them too far apart, so he brought them closer.

The attendant waited until he nodded before starting the target.

A padded shield swung across a wooden disc. Silas sent one piece toward its outer edge and held a second slightly higher. When he pulled at the shield, the higher piece moved into the opening without needing to turn a broad guard past the rim.

It struck the disc with a sharp knock.

The bell rang.

Silas withdrew the piece, pleased enough that he almost missed the attendant raising her hand.

"Check the tip before you continue."

He lowered it onto the bench and examined it. No damage. He lifted it again.

The next pass was faster. He made the opening too late, clipped the shield, and had to bring the piece around for another attempt. On the third pass he timed it correctly. The point reached the disc before the guard shut.

There was considerably less movement to manage than with the practice dagger. That left him enough attention to notice what the other pieces were doing.

For the next test, he kept one beside his right shoulder and used the others to approach the target from different angles.

The attendant started the return arm.

Silas saw its padded end coming and brought his defensive piece across its path. It turned the blow aside. At the same time, he pulled the shield open and sent two pieces toward the disc.

Both arrived where he wanted them.

The return arm struck him beneath the ribs.

"Stop," the attendant said.

Silas bent forward, holding the four pieces still by an effort that made his eyes water. He lowered them into the sand before trying to straighten.

The vest had softened the blow. It had also failed to make being hit pleasant.

"Sit down," the attendant told him. "Did that get through the padding?"

"No. Give me a moment."

He took the bench and pressed a hand against the sore place. He’d seen the first counterstroke. He’d stopped it. The fourth piece should still have been between him and the arm when it came back.

Looking at the marks in the sand, he could see where it had gone. It had edged forward with the attacking pair.

I wasn’t even asking you to move.

He had been, though. Some part of the instruction had spread into the hold he was supposed to maintain. Stationary rings over a desk gave him time to correct that. An arm coming at his ribs did not.

After a rest, he asked for the slower setting.

This time he sent only one piece at the target and kept the others close. He watched the defensive hold through the attack, resisting the urge to follow the point all the way to the painted circle.

The bell rang. The return arm came around, and his guarding piece met it.

Silas felt himself smile before the second counterstroke knocked the guard sideways and tapped his vest.

"Again?" the attendant asked.

"In a minute." He lowered the set and reached for his water.

There was enough time left in his booking for a few more attempts. He used it. The last went better: one clean touch, both counterstrokes turned aside, and the fourth piece still where he’d meant to leave it. He couldn’t repeat it before his concentration began to fray.

The attendant ended the session when he asked. Silas cleaned the steel on the bench and wrapped it carefully, slower now that his arms were tired. He returned the padded vest at the desk before leaving.

At home, he set the bundle on the desk and pulled off his sweaty shirt. A small bruise was forming below his ribs. He prodded it once, regretted that, and went to wash.

His chair waited beside the window. He settled into it with his dinner, the practice booking page open on the terminal.

He selected a short session for the following afternoon, closed the page, and reached for his fork with his actual hand.