She took out a favorite knife, a little black-handled thing already fine-edged enough to leave the wind bleeding, wiped it with oil, and began absently to whet it. More people were coming into the Bazaar. In front of them Yark the fuller went by with his flat cart. On top of it one of the Bazaar’s two big calked straw pisspots lurched precariously, making ominous sloshing noises. “Any last minute contributions?” said Yark, grinning.
Mriga shook her head and grinned back. Rahi made an improbable remark about
Yark’s mother, the last part of which Mriga lost as a young man passing by paused to watch her work. She lifted the knife, a friendly gesture. “Have anything that needs some work, sir?”
He looked dubious. “How much?”
“Let’s see.”
He stepped closer, reached under his worn tunic and pulled out a shortsword.
Mriga looked at him covertly as she turned over the sword in her hands. Young, in his mid-twenties, perhaps. Not too well dressed, nor too poorly. Well, that might be a relief. People had been doing better lately; the Beyfolk’s money was making a difference. The sword was of a steel that had forge patterns like those in Enlibrite, and it was dark-bladed with rust, and had notches in it. Mriga tsked at the poor thing, while sorting other impressions… for even though swathed in flesh and trapped away from heaven, a goddess has senses a mortal has not. A dubious blade, this, with the memory or the intention of blood on it. But in this town, what weapon hadn’t killed someone?… That was after all what they were for. “Dark or bright?” she said.