"Anyone can sew stuff on their shirt," he said, then turned what was probably intended to be an ingratiating smile on them.
It would work better without that black tooth, she thought.
The hangers-on had been whiling away time throwing tomahawks at the target down at the other end of the closed-in alley; it was a balk of seasoned oak, and they were throwing hard at a chalked-out human outline on it. You had to throw hard to make a hatchet stick in an oak target fifty feet away, as well as getting the rotation just right-several had hit without the blade striking and bounced back halfway to the thrower's bar. One or two of them had wooden mugs of beer; and throwing edged iron around while you were drinking was truly stupid.
"Toss me one of those," Ritva said with a smile.
"Hey, these are dangerous; the edges are sharp," one of the others said.
He tossed one anyway, slow and underhand. Ritva caught it and flipped it to Mary, who threw it back.
"A couple more."
The men looked at one another; a couple of them grinned. They started throwing more of the hatchets, some of them harder and faster, but without hostile intent. The twins intercepted them and began flipping them back and forth to each other, a pair, then four, then six, then eight. Then they turned so that they were both facing towards the target and walked up to the throwing line; the onlookers scattered as the whirling figure eight of sharp iron approached.
"Hathyl hado!" Ritva cried, and suited action to the words: Throw the axes!
Thunk! and the first tomahawk sank into the chest of the target, its handle quivering. Then they had to snatch the hatchets out of the juggle with one hand and throw with the other; that took concentration, but they'd been practicing tricks together a long time. Thunk-thunk-thunk…
"Thanks for the entertainment, boys," Mary said to the spectators politely, and they walked on towards the bar and grill, leaving an echoing silence behind them as the men contemplated the neat grouping in throat, midriff and crotch.
"Rym vin thuannem," Ritva said, feeling slightly guilty at her own enjoyment.
"Well, yes, we were blowing our own horns," her sister acknowledged. "But remember what Aunt Astrid said about spreading legends. That's a help to all the Dunedain who ever come through here in times to come."
Ritva snorted. "Just a conjuring trick, anyway. Tomahawks are more trouble than they're worth."
A couple of the customers scurried back from the windows to take their seats again as the twins pushed through the swinging doors of the bar and grill and into the dim interior, their feet scrutching in the sawdust on the plank floor. A plain middle-aged waitress in a yellow dress and white apron came over. They returned her smile as they pulled out chairs at a vacant table and hung their sword belts over the backs.
"Hi, ladies," she said-they'd been promoted from girls the last time they visited. "Welcome back to town-what'll it be?"
"Two bacon-cheddar burgers, Sarah," Ritva said, and then sighed in exasperation as she realized she'd stopped thinking-and speaking-in English again, and her Sindarin had gotten an amused raised eyebrow.
She repeated it in the common tongue and added, "Mayonnaise, onions… got any tomatoes?"
"Dried or pickled?"
"Pickled. Two mugs of root beer."
The twins passed the time waiting for their food by playing mumblety-peg, resting their daggers' hilts on the backs of their hands and trying to set them point down in the floor by flicking them off-they weren't the first by a long shot, to judge by the state of the boards. The hamburgers' smoky richness was a welcome change from venison jerky; hard work outside in cold weather made you crave fats. And they were only ten cents each for patrons of Macy's.
As they left, Mary looked down at the list she'd taken out of a pocket in her black Ranger's jerkin. Bend was a good place to pick up supplies for a trip; routes from north and east and west and south funneled trade and travel here, and sellers came where the buyers congre gated. So did the best makers and artisans this side of the Cascades.
"One steel-axle twenty-foot Conestoga wagon with extra covers for the tilt, spare wheels and hubs and tire rims," she began.
"Nayak!" Ritva said, wincing slightly and thinking of the price: "Painful!"
"It's not our money, sis. Hmmm… shovels, picks, axes, hauling chains, grease bucket and keg of good-quality axle grease, heavy jack, caltrops, lariats, hemp twine and rope, canvas, extra shoes and boots, sweaters, hats, knit socks, underwear, needles and thread, soap, blankets, oilskins and tarpaulins, three tents, saddler's tools and leather, horse shoe blanks for cold-shoeing, small hollow anvil, farrier's tools, nails, lanterns, alcohol for lanterns, flints and wicks for lighters, water barrels and a keg of water purification powder, medicine chest, horse medicine chest…"
"Did you ever wonder how the Fellowship made do with only one pack pony?" Ritva said, looking over her shoulder.
That ordinary-looking man might have been follow ing them. On the other hand, he went into a shop as she watched, so probably not.
"They probably didn't change their underwear or use soap," Mary said.
Aunt Astrid would have been appalled. They both had the thought at the same time, and giggled.
Then: "And there's the food."
Buying first-quality in bulk would be expensive this time of year, before the crops started coming in.
"We shouldn't load too much," Ritva said.
They both knew you ended up foraging or buying locally eventually on a long trip; that was why modern trade routes tended to detour around deserts, unlike the pre Change interstates. But…
"I think Rudi's going to be taking us through out-of the-way places where foraging takes real time. With a twenty footer we can afford a little weight, and Denks will help us with stowing the loads. Let's see… barreled salt pork, smoked hams, bacon, jerky, hardtack in sealed boxes, dried beans, dried peas, dried fruit, shelled nuts, cornmeal, whole-meal wheat flour, yeast in sealed packets, milled oats with molasses for fodder, sea salt…"
"Did you notice who got stuck with the chores on this glorious quest?" Ritva added as they came out of a feed store several hours later, squinting up at the after noon sun over the Cascades. "Admittedly we're the ones who can do it without attracting much attention, but… They'll have us fetching the tea, next."
"Well, if we're spending other people's money, let's blow some on plastic containers "-in English perforce; nobody had come up with a Sindarin equivalent-"for the bulk foodstuffs-less chance of weevils, if we're careful. Those old trash barrels are getting ragged, but the fifty gallon kind are still good."
"Expensive, but they're worth it." Ritva nodded, then looked down at the list again. "Just the weapons, and we're done."
The proprietor of A. E. Isherman's Fine Arms and Armor knew them of old and greeted them beaming under the swinging sign-THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS IS THE RIGHT TO BE FREE-not far from the old Town Hall. He was a short dark strong-featured man of about forty with shoulders like a blacksmith, two fingers missing from his left hand and a remarkable set of scars that ran from the angle of his jaw under the rolled top of his sweater. They looked very much like someone had tried to tear out his throat with their teeth once, and come quite close to succeeding.
"If it isn't my favorite elf-maidens," he said with a grin and a bow that showed the little knit skullcap on the back of his head. "On your own this time, eh? Still ohtar or have you been promoted to Roquen yet?"
Ritva smiled slightly and caught the let's play vibe from her sister. Ish was one of the ones who couldn't tell them apart when they were putting it on.
" Ohtar. But we're not elves," she said loftily.
"It's the Fifth Age," Mary continued. "The Age of Mortal Men. And Mortal Women. The Fourth Age ended with the Change."