Scar Night Page 0,19
look like a cripple.
They climbed through a lopsided door into a dim stone cell barely high enough for Mr. Nettle to stand upright. His head brushed stone that might have been either a wall or the ceiling. Straw covered a pallet over to one side, which lay at a steep angle against the far wall, or floor.
Noticing his gaze, the smith said, “Righted my pallet at first so it was level. But one day I found I couldn’t sleep in it. Can’t sleep on a flat bed no more. You get used to such a thing, eh?”
The tilt of the room made Mr. Nettle feel faintly sick. Long nails in the walls held dozens of iron brackets and pins that hung skewed, like clock hands pointing at seven or eight. The smith knelt before a huge poppywood chest, solidly built with stout iron bands around its deep red grain. He unlocked it and rummaged through, then brought out tools, mostly hammers and tongs of various sizes and states of repair, and laid them to one side. “Here it is,” he said. “Give us a hand.”
Together they heaved out a big sack-wrapped bundle and set it down on the floor.
It was full of weapons: four knives, without handles, but with good, sharp blades; a plain shortsword of the size Deepgate reservists sometimes used; a morning star with oiled, fluted blades; and a large crossbow. The last possessed a wide yew bow bound in iron and backed with steel, and a clunky device like a winch at the butt of the stock.
“Used to be better paid before the lane slipped,” the smith said. “Made more than wall pins in my time, eh?”
Mr. Nettle picked up the crossbow. With all the iron and layered wood, it weighed as much as a sack of coal.
“It’s not meant to be carried about,” the smith said. “Great crossbow this—made it for a merchant who wanted to mount it on his cart for travelling out to the Plantations. It’s not the finest-looking thing, but it’ll put a bolt clean through a man. This at the back’s the windlass, see, for winding back the bowstring. Got the bowstring here too somewhere, wrapped in oilcloth.” He reached back into the chest, spoke over his shoulder. “Only have three bolts for it, mind; just the samples I got from the bolt-maker. Was going to have more made, but the merchant never came back. I figure the Shetties got him on his last trip. Still, they’re a fine three. Here they are, and here’s the bowstring.” As he turned round his eyes were glittering.
The first bolt had a glass bulb full of sluggish liquid attached to one end. “Incendiary,” the smith explained. “You’ll want be careful with that one.” He laid the bolt down carefully. “There’s plenty reservists with glass eyes and leather skin from lighting up their pipes near these.”
The next had a crescent-shaped steel end. “Hunting tip,” the smith said. “Merchant must have fancied going after hawks or vultures when he wasn’t defending his carrots from the heathens. Kind of figure you might find a use for this, eh? Not poisoned, but just dip the end in bird shit and the smallest graze will do nasty work.”
The last bolt had a thick leather hood over its tip. The smith took up a pair of tongs and, very carefully, removed the hood to reveal a plain, sharp steel point. “Now, this,” he said, “is a rare one. Maybe it’s not still potent now, but maybe it is. I’m not touching it to find out.” The smith turned the bolt over like it was made of fine glass. “Craw plague—Devon’s finest. Milked from spiders that grow inside men’s flesh, no lies. Know what that’ll do?”
Mr. Nettle shook his head.
The smith grinned. “Wound will never heal. Never. Won’t stop bleeding till there’s no blood left and the Maze comes looking for its share.” Gingerly, he replaced the hood over the tip. “Soultakers, they call these.” Again, he glanced at Mr. Nettle’s tattered mourning robe. “Maybe you like the sound of that, eh?”
“You’ll lend me this?” Mr. Nettle asked.
“Aye, lend . And I want work in payment. I’ve two ton of pig iron needs brought from the yards and a hundredweight of brackets to go out to Rins before dark. Mind you pay this debt before sunset.” He shifted uncomfortably. “No offence meant, but I recall what night it is tonight.”
Mr. Nettle lowered the crossbow. “Can’t take it.”
“Eh?”
“Too much. Can’t repay this.”
A day’s