Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2), стр. 9

“Truthfully, I am now curious about this odd sword,” the woman said. “It would require two days to make it, and perhaps another half day to grind and sharpen the blade.”

“How much?” I said.

The woman quoted the price. I removed the money pouch from my belt and took from it the proper number of silver coins, plus one more. These I placed into the woman’s hand.

“Come back in three days, before the twelfth hour,” the metalsmith said. “I am unacquainted with this sword. There is a degree of trial and error in crafting an unfamiliar design. But, I’m confident I can craft a weapon to your liking.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll return in three days.”

* * *

As I left the blacksmith shop, I noted two furtive men following me. They wore purple tunics with hoods the men oddly used to conceal their faces. Spies, perhaps, I wondered? Probably the Dabar had adopted the precaution of having men like these to keep an eye on any stranger until they had determined the stranger’s intent for entering the city. That did not seem unwise under the circumstances. I made no effort to elude the men, as I was not alarmed by the surveillance. Also, I reasoned, an attempt to evade them might be interpreted as some nefarious intent for which the authorities might arrest me. Besides, I was sure they did not yet realize I knew they were following me, which gave me a particular advantage.

The seventh hour, the traditional time of the midday meal, was near. I entered a tavern where I hoped to find meat, bread, and a jug of trog, the heady and potent Vulvarian ale fermented from spelta grain. I descended three steps and found myself in a dimly lit room with a low ceiling furnished with the rough wooden tables that were standard on Vulvar. Around many tables, huddled groups of three or four men. It was apparent the men at the tables sat together according to their kohtuhree as all groups wore the same color tunic. The loud, animated conversation continued unabated as I entered, but several of the men regarded me.

I must have seemed strange to them, clad in the brown tunic of a house slave and wearing a slave’s collar.

“What do you want?” asked the tavern proprietor, a short, thick, ball-headed man wearing a green tunic and white apron. He sat behind a wooden counter, on which he rested his forearms.

“I’m new to Nisa,” I said. “I would like to purchase food and drink.”

Taking a silver coin from my pouch, I tossed it at the proprietor who snatched it expertly from the air. He examined it.

“Bring me food and drink,” I said.

I walked to an empty table near the back, where I could see the front door, and sat down. I had hardly settled myself at the table when the door opened, and the two men who had been following me walked in. They scanned the room, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. To my surprise, when they saw me, one man strode directly to my table and sat down without the benefit of an invitation. He clutched his hood tightly, keeping his face hidden, as did his associate who remained standing near the door.

“Hail,” I said.

“Hail,” the man replied. “You are a stranger in this city.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Who are you, stranger?”

“I am a man of Thiva,” I said. “As you see, I was once a slave there, but I escaped and made my way to Nisa.”

“What is your business in Nisa?”

“I should like to obtain a sword,” I said, “that I may offer it in service of the Dabar.”

Since I assumed the man a spy, charged with learning why I had come into the city, I had offered what I believed would seem an acceptable, reassuring purpose for my presence in the city.

“You wear a brown tunic. I see you were a house slave.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you possess some useful trade?”

“Not really,” I said. “Before the Goddess Queens brought me to this world and made me a slave, I was a teacher.”

“Have you any skill with arms?”

“Yes, with the sword and the bow,” I said.

The man nodded, still clutching his hood tight around his face.

For no good reason, I swiftly snaked a hand across the table, grabbed the hood, and jerked it from the man’s face. To my surprise, I found a bronze mask covered it. It was not unlike the mask I’d learned at university a medieval French king of Jerusalem had worn. Baldwin IV, king during the First Kingdom of Jerusalem, established in the aftermath of the First Crusade, suffered from leprosy. Dubbed the “leper king,” Baldwin wore a silver mask in public to hide the disfigurement caused by the disease.

The man snatched at the hood and replaced it quickly. I was none the wiser about his appearance. The mask had been formed in the semblance of a male, but expressionless face. He turned his head left and right to see if anyone else in the room might have observed the mask.

“I like to see who I’m speaking to,” I said without apology.

“Of course,” the man said with obsequiousness, pulling the hood still closer about his features.

“How long have you been in Nisa?”

“I came at the third hour,” I said.

The tavern proprietor interrupted to place a large jug of trog, crusty brown bread, and to my delight a hot roasted chunk of besalisk, not unlike pork on Earth, before me. I filled my mouth with food and washed it down with trog while the man sat silently. After a time, he spoke again.

“You have been in Nisa over four hours,” he said. “According to our law, you must present yourself before the Dabar to register before the twelfth hour today.”

“For what purpose?” I said.

“For assignment according to the needs of the city,” the man said. “Did you not say you came here to serve the Dabar?”

I nodded. “It seems odd a Dabar has time