Leesil turned toward the back stalls. Through a door, he saw several more people at a table polishing, sharpening, and finishing spear-and arrowheads, swords, and other armaments. Vatz had more than adequately filled his request for a particular kind of weapon maker. Leesil fished in his shirt and withdrew a folded parchment and an old scarf wrapped around an object the length of his forearm.

Out of the workroom came a man who barely fit through the archway, a solid column of flesh with legs and arms like ship beams. Between smears of soot, sweat glistened across his skin. Even his long leather apron seemed to perspire.

"Master Balgavi at your service," the man pronounced with a heavy, rolling voice as he wiped his hands on an over-smudged rag. "What can I do you for today?"

"I have job for you, something unique, and I need it fast," Leesil said. "Can you handle it?"

The smith shrugged. "If you make it worth putting aside other work, as I don't lose business just to do new business. If I put enough of my people on it, we can make most any steel weapon. In as little as a few weeks, you'll-"

"No, not weeks," Leesil cut in. "Days."

Balgavi's mouth slackened as his singed brows wrinkled, and for a moment Leesil wondered if he was about to be tossed into the street.

"You haven't got that much coin," the smith growled.

"I've got something worth that, and more," Leesil replied. "Can you do it?"

"What's it you want?" Balgavi asked suspiciously. "It had best not be any nonsense."

Leesil tucked the scarf bundle under his arm, and carefully unfolded the crinkled parchment sheet.

In the woods outside of Miiska, he spent his time scribbling, rubbing out, and redrawing, until the image fit his vision. If it could actually be made, he had faith he could stand with Magiere against whatever they fought.

Its forward end was shaped like a flattened spade, tapering smoothly from the point in arcs to both sides. At the base between those arcs was a crosswise handle to be gripped in the fist so the tip could be thrust with a punch. However, one side arc of blade did not stop at the handle. It continued in an extended, more gradual curve that would run along on the outside of the forearm, ending just beyond the elbow.

"Hmm… intriguing, sure enough," the smith said, taking the parchment from Leesil to inspect it more closely. "And fortunately for you, not as complicated as I'd expected. The grip can be made by cutting an oval in the base of the head, making a handle to be wrapped like a hilt. Better than forging on a crosspiece, and it'll give some strength. And we've some similar curves of metal that could be adapted for this outside wing. That'll save some time."

"I need two of them," Leesil corrected. "Mirrored. One for each hand."

Balgavi sighed deeply. "You'd better have something well worth this."

"And I'll need custom sheaths to fit that will hang from a belt, with lashings to strap above the knee and hold them to the thighs."

At that, the smith grunted. "Go to the scabbarder. Down the road, two blocks."

"I don't have time," Leesil retorted. "And for what I'm paying, you can send one of your apprentices with the drawing, easy enough."

The smith folded the parchment in his fist.

"Let's see this oh-so-grand compensation you've been clucking about."

As he unrolled the scarf, Leesil was careful to watch the smith's eyes. This was the moment he'd feared the most. The bulky giant was clearly intrigued, and both his irritation over the rushed work and his mild curiosity concerning the drawing meant he was likely able and willing to fulfill the request. If Leesil gambled correctly on the value of his barter, he'd know the moment the smith saw what was in the scarf.

The scarf's folds parted, dropping around his hand, and in his palm lay the elven stiletto and the extra hilt.

Balgavi's eyes blinked twice. Leesil tried not to smile.

"Where'd you get this?" the smith asked quietly, as he reached out to touch the white metal.

"An inheritance, of sorts," Leesil answered. "But now I need something more suitable."

The smith hadn't taken his eyes or fingers off the stiletto. For that matter, Vatz now craned his neck to see, and for the first time, he lost his affected stony expression in awe.

As Balgavi lifted the stiletto, it caught light from the forge room. Rose highlights shivered along its silver-white metal and sparked along its clean and perfect edge.

"Done," the smith said simply. "But be warned ahead. This kind of hurried work… I won't stand behind it. You'll get the best that can be done in the time, and that's all."

"Fair enough," Leesil agreed. "Either I or someone I send will check back to see how the work goes."

With that, Balgavf nodded, took the spare handle as well, and walked back into the forge room, shouting to his people.

Leesil headed out into the street, Vatz trotting by his side. The boy looked at him with irritation.

"Forget it. You get paid when your work is done," Leesil said.

"That's not what I'm thinking about," Vatz said with grumbling dissatisfaction.

"Then what?"

"I'm thinking I should have charged you more."

Wynn disliked visiting the Bela council hall on the castle grounds, and she often wished Master Tilswith spoke the local language well enough to handle these meetings by himself. Now, the old domin sat beside her as she patiently waited to translate or supply any words he could not remember.

Directly in front of her, seated behind a large, cherry-wood desk in his office chamber, Count Alexi Lanjov closed his eyes and rubbed his left temple in mild frustration. He wore a perfectly pressed white shirt, black tunic, and black breeches. Wynn and her master were dressed as always in their simple gray robes.

"I understand point, Alexi," Domin Tilswith said, "but you admit old barracks not… suitable… our needs."

Wynn noticed that the twinge pulsing in Lanjov's left temple became more acute as the domin went on in his broken speech, describing inadequate facilities for ancient scrolls, new volumes and books, and materials and instruments necessary for their work.

Lanjov opened his eyes to look again at the two sages seated across from him.

At the moment, it seemed the councilman had little time for the complaints of scholars, and Wynn had more understanding of his position than her master did. Lanjov spent half of his time handling the city's treasury funds at Bela's largest bank and the other half making decisions as chairman of the city council.

He was a tall man, and though he was nearing fifty years of age, his square face was unlined and adorned by a straight, slightly large nose. His hair was steel gray, short, and neatly combed.

"Your council invite us here," Domin Tilswith said, "start new branch our guild, serve city, kingdom, people. First on your continent, but you not…" He paused and, once again, Wynn leaned to whisper in his ear. "Value?" he said aloud with puzzlement, and Wynn nodded. "You not value us."

Lanjov placed his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, and rested his chin on them.

"Domin," Lanjov said in audible frustration. "Tilswith-you know we do value your presence here. I understand the barracks are inadequate, but there is simply no place to move the guild at this time. The city is growing at an unfathomable rate, and there is no building or grounds currently not in use that is large enough for what you plan. We must wait until suitable open ground is allocated to build an entirely new structure."

Wynn had to translate parts of the councilman's response, but when she had finished, Tilswith's green eyes glittered. Wynn almost smiled in relief, hoping this would be enough for her superior. Perhaps Lanjov truly would assist them.