There were a dozen other people in the tavern, besides the slope-shoul- dered tapster and the barmaid-the only other woman present-who slid between tables, too tired to slap at the hands that groped her and too jaded to care. The drinkers, solitary or in pairs, were nondescript though clothed within a fair range of wealth and national origin. They could be identified as criminals only because they chose to gather here.
“I don’t need a dagger,” said Samlor, releasing Star to free his left hand as his right lifted the wedge of his own belt knife a few inches up in its sheath. “I have my own.”
There was nothing fancy about Samlor’s weapon. The blade was a foot long with two straight edges. The metal had no ornamentation beyond the unsharpened relief cuts which would permit the user to short-grip the weapon with an index finger over the crosshilt. It was forged of a good grade of steel-though, again, nothing exceptional.
Recently, a few blades of Enlibar steel had appeared. These were forged from iron alloyed with a blue-green ore of copper which had been cursed by earth spirits, kobolds. The ore could be smelted only by magi- cal means, and it was said to give an exceptional toughness to sword blades.
Samlor had been interested in the reports, but he’d survived as long as he had by sticking to what he was sure would work. He left the experi- ments with kobold steel to others.
“You’ll want this anyway,” said the stranger, lifting his dagger by its crosshilt so that the pommel was toward Samlor.