quiver of arrows. The gate guards questioned her rudely; a trader barged over her foot. Unfriendly place. Lia adjusted her headscarf self-consciously, confirming that her distinctive Fra’aniorian ears were hidden from casual view. She received a number of openly hostile looks as she inquired at an inn just inside the gates for directions to the market area. Hualiama had visited Rolodia before, but as a royal guest. This was startlingly different–probably a good experience, she told herself. Who was she trying to fool?
Lia drifted along a narrow row of brick-and-board shops, the dark eaves providing the barest sliver of protection against the white-hot twin suns’ glare. The market area seemed far too quiet. Where were all the customers? A quartet of guardsmen loitered about in an alleyway she passed by, eyeing her with the air of dogs considering a juicy bone. Ugh.
“Oi, ah fancy me that bit of skirt,” she heard as she ducked inside a likely-looking establishment.
Inside, the weapons shop was dim, and stank of oils and leather, together with the tang of hot alloys from a forge which was being worked somewhere in the back. A little apprentice boy, spying her, pelted into the back crying, “Da! Da! Is a lady.”
“A lady, you say?” The man’s voice was gruff but not unkind.
“A pretty lady, Da! Will ya marry her? Will ya? She wearing swords and all, Da!”
A hugely muscled man ducked through a hanging bead curtain leading to the back room. A Western Isles warrior! Hualiama tried not to stare, but his dark-skinned kind were uncommon enough around Fra’anior to arouse her curiosity. The armourer’s eyes were dark points in a broad, scarred face, and his gaze dropped briefly to the Immadian forked daggers at her belt before leaping to note the hilts of her swords rising behind her shoulders.
“Well, lady,” he rumbled, his accent thick and unfamiliar. “I hope you know how to use those swords in this town. I am Jarrik the Armourer. How may I serve you?”
“I am looking for a good bow,” said Lia, realising she had been foolish on two counts. She wore rare Immadian daggers on her belt. First mistake. The second mistake, not remembering Remoyan attitudes to women who bore weapons.
“Long, short, crossbow or recurve?”
“Recurve. Compact size with a strong draw.”
Without a word, Jarrik moved to a weapons rack affixed to the wall above three neat heaps of round shields, and selected a bow. “How would this suit you?”
Lia raised an eyebrow at him, which was a long way up. Jarrik looked to be the kind of man who could beat through walls using nothing but his head. “It’s pretty, I’ll grant, but I’d need something sturdier.”
He presented her the weapon. “Test the draw for me, please. What’re you hunting?”
“Windrocs,” she said, drawing the bowstring to her ear with ease.
“Aye? Would you indulge me with two further impositions, lady? Show me your palm, and show me one of your swords.”
With a slight bow, Hualiama drew the Nuyallith sword from her preferred left side, and laid the weapon in his hand. The Armourer’s brow furrowed. He tested the sword’s weight and balance with a professional flourish, and then ran a finger reverently along the blade. “Sweet. Windrocs, eh?” He turned her palm over in his blunt-fingered paw, pursing his lips at the well-used calluses which her training had developed. “Hmm.” He passed her the blade; Lia sheathed it without hesitation.
Jarrik dismissed his rack of bows with an irascible wave. “None of these. Come into the back, lady.”
He moved to a cupboard opposite the furnace, reached inside without looking, and selected a weapon. Lia’s eyes moved to the little apprentice, who stared at her open-mouthed. She winked at him. Sweet lad.
“This is the weapon for you.”
Hualiama examined the bow curiously. It appeared to be constructed of an exotic type of lacquered hardwood, and the recurve of the tips was slightly more pronounced than she was used to. The grip fit her hand as though crafted for her alone. The craftsmanship … aye. Gorgeous.
Jarrik explained, “It’s a Haozi hunting bow, from the far southern end of the Eastern Isles. They ride a type of giant boar on their hunts, beasts that rival a ralti sheep for size. With practice–” his teeth flashed a quick grin at this “–you should be able to draw it fully.”
Right he was. Hualiama grinned back at him as she managed just over a three-quarters draw. “This is an excellent weapon. I don’t have enough coin for a bow of