The man nodded, “Sure.”
“And you, sir!”
Another man, the same answer. A third. A fourth. The point levelled at Dumarest.
“And you, young man?”
“Of course.”
“Would you like to learn how to use it? A knife. Any knife. This one for example? Or this.” A twin to the first appeared in the man’s free hand. “Would you like to gain the skill to do this?”
Steel flashed as he threw the knife, the point burying itself in the wooden barrier a fraction above the girl’s left wrist. The restraint parted, freeing her hand, loosening the fabric. Before it could uncover her arm he threw the second knife this time at the restraint above the right wrist. Those watching sucked their breath in anticipation as naked flesh came into view, her arms, shoulders, the rounded beauty of her breasts, then she had grabbed the falling fabric and regained her modesty.
Dumarest stood, watching, amused as others came from within the booth, young women wearing glamorous costumes, all busy as they bustled through the crowd selling slender volumes containing the supposed secrets of a knifethrower’s art which the grafter continued to demonstrate as he pinned cards held by the original target-model into the barrier.
A man who held an undoubted skill but how good it was Dumarest couldn’t be certain. The demonstration he had witnessed could too easily be faked. The restraints had looked thick and strong but could have been treated to yield at a tug. The knife needn’t have touched them. The girl could have controlled that illusion when she heard the impact. The baring of her flesh was a perfect distraction to shift attention away from the reality. But even so, as he was now demonstrating, the old man knew his business.
Dumarest concentrated on studying his actions, the way he moved, crouched, settled. The manner in which he grasped the knife, poised it, threw it.
Many throws and all successful each made to look simple. Another illusion. Dumarest, from his own limited experience, knew they were not.
“Does the entertainment please you, my Lord?” A young woman stood before him, smiling, a collecting tin and a sheaf of books in her hand. “Would you care to buy a book so as to learn the secrets of the art you are watching? Or give a little to indicate your pleasure?” Her smile widened as he did both. “Thank you, my Lord. You are gracious.”
“Interested would be a better comment. Is it possible to have words with your master?”
“With my grandfather? Certainly, but first you must allow him to finish his business.”
Smiling she moved on to gather what she could. As the crowd dispersed the elderly man came to join Dumarest.
“I received your message, young man. I appreciate your interest. What did you think of the introduction?”
“A thing of beauty.”
“I was not talking about the woman.”
“Neither was I.” Dumarest glanced to where, dressed in a seductive costume, she was preparing for the next demonstration. “Your daughter?”
“My granddaughter.” He added, “I have a large family.”
“And a well trained one. You are to be congratulated.”
“All my family are well trained.”
A warning Dumarest recognised. This man had pride and the strength to enforce respect. Things it would be a mistake not to recognise.
He said, “I am not speaking of the woman but of her performance. It can’t be easy to face thrown blades. She must have great courage and trust in you and your skill. Which is why I wanted your attention. Could you teach me to do the same?”
“Act as the target?”
Dumarest smiled at the humour. “No. To throw a knife. To send it where I want it to go. To be able to hit what I aim at.”
“My book will teach you that.”
“A book can’t throw a knife,” said Dumarest. “ I want to be taught by someone who can.”
The grafter hesitated looking at the empty space before the booth, the few people drifting past. The market was drawing to a close and it would be hard to collect a crowd to make a pitch worth the effort.
Dumarest said, “I’m not asking for charity. I can pay you a fair price.”
“Fair enough.” The man made up his mind. “You seem honest and I’ll be the same in return. I can’t teach you what you want to know. Only time and practice can do that. The book will guide you on the basics. The most I can do is to teach you how to accept them. If you agree follow me into the booth. I can spare you an hour.”
The woman who had acted as the target brought them wine, a thin, cheap, ruby fluid which refreshed and eased the tension as it quelled their thirst.
“Thank you, Melinda. That will be all for now.”
As she left the grafter half-drained his goblet and set it down on the desk. Abruptly he said, “My name is Wendon. Drak Wendon. You are?” He grunted as Dumarest told him. “Well, Earl, first things first. Why do you want a knife and why do you want to learn how to throw it?”
An odd question and Dumarest said so.
Wendon shrugged. “Take offence if you want, but I am only trying to help you. Some people have an allergy to knives as others have an allergy to guns, vermin, and insects. Wanting a knife is normal. Getting one is easy. Being able to use one, if you really have to use one, is something some people simply cannot do. There is no shame in it.”
“I am not afraid of a knife.”
“I accept that.” Wendon paused. “And?”
“As a gift to a woman. One I hope to marry. To win her family’s approval I must prove myself. Dexterity with a knife will help me to do that.”
Plausible lies but ones the man could understand and accept. And they were not total lies.
Wendon nodded, “Good enough. Now let’s get back to the knife.”
He produced one, long in the blade, wide at the tip, smooth and slender at the hilt. It had no guard, no distinct pommel.
“This is usually called a throwing knife,” he said. “Get your distance right, use the same force, the same hold and you’ll have no trouble putting on a show. It’s like a hammer,” he explained. “The weight is all at one end. If you can throw it like a spear that’s fine. If you want to add force then throw it as you would a hammer giving it a full turn, using hand, arm and wrist to govern the movement. That’s what I meant by practice. That’s the real secret of gaining the ability to throw a blade.”
Obvious but Dumarest was patient. Teaching was a trade of its own.
“When you come to a real blade things get more difficult.” Wendon turned to a long casket, threw back the lid and revealed a row of knives. “What you’re after is a tool and a missile rolled into one. What I just showed you isn’t that but a simple device for a single purpose. When you’re living in the field you need more. Done any hunting?”
“A little.”
“Ever thrown a knife at a creature?”
“At times.” Dumarest added, “Never with much luck.”
“Lack of practice.” Wendon was curt. “You can’t run before you can walk. Now check these knives. Which one is for you?” He waited, watching as Dumarest examined the selection, then said, “Try it a different way. You don’t choose the knife. The knife chooses you. Pick them up, feel them, the heft, the affinity, the sense of belonging. You’ll know when it’s right. Here. Let me help you.”
He chose a knife and held it for Dumarest’s inspection. A nine inch blade, the sharp edge curved to a point, the curve reversed on the back so as to provide a double edge for a third of the length. The hilt carried a strong guard, the surface knurled to supply a firm grip, the pommel small, barely raised, smoothly rounded.
“Like it? Now try it.” He led the way to the barrier outside. “Melinda!”
She stepped forward, a long stave in her hand. It carried a large disc which she placed against the wood.
“Right, Earl. Now hit it!”
Dumarest poised the knife, grasping it by the point, doing his best to judge pace and distance. To hit correctly it must make a half turn. To lift, aim, guess and throw was something needing to be automatic.