Shaking his head, the smith confided: ‘Straton’s got a problem I can’t solve.
I’ve had it truly sighted – perfect for me – three times, but when he shoots,
it’s as if he’s aiming two feet low.’
‘For the bow, the name is life, but the work is death. In combat it will shoot
true for him; here, he’s worried how they judge his prowess. He’s not thinking
enough of his weapon, too much of his friends.’
The smith’s keen eyes shifted; he rubbed his smile with a greasy hand. ‘Aye, and
that’s the truth. And for you. Lord Tempus? We’ve the new hard-steel, though why
they’re all so hot to pay twice the price when men’re soft as clay and even wood
will pierce the boldest belly, I can’t say.’
‘No steel, just a case of iron-tipped short-flights, when you can.’
‘I’ll select them myself. Come and watch them, now? We’ll see what their nerve’s
like, if you call score …’
‘A moment or two. Marc. Go back to your work, I’ll sniff around on my own.’
And so he approached Niko, on pretence of admiring the Stepson’s new bow, and
saw the shadowed eyes, blank as ever but veiled like the beginning beard that
masked his jaw: ‘How goes it, Niko? Has your maat returned to you?’
‘Not likely,’ the young fighter, cranking the spring and lever so a bolt
notched, said and triggered the quarrel which whispered straight and true to
centre his target. ‘Did Crit send you? I’m fine, commander. He worries too much.
We can handle her, no matter how it seems. It’s just time we need … she’s
suspicious, wants us to prove our faith. Shall I, by whatever means?’