Valens frowned. "Double the bribe," he suggested. "I'll pay."
"That'd just make things worse," she replied sadly. "There's a very strict protocol about bribing court officers. If you mess about with it, there'll be trouble. And please don't tell me how to conduct my business. I happen to be very good at it."
Valens held up his hands. "Heaven forbid," he said. "Thanks. I'll see myself out."
After leaving her he walked down through the town to the river. People stopped and stared but nobody spoke to him or came near him. It was well known in Givitas Vadanis that when the Duke came into town on his own, without guards or secretaries, he wanted to be left alone. It was, of course, a tribute to the way he ran his country that he could walk about the city on his own whenever he wanted to. Like all the best privileges, of course, it had to be used sparingly.
He stopped at a saddler's stall down by the west gate; a rather fine set of jesses and a hood, in dark tan leather, embossed with ivy leaves. A nice, considerate present for his wife-to-be, whose name he couldn't pronounce even if he could remember it. The stallholder noticed him looking at them and moved across.
"How much?" he asked.
"One thaler the set," the stallholder replied. "Genuine Mezentine."
That was a lie, of course; about the only thing the Mezentines didn't make was falconry accessories. "You mean Cure Doce," Valens said.
"All right, genuine Cure Doce. You want them, or what?"
Valens nodded, looked round for someone who wasn't there. He frowned, and felt in his pockets, which were, of course, empty.
"No money," he said.
The stallholder looked at him. "Is that right?"
"It's all right," Valens said. "Hold on to them for me, I'll send someone."
"Will you now?"
A little spurt of anger fired in Valens' mind. "You don't know who I am."
The corners of the stallholder's mouth tightened a little. "That's very true, I don't."
"Forget it." Valens walked away. He could feel the stallholder's eyes on the back of his head. Of course, in a few weeks that man would be out of business for good, on the decision of his duke, who he hadn't even recognized. There was something wrong with the way the world was run, Valens thought. He had half a mind to write to somebody about it.
Four stalls down from the saddler there was a cutler. As Valens passed, the man looked up and saw him; his eyes seemed to double in size and his mouth dropped open. He gave the boy standing next to him a vicious nudge in the ribs, and pointed with his chin. The boy grunted and carried on polishing something.
Oh well, Valens thought. "Good morning," he said.
The cutler seemed to flicker, like a candle-flame in a draft. "Your majesty," he said. "Yes, what beautiful weather, for the time of year."
Depends on your idea of beauty, Valens thought. Nothing on the man's stall had caught his eye, but he was snared now, as though he'd put his foot in a wire. He stepped up to the cutler's table and looked round for something to admire.
There was a hanger; a plain thing, two feet of curved blade, lightly and crudely fullered, with a brass knuckle-bow and back-strap and a stagshorn grip. Valens picked it up, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and flexed the blade. It felt adequate.
"Nice piece," he exaggerated.
"Thank you," the cutler said. "Genuine Mezentine, of course. You can see the armory mark there on the ricasso."
Sure enough, someone had scratched a little animal on the squared-off section just below the hilt. Unfortunately, the Mezentine stamp was a lion, and the scratched mark was quite definitely a cow. "You're right," Valens said, "so it is." He sighed. It was good, sturdy, munitions-grade stuff, functional enough to cut briars with. One of the assistant huntsmen would be pleased to have it.
"How much will you take for it?" he asked.
The cutler swelled like a bullfrog. "Oh no, I couldn't," he said. "Please, take it. As a mark of…"
He didn't seem able to make up his mind what it was a mark of, but the general idea was clear enough. "Don't be silly, man," Valens said, "you're a businessman, not the poor relief." He estimated how much it was really worth, then doubled it. "Two thalers."
"No, really." The man was close to tears. "I'd be honored if you'd take it." He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "My eldest son was at Cynosoura," he said. "It'd be for him."
"Right," Valens said, trying to remember what the hell had happened at Cynosoura. "Well, in that case, I'll be pleased to have it. Thank you."
"Thank you," the cutler said. "There's a scabbard with it, of course." He looked round; there were no scabbards of any kind to be seen anywhere. "Thraso, you idiot, where's the scabbard for this hanger, it was here just now…" He nudged the boy again, who scowled at Valens and crawled under the table. "I'm really sorry about this," the cutler said, "it's my son, he moves things when my back's turned, and I never know-ah, here we are." He pulled a sad-looking scabbard out of a wooden box by his feet; softwood with thin black leather pasted on, by the look of it. "I'll just find some silk to wrap it in, please bear with me a moment."
"That's fine, really," Valens said, "please don't bother." He smiled as best he could. "I only live just up the hill there, so I haven't got far to go."
The cutler stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, as though that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "Of course, that's right," he said, and slid the hanger into the scabbard. It stuck, about halfway down, and had to be taken out and put back in again. Valens managed not to notice. "There you are, then, your majesty, and I hope it brings you all the good luck in the world. Thank you," he added, just in case there was still any doubt about the matter.
"Thank you," Valens replied, and fled.
All the good luck in the world, he thought, as he walked back up the hill. A fine example of the lesser irony there; because of who he was, he couldn't buy what he wanted but he was obliged to accept a free gift he had no real use for. (That made him think about Veatriz and the other girl, the one whose name escaped him.) He carried the hanger low at his left side, hoping nobody would see him with it.
"Where did you get to?" Carausius demanded, pouncing on him as he crossed the courtyard in front of the Great Hall. "You were supposed to be meeting the uncles to talk about the marriage settlement."
Valens frowned. Not in the mood. "You covered for me."
"Yes, of course, but that's not the point. I could tell they weren't happy."
Valens stopped. "It's obvious, surely. I'm a young man of great sensibility, very much in love. The last thing I want to talk about is crass financial settlements. Right?"
Carausius sighed audibly. "So you went shopping instead."
"What? Oh, this." He glanced down at the object in his left hand, as though wondering how it had got there. "That reminds me. What happened at Cynosoura?"
"Where?"
"Cynosoura. Look it up. I want a detailed account on my desk in half an hour."
Carausius gave him his business nod, meaning that it would, of course, be done. "Where are you going now?" he said. "Only there's a reception…"
"I know, in the knot garden," he replied, remembering. "Forty minutes."
"It starts in a quarter of an hour."
"Then I'll be late. Cynosoura," he repeated, and walked away.
To the stables. Nobody about at this time of day. He walked in, shut the door firmly and looked around for something substantial to bash on. Just the thing: there was a solid oak mounting-block. He remembered it from childhood; he'd got in trouble when he was eight for hacking chunks out of it with a billhook he'd liberated from the groom's shed. Offhand he couldn't remember why he'd done that, but no doubt he'd had his reasons.
In the corner was a good, sturdy manger. He lifted the block onto it and tested it with his hand to make sure it wouldn't wobble about or fall down. Then he drew the hanger, took a step forward and slashed at the block as hard as he could. The blade bit in a good inch and vibrated like a hooked fish thrashing on the end of a line. The point where the knuckle-bow met the pommel pinched his little finger. He had to lift the block down again and put his foot on it before he could get the blade out, but when he held it up to the light it was still perfectly straight, and the cutting edge wasn't chipped or curled. Not bad, at that.