"There haven't been any elves around for a long, long time," Ritva continued.
"Not since the early Fourth Age, probably."
"The elves all departed into the Uttermost West long ago; everyone knows that."
"Which is even farther west than Oregon."
"We just talk Elvish."
"Isn't it interesting, though: the kids at Stardell Hall are probably the first people in Middle Earth to speak it from the cradle for… well, nobody knows how long ago the Third Age was, really."
His head went back and forth like someone watching a tennis ball, and then he shook his head and made a broad welcoming gesture.
"Only the best for the Rangers, mortals or not. Come on in."
They both made a respectful gesture to the little silver scroll beside the door as they entered. The big siding clad frame building had been a fishing outfitter's store in the old days; despite the new skylights and a couple of good modern lanterns it was rather dim inside, and the new potbellied stove probably didn't keep it very warm in winter either.
There was an enticing smell to the weapon shop of Isherman, though: the sharp acrid scents of oiled steel and brass, the richer mellowness of leather and seasoned cedarwood, boxes of horn and sinew and wicker baskets full of gray goose flight feathers. Spears and polearms gleamed in horizontal racks or rested with their butts in wire cages like sheaves of demonic pruning hooks; bundles of arrows bristled from barrels, and arrowheads rested gleaming in little kegs. Armor stood on old store mannequins, looking like ghostly headless warriors in the gloom, and helmets hung like bunches of huge grapes from the ceiling.
Isherman didn't manufacture most of it, but he had contacts with plenty of the best craftsfolk east of the mountains, and some west of them-Ritva recognized a set of Sam Aylward's bows.
"We'll be taking quite a bit," Mary said, looking at her list again, and began mentioning quantities.
"Going on a long trip, Ms. Havel and Ms. Havel?" Isherman asked when she'd finished. "The Rangers getting a big caravan together? Planning to start your own war?"
"Ish, what's the polite way to say 'if I wanted you to know, I'd tell you'?"
He stroked his black chin beard with the remaining digits on the mutilated hand and looked at the two young women.
"There is no polite way to say that, Ms. Havel… though it's usually men saying it to ladies."
"Shall I think of a more impolite way to say it?" Ritva inquired with a bright, cheerful smile.
Isherman shrugged and smiled himself as he waved a hand at two chairs in front of a table he used as a desk. It held ledgers, piles of paper, and several inkwells and sets of trimmed quills.
"Isaac!" he called to one of the teenaged sons who worked with him. "Some clover tea and honey and biscuits for our guests!"
"Aha, serious haggling is in store," Mary said, and rubbed her hands. "Gell!"
Ritva left her to it; her sister had more natural talent in that direction, though neither of them was really in Isherman's league. She drank some of the sharp-sweet tea and nibbled at a shortbread biscuit rich with pinyon nuts while the samples were brought out and gravely considered.
Everyone on the expedition had their own personal armor and sword, custom-made and better than Isherman's best, but you always needed spare arrows and makings, and bits and pieces to maintain your war har ness in trim and repair damage, down to little bottles of fine linseed oil for keeping the straps supple. A few good bows were also advisable; bows were fragile. And while a first-rate sword could be passed down several generations with proper care, even the best shield was lucky to survive one hour of strong arms and heavy blows; they ended up buying a couple for each member of the party, adjusted to their height and heft, both ordinary round ones and the big kite-shaped Norman style Association nobles used.
"And twenty lances. Knight's lances, ashwood," Mary said.
The long poles were another thing that was unlikely to make it through more than one fight. So…
"And another twenty spare shafts," Ritva amplified.
Isherman's eyebrows went up, and he looked as if the urge to ask questions were about to make steam come out of his ears. Instead he shrugged and showed them what he had in stock. The weapons were ten feet of gently tapering wood, with a head like a narrow two-edged dagger a foot long heat shrunk onto the end and a weighted butt cap to make it balance two-thirds of the way back from the point. These were the very latest type, with a hand guard like a small shallow steel bowl fastened just ahead of the grip.
"Good spring steel for the lance heads, and properly retempered, not just ground down," he said.
"Ish, you never try to short anyone on quality," Mary said severely. "Prices the Gods couldn't afford, yes; quality problems, no. And don't tell me how it pains you to part with the lances. Out here, they're not real popular."
"I'll go down another twenty dollars, but no more." The man shrugged with a wry smile. "Inferior gear would get my customers killed, not to mention my reputation. So, is it a deal?"
"Deal."
Both the sisters shook with him to seal it; he added an omayan and they invoked the Lord and Lady and the spirits of the Uttermost West. The proprietor looked happy-sort of-as Ritva took out her checkbook; it would be insulting for him to look too happy, since that would mean he'd diddled them to an excessive degree. She dipped the quill pen in the inkpot on top of his desk and made one out to Isherman's Fine Arms and Armor, drawn on the Dunedain Rangers' account at the First National, and carefully noted the amount in the registration book at the back.
Uncle Alleyne pitched a fit if you weren't careful about accounts.
We might have gotten another five, ten percent off if we'd split up the purchases and gone all over town, Ritva thought. But that wouldn't be worth the time and trouble since we're in a hurry-and Ish is more reliable on quality than anyone else here.
"And you're not going to tell me a word about what this is all in aid of, are you?" he said as he waved the check in the air to dry the oak gall-lampblack ink and slid it through a slot into his strongbox, then made out an invoice.
Ritva cleared her throat and looked at her sister; Mary had stepped over to the door even as one of the apprentices opened it in curiosity. There was a small open park across from the shop; locally it was called Free Speech Corner, and by convention everyone from wandering religious enthusiasts and local politicians to general wingnuts with a new theory about who, Who or what had caused the Change could address whoever would listen there. There were even a couple of conveniently shaped rocks, so that you didn't have to bring a bucket, barrel or chair to stand on.
"What's that?" Ritva called; all she could see from here was people's backs, many of them standing on wagons.
"Some new preacher who's been tearing up the scen ery lately. The ranchers don't like 'im, which means some here in town do."
They caught a few phrases through the rumble of the crowd: "Ascended Master Jesus Christ… wrath of God on us again, like the Change… arrogance of the rich, whom God will surely humble as He exalts His poor… soulless minions…"
"Hey, who you calling a soulless minion?" a cowboy standing on one of the wagons shouted. "You bossless son of a Rover whore!"
Someone in the crowd below grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him down; he yelled twice, once in outrage and once in pain as he thumped against the hard ground. Two of his friends jumped down and started kicking and punching the man who'd grabbed their friend. Someone jumped on the back of one of the cowboys and began punching him…
"Uh oh," Mary said.
"Uh-oh," Ritva agreed.
Then a knife glinted and they heard the distinctive wheep of a sword coming out of a sheath. Normally they would have to help the locals restore order-Rangers were supposed to do that. This time they couldn't.
"Ere!" Mary said. "Rudi will kill us if we get ourselves killed right now."