Scar Night Page 0,18

him. Folk must expect my mind to be as crooked as these walls.”

“Those others are thieves,” Mr. Nettle said.

“Aye, well.” The smith didn’t pause in his work. He continued to hammer the iron while it cooled, flattened both ends, and then bent it in the middle to form a bracket. “But men have to eat, and must bargain to eat, and me more than most. Sixty years I’ve been at this forge and trade is thinner than ever. Folks who can afford any better don’t come down here. They’re afraid the lane will crumble under their weight.”

“I want to trade.”

The smith took up the bracket in a pair of long tongs and dropped it into a trough of water. Steam hissed furiously. He mopped his brow with a rag. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Mr. Nettle handed him the cleaver.

“Well, I can use the steel, but what you after for it?”

Mr. Nettle hesitated. “A crossbow.”

The smith gave a look that might have been a wince, or maybe just weariness. “Do you see weapons in here?” he said. “I make pins and brackets for walls. Pins and brackets, and I’m lucky if I earn a penny for any of them. Nobody pays up front for iron worked over a slump unless it’s cheap as sand.”

“Will you bend the iron if I get it? I’ll cut the wood myself.”

“Not for this.” He gave the cleaver back to Mr. Nettle.

“I’ll pay, trade more for the work.”

“Aye well, come back again. If you can get more steel we’ll talk.”

“I need it tonight.”

The smith shook his head. “A hard bargain right enough. Fittings for a crossbow in a day, and so little up front.”

“I can work off the debt,” Mr. Nettle said. “Stoke your furnace, carry coal. I’ll make these brackets for you if you show me how.”

“What do you want the crossbow for?”

Mr. Nettle said nothing.

The smith looked at Mr. Nettle’s torn mourning robe, at the bruises and blood on his face. After a moment he said, “Moondark tonight, eh? If you’re thinking to go out hunting, I’ll not see the debt paid.”

Mr. Nettle bristled. He hadn’t thought past Scar Night, didn’t think it important. But the man had a right to be wary: a debt was a debt, and you paid your debts. Each man had as much right to eat as any other, and if Mr. Nettle didn’t come back he’d be leaving the smith down on this deal. That was as good as stealing food from his table. Right then Mr. Nettle had a queasy, empty feeling in his gut, and wanted more than ever to go back to his bottle.

“Listen,” the smith said, “you talked about cutting the wood for a crossbow. Are you a carpenter? Do you know how to make such a thing? Have you ever shot one? Ever seen one?”

“No,” Mr. Nettle admitted. He felt as he had on the Gatebridge: imprisoned by circumstance and, for all his anger and strength, the walls containing him were stronger.

“Aye, I thought not. Maybe it’s best you give up. Let it go.”

“I can’t.” The scrounger’s teeth clamped shut.

“I’m sorry.” The smith turned away.

Sudden desperation took hold of Mr. Nettle. He grabbed the man’s shoulder, harder than he meant to, to halt him. Then he eased his grip. He’d almost said help me but the words lodged in his throat. Quickly, he said, “I’ll pay, I’ll work for you,” and was surprised at the tremor he heard in his voice. It sounded odd, as though another man had spoken.

The smith turned back to look up at him, his face seeming hard as bronze in the firelight. What was it Mr. Nettle saw in those eyes? He’d never seen such a look before. And then he realized it was pity. He let go of the other man, turned to leave, at once ashamed and afraid the smith had heard his unspoken plea. He was a fool to have come here. A bloody fool. He didn’t need anyone’s help, not now, not ever.

“Hold on,” the smith said.

Mr. Nettle hesitated, his ears burning with more than the blows the temple guard had given him.

“Come through the back. I’ve some stuff maybe you can borrow—if you work for it.”

The floor sloped away so steeply that Mr. Nettle had trouble crossing it. He had to walk sideways, his arms held out for balance, his feet sliding. The smith didn’t seem bothered by the slope. He loped across the room in an odd, shambling way that made him