Stiffly, Traku said, “That’s what makes fine tailoring, by the powers above: handwork. You want ready-to-wear, you can get that, too, and it’s just as ready to fall apart before very long. No, thank you. Not for me.”
“Handwork, aye,” the mage said. “But needless handwork? No, no, and no! I know you are a Kaunian, but must you work as folk did in the days of the Kaunian Empire? I will show you this is not needful.”
Traku stuck out his chin and looked stubborn. “How?”
“Have you got a tunic--of any style--cut out and ready to be sewn and spelled together?” the Algarvian asked. “If I ruin it, two gold pieces to you.” He took them out of his belt pouch and dropped them on the counter. They rang sweetly.
Talsu’s eyes widened. He’d seen Algarvian arrogance before, but this went further than most. “Take him up on it, Father,” he said. “You’ve got a couple of tunics under the counter.”
“So I do,” Traku said grimly. He took out the pieces for one and glared at the mage. “Now what?”
“Sew me a thumb’s width of your finest seam, anywhere on the garment,” the redhead told him. “Then lay out thread along all the seams, as you would before you use your own spells.”
“That’s not near enough handwork,” Traku warned, but he did it.
The Algarvian praised his work, which made him no happier. Then the mage murmured his own spell. It had rhythms not far removed from those Jelgavan tailoring sorcery used, but quicker and more urgent. The thread writhed as if alive--and the tunic was done. “Examine it,” the mage said. “Test it. Do as you will with it. Is it not as fine as any other?”
Traku did examine it. Talsu crowded up beside him to do the same. He held the seams close to his face to look at the work. He tugged at them. The mage was scribbling something on a scrap of paper. Reluctandy, Talsu turned to his father. “I don’t quite know how it’ll wear, but that’s awfully good-looking work.”
“Aye.” The word came out of Traku’s mouth with even greater reluctance. His eyes were on those gold pieces, the ones he couldn’t claim.
Even as he eyed them, the mage scooped them up again. He set down the paper instead. “Here is the spell, sir. It is in common use in Algarve. If that is not so here, you will have more profit from it than these two coins, far more. A pleasant day to you--and to you, young sir.” He bowed to Talsu, then swept out of the shop.
Traku snatched up the spell and stared at it. Then he stared out the door, though the Algarvian was long gone. “No wonder they won the war,” he muttered.
“Oh, they’re always coming up with something new,” Talsu said. “But they’re still Algarvians, so a lot of the new is nasty, too. It’ll bite ‘em in the end, you wait and see.”
“I hope so,” his father said. “It’s already bitten us.”
After so long away, after so long at the leading edge of the war, where its teeth bit down on land previously peaceful, Sabrino found Trapani curiously unreal, almost as if it were a mage’s illusion. Seeing people going about their business without a care in the world felt strange, unnatural. His eyes kept going to the cloudy sky, watching out for Unkerlanter dragons that would not come.
Oh, the war hadn’t disappeared. It remained the biggest story in the news sheets. Commentators spoke learnedly on the crystal. Soldiers and occasional sailors showed off far more uniforms than would have been on the streets in peacetime. But you could ignore all that. Over in Unkerlant, the war was not to be ignored.
Sabrino didn’t want to ignore it even though he’d got leave. He’d come to the capital to enjoy himself, aye, but he’d fought too hard to forget the fighting just because he wasn’t at the front. “Big announcement expected!” a news-sheet vendor shouted. “Big news coming!” He waved his sheets so vigorously, the colonel of dragonfliers couldn’t make out the headlines.
“What’s the news?” Sabrino demanded.
“It’s three coppers, that’s what it is,” the vendor answered cheekily. He checked himself. “No, two to you, sir, on account of you’re in the king’s service.”
“Here you are.” Sabrino paid him. He walked down the boulevard reading the news sheet. It was coy about giving details, but he gathered that King Mezentio was about to announce the fall of Cottbus. Sabrino let out a long sigh of relief. If die Unkerlanter capital fell, the Derlavaian War was a long step closer to being over. He could think of nothing he wanted more.
A small boy looked up at him, reading the badges on his uniform tunic. “Are you really a dragonflier, sir?” he asked.
“Aye,” Sabrino admitted.
“Ohhh.” The boy’s hazel eyes grew enormous. “I want to do that when I grow up. I want to have a dragon for a friend, too.”
“You’ve been listening to too many foolish stories,” Sabrino said severely. “Nobody has a dragon for a friend. Dragons are too stupid and too mean to make friends witli anybody. If you didn’t teach them to be afraid, they’d eat you. They’re even dumber--a lot dumber--than behemoths. If you want to serve the kingdom and ride animals you can make friends with, pick leviathans instead.”
“Why do you ride dragons, then?” the kid asked him.
It was a good question. He’d asked it of himself a fair number of times, most often after emptying a bottle of wine. “I do it well,” he said at last, “and Algarve needs dragonfliers.” But that wasn’t the whole answer, and he knew it. He went on, “And maybe I’m about as mean as the dragons are.”
He watched the boy think that over. “Huh,” he said at last, and went on his way. Sabrino never did find out what the effect of his telling the truth was.
He went into a jewelers. “Ah, my lord Count,” said the proprietor, a scrawny old man named Dosso. He started to bow, then cursed and straightened, one hand going to the small of his back. “Forgive me, sir, I pray you--my lumbago is very bad today. How may I serve you?”
“I have here a ring with a stone that has come loose from the setting.” Sabrino took from his belt pouch a gold band and a good-sized emerald. “I wonder if you would be kind enough to restore it while I wait. And can you also size the ring so that it will fit on Fronesia’s finger?”
“Let me see; let me see.” Dosso took a loupe from a drawer under the counter and clipped it onto his spectacles. Sabrino gave him the ring and the emerald. The jeweler examined them. Without looking up, he said, “Unkerlanter work.”
“Aye,” Sabrino admitted, faintly embarrassed. “One way or another, I happened to get my hands on it.”
“Good for you,” Dosso said. “I’ve got a son and two grandsons out in the west. My boy is a second-rank mage, you know; he’s repairing the ley lines when Swemmel’s forces wreck them. His son rides a behemoth, and my daughter’s boy is a footsoldier.”
“Powers above keep them safe,” Sabrino said.
“All hale so far,” Dosso answered. He pointed to the ring. “You’ve got one good prong here--”
“I should hope I do, my dear fellow,” Sabrino exclaimed.
He won a snort from the jeweler. Dosso continued, “That will help, for I can use the law of similarity to shape the others. Magecraft--my son would laugh to hear me call it that; he’d reckon it just a trick of the trade--is faster than handwork, and will serve just as well here. And your lady ... let me see, she’s a size six and a half, eh? Aye, I can do that. I’ll size the ring first, and use the gold I take out to make up what’s missing from the broken prongs. That way, I won’t have to charge you for it, as I would if I used gold of my own.”
“That’s kind of you, very kind indeed.” Sabrinos back didn’t pain him; he bowed himself almost double. He’d been coming to Dosso for many years, not least because the jeweler thought of things like that.