The man beside him leaned in close. ‘Beware, brother, that is the mount that killed Trondian – threw him, then trampled him to death.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ said Chareos, rising and moving to the rear of the arena. The stallion had been stabled there and the monk moved in alongside him, stroking his gleaming flank. ‘I understand you are a killer, White One. But I daresay there is another side to your story.’ Carefully he checked the stallion’s legs. ‘You are a fine beast.’ Edging back, he made his way to the auction table.
‘I will ride him this afternoon,’ he said, ‘but I wish him stabled with you until Petition Day.’
‘As you wish,’ replied the auction clerk. ‘That will be twelve silvers for the horse, and six coppers for the week. Will you require a saddle? We have several that would suit.’
Chareos chose a Vagrian saddle with high pommel and a good harness, settled his account and left the market. After a short walk he entered Wool Street. Here he purchased riding clothes – soft leather boots, dark woollen troos, two thick white shirts and a leather topcoat, double-shouldered and vented at the ribs to allow for ease of movement. He also bought a cloak of shining black leather lined with fur.
‘A fine choice, sir,’ the merchant told him. ‘The leather is Ventrian and will stay soft through the fiercest winter. It is deeply oiled and will repel rain.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, who is the finest swordsmith here?’
‘Well, that is a matter of debate, of course. But, my brother. . . .’
‘Does your brother supply the Earl?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Who does supply the Earl?’
The man sighed. ‘It is not far from here. You are seeking Mathlin, he has a forge by the Eastern Gate. Follow Wool Street until you reach the Grey Owl tavern, turn right and continue to the Temple. Then it is the second on the left.’
Mathlin – a dark-bearded, powerfully built Drenai -took the monk through his workshop to a building behind the forge. Here on the walls hung swords of every kind -broad-bladed glaves, short stabbing swords, sabres and the rapiers carried by the Gothir noblemen. There were even tulwars and double-headed axes on display.
‘What blade were you seeking, sir monk?’
‘A cavalry sabre.’
‘Might I suggest that you try Benin’s establishment? His weapons are cheaper than mine, and would probably suit you just as well.’
Chareos smiled. ‘What suits me, swordsmith, is the best. Show me a sabre.’
Wandering to the far wall, Mathlin lifted clear a shining weapon. The blade was only slightly curved, the hilt topped with a crossguard of iron. He tossed it to Chareos, who caught it expertly, then hefted the blade, slashed the air twice, rolled his wrist and executed a lunge. ‘The weight is wrong,’ he said. ‘The lack of balance makes it unwieldy. Perhaps you should direct me to Benin.’
Mathlin smiled. ‘That was made by my apprentice and he has much to learn. Very well, sir monk. Perhaps you would follow me.’ He led the way through to a second room. The swords here were beautifully fashioned, but without adornment – no gold leaf, no filigree silver. Mathlin took down a sabre and passed it to Chareos. The blade was no wider than two fingers and sharp as a razor. The hilt-guard extended around the fist, protecting the sword hand.
‘Forged of the finest Ventrian steel, and tempered with the blood of the smith,’ said Mathlin. ‘If there is a finer sabre, then I have not seen it. But can you afford it?’
‘What are you asking?’
Three gold pieces.’
‘I could buy five horses for that sum.’
‘That is the price. There is no haggling to be done here, sir monk.’
‘Throw in a hunting-knife and a good scabbard and we will strike the bargain,’ said Chareos.
Mathlin shrugged. ‘So be it. But the knife will be one made by my apprentice. Nothing I make comes cheap.’
CHAPTER TWO
That afternoon, in his new clothes, Chareos prepared to ride the grey for the first time. He checked the saddle’s underblanket for rucks or folds which would rub at the beast’s back, then examined the bridle and bit. The latter was heavy and ridged.