At the Queen's Command by Michael A. Stackpole Page B

Strake desires two journals, three hundred pages each, your best paper, leather covers, and oilskin wraps. He’ll need an inkstick and a half-dozen quills.”
    The man smiled, setting the books on a small, drop-leaf desk in the corner. “I can bind up the journals, send them around to your house, Miss Frost, by eventide.”
    Owen nodded. “That would be satisfactory.”
    “As for the quills, well, I have something here you might like better, Captain.” Burns pulled a narrow wooden box from the desk and slid the top off.
    Two turned wooden cylinders rested on a red velvet bed along with three silver wedges. The man handed one of the wedges to Owen. The metal had been hammered incredibly thin, and curved along its length. It tapered to a point and had been split halfway up the middle.
    “Local silversmith, he makes these. They’re nibs, fit into these holders. Last longer than a quill and don’t need sharpening.”
    “The work is incredibly delicate.” Owen held it out for Bethany to see, slowly turning it in his fingers. “Do you know how he does this?”
    Burns shrugged. “Not being cursed , I don’t know for sure, but he uses a firestone in the process. Has it at the end of a thumb, in a glove you see, so he can work the metal while hammering.”
    Which is why it’s silver . Iron and steel dampened magick, all but destroying the ability of any but the strongest user to make it work. Stories of heroes who could enchant a sword abounded, but Owen had never seen that ability in action.
    The bookseller ducked his head. “And no offense meant, Captain.”
    “None taken.” Owen nodded solemnly. “Soldiers greet that appellation proudly. We might be bound for Hell, but we’ll send the enemy there to welcome us.”
    “And we are right happy you do that, sir.” Burns smiled. “Will you be taking these?”
    “Yes.” Owen handed back the nib. “Reckon the bill, please.”
    “Gladly, sir. Shall I have the pens sent round with the journals?”
    “Please.”
    The man scratched some figures on a scrap of paper. “That will be a crown, three and eight.”
    Owen slipped a hand into his pocket for his purse, but Bethany laid a hand on his wrist. “That is outrageous. We are leaving now, Captain Strake.”
    “What?”
    Bethany turned on the bookseller. “Mr. Burns, my family has traded with you for many years. We recommend you highly. This should cost no more than a crown and ten, or four shillings eleven.”
    “But, Miss…”
    “Mr. Burns, you are charging Captain Strake more because he wears the red coat—and you just praised him for his defense of our nation. You would charge no Mystrian so dearly.”
    The bookseller blushed, then looked at his paper again. “Yes, of course, Miss, I added incorrectly. A crown and four. The pens, you see, are consigned. I cannot bargain.”
    Owen gave the man a gold crown and four copper pence. “Thank you, sir.”
    “My pleasure, sir.” Burns bowed his head. “And good day to you, Miss Frost.”
    “Mister Burns.” Bethany preceded Owen from the shop and moved quickly down Scrivener Street.
    Owen caught up to her with a couple long strides. “His price—I would have paid as much in Launston.”
    “But we are not in Launston.” She pointed back toward the shop. “His family comes from charcoal burners. His children go round to homes and shops and public houses offering to clean lamps for the black, which is what he uses to make his ink.”
    “Enterprising.”
    “It is, and he’s a sharp man with his figuring. His prices are the best for his wares, which is why he has our custom.” She shook her head. “But to prey upon someone like you.”
    Owen smiled. “Soldiers are used to having merchants take advantage.”
    “That hardly makes it right.” Bethany shook her head. “He was willing to overcharge you because you are a stranger. You, a Queen’s officer, a stranger. Too many men get to thinking like that, and the men of Norisle will be strangers. And