The Blacksmith had ended the day in a foul mood. His morning had been interesting as a New Client, with his wife in tow, had entered his shop, and made a peculiar order.
The Blacksmith was a master craftsman. He had been born to the trade. His father used to say molten steel ran through their veins. At nine years he had been formally apprenticed to an uncle and now, twenty five years later, not only did he have his own apprentices but four qualified Smiths and their apprentices all worked for him too. And in all his time he had never come across an order so peculiar and so particular as his New Clients’.
His speciality was blades; his boys would knock out short swords by the cartload to fulfill the army contracts, whilst he would meticulously craft daggers and Spatha to order, usually for officers and the self important. Today, though, this order was different kind of an order at one stage he had suggested that The Clients might be better off by visiting a jeweller but The Clients had been insistent he was the man for the job.
The Blacksmith was used to dealing with women but something about The Client's Wife was different. She seemed too young, not for a wife but to exhibit the kind of brazenness she had. Usually a wife so young would be led into his shop by her mother-in-law looking to purchase a gift for their mutual beloved, and the young wife would subsequently get henpecked if her opinion dared to be aired.
But The Client's Wife had seemed to lead her husband, a man at least twice her age, though she was young. The Client claimed to have no Latin though something bothered The Blacksmith by how little his Wife would translate for her Husband, The Smith would address them both and he could tell The Client understood ninety percent of the conversation. At one point the Blacksmith thought that Client's Wife implied that her husband was Greek. The Blacksmith liked to think his Greek was passable but it was received with blank stares.
The conversation had gotten technical when the client pulled up the sleeve of his toga to reveal a heavily tattooed arm. He consulted a drawing on his forearm and then had a brief conversation with his wife in a language which The Blacksmith didn't understand but he started to think that it was remarkably similar to the language of a germanic merchant he had once known.
Out of curiosity he had tried to get a closer look at the client's arm but the man swiftly covered it and shook his head at The Blacksmith. Soon after that they'd shaken hands and the client had placed a purse of gold coins on the blacksmith's table, a very generous down payment.
From what the Blacksmith had seen in the briefest of glimpses at the client's arm; he deduced the order was a set of components for larger construction. A construction which probably when assembled would be no longer than a couple cubits. What the Blacksmith pondered throughout his afternoon, as he planned his work, was what the mechanism was for.
The Blacksmith had just begun to carve a piece of wood which he planned to press in to clay to create a mold when a Hooded Man sidled into his workshop. The Blacksmith was immediately annoyed that The Hooded Man hadn't waited in the shop to be served however he put on smile and let his merchant half win over. “Greetings sir, how may I help you this fine day.”
“I'd like to know what the Shaman and his Slut wanted?” the Hooded Man’s voice was coarse and his manner abrupt. His gaze shifted around the room as though he was looking for something. The Blacksmith could tell from his build that he was dealing with an ex military man and from the cut of his clothes he plainly hadn’t been brass. The man's face was gaunt and unshaven.
The Blacksmith knew that the Hooded Man meant his New Clients but decided he was going to play dumb on account of his instant dislike to the man's manner. “Sorry whom?”
“The Man and His Slut-Wife that you entertained for an hour this morning they probably told you he was Greek.?” The Stranger had obviously been watching the shop. No doubt he was stalking The Clients and had followed them away again, returning only when he was certain their day’s business was done.
The Blacksmith was fuming realising he'd been dragged to another man's feud but tried to maintain a calm disposition. “I'm afraid I wouldn't be a good businessman if I were to divulge my clients needs, so unless you wish to trade with me I must ask you to leave.”
The Stranger looked equally angry at the Blacksmith. No doubt none of The Clients’ business associates had been very forthcoming. The Blacksmith noticed that the Stranger fingered the hilt on his dagger as if anxious to draw it. “That fucking so called fucking Shaman and his fucking Slut Cunt Wife left me for dead and I have vowed to all the Gods that I will skin him alive!” The Stranger raised his voice. “Maybe I should have introduced myself I am the embodiment of Revenge! Now tell me their business!” Revenge tried to draw his dagger.
The Blacksmith had never been in the army and had never killed anyone however he had frequented certain taverns in his youth and furthermore had spent most of his life physically moulding metal mostly with brute force. He took three swift steps across the workshop and punched Revenge square in the nose. Revenges nose crumpled and Revenge dropped to the floor out cold. The Blacksmith rubbed his knuckles and gave Revenge a kick in the kidneys “No one draws a fucking blade on me! In my fucking shop!”
Drawn in by the commotion his Smiths and their boys tried to all enter the room at the same time. The Blacksmith addressed them once they had unfolded into the room.“Someone take this heap of shit down to the city guards tell them he tried to Rob me.” He looked around the room “and someone mop up this blood we can't have our customers seeing this!”
He took up the piece of wood and his whittling knife and went into his office. Still furious. As he whittled he couldn't help but think that his New Client, and Wife , were partially to blame for his foul mood. He mulled over Revenge’s words and decided that he would have to be cautious around this couple. He also decided whatever it was he was making he didn't want to know what it was for as it struck him that’s the kind of information people die for. “Still...” He thought out loud. “At least I'm not shodding fucking horses.”