it would start misfiring." The flint had been carefully replaced, he saw. He picked up the other pistol with his left hand, his fingers caressing the gold inlay work on the ivory butt.
"Try it," said Snake, who had still made no move to pick up the coin.
Dashif nodded almost imperceptibly and swung the pistols until they pointed at Snake. Ca-click, click, click, and all four mechanisms were cocked.
"Fine," said Dashif, still pointing them at her stomach.
She did not seem to be impressed. "They aren't loaded," she said.
"I would hope not."
He set one down and used both hands to release the double mechanism of the one pistol, then repeated the process with the other. He opened the pair of pouches at his right side and went through the ritual of loading the guns. He had bought the pistols through this very shop a few years before. The mechanisms were made by Tichen locksmith Erigo Niola, the barrels by metalsmith Fereth Loyale, and the stocks and grips, at Snake's recommendation, by master jeweler Kentanno Reffina of Trader's Town. They were far more reliable than the more common wheellock or matchlock; he could expect at least three of his charges to go off when firing all four. The only drawback had been, up until now, the need to use both hands to cock one. Now this was solved.
After loading both pistols, he stuck them into the wide black leather belt that supported his rapier and knife. "They'll do," he said, adjusting the red cloak over his white blouse.
Snake took the coin. "Thank you, Count Dashif."
He nodded and walked back into the heat. As he stepped through the door, four others entered. They were young, raffish, and looked as if they couldn't afford even to look at most of what the Tiger's Eye carried. Troublemakers, of course. It occurred to him that quite a bit of Snake's merchandise was breakable, which must make her susceptible to such as these. He wondered how she'd deal with it. He could offer his help, of course. He shrugged. Either she could handle it or she couldn't. None of his concern. He resumed walking. Behind him, from inside the shop, he heard the crack of a whip, followed by a scream, and the sound of several persons making a hasty retreat to the street. He smiled to himself.
•
The walk back to the Levar's palace took him through the Merchant's Quarter near the canals. He passed a fruit stand and took an apple, paying for it with a half-copper. A beggar-child, recognizing his red cloak, low black boots, and long dark hair, hastened out of the way. A trader's camel, not recognizing him, spat on his cloak. The trader tried vainly to suppress his mirth, but didn't quite succeed.
Dashif pulled one of his pistols from his belt and cocked it. The trader's laughter died at once. Dashif caught the trader with his eyes and raised the pistol. The trader licked his lips, but the pistol didn't come to rest aimed at him. Still looking at the trader, Dashif held it against the head of the camel. The camel started to swing its head to bite. Dashif fired the ftrst barrel, then the second. The animal fell at their feet and began jerking spasmodically. The trader's expression turned from fear to anger. Dashif allowed his left hand to rest on the butt of the second pistol. The trader turned away.
Dashif resumed his walk to the Levar's palace. Behind him, he heard faint mutterings, but ignored them.
He knew several of the names he was called when he wasn't around, but they didn't bother him. Hate was preferable to contempt, and contempt preferable to pity. The only name he dreaded hearing was "Dashif the Luckless," but few knew enough to call him that. Of the people who could have done so, one was his wife, who had long ago left him and was now, probably, in Tichen, living with his children—he hoped. Probably as someone's pet. That would suit her.
Dashif's master, His Scarlet Eminence, knew enough to add "the Luckless" to his name, but wouldn't. It was in His Eminence's interest to keep that story
"Try it," said Snake, who had still made no move to pick up the coin.
Dashif nodded almost imperceptibly and swung the pistols until they pointed at Snake. Ca-click, click, click, and all four mechanisms were cocked.
"Fine," said Dashif, still pointing them at her stomach.
She did not seem to be impressed. "They aren't loaded," she said.
"I would hope not."
He set one down and used both hands to release the double mechanism of the one pistol, then repeated the process with the other. He opened the pair of pouches at his right side and went through the ritual of loading the guns. He had bought the pistols through this very shop a few years before. The mechanisms were made by Tichen locksmith Erigo Niola, the barrels by metalsmith Fereth Loyale, and the stocks and grips, at Snake's recommendation, by master jeweler Kentanno Reffina of Trader's Town. They were far more reliable than the more common wheellock or matchlock; he could expect at least three of his charges to go off when firing all four. The only drawback had been, up until now, the need to use both hands to cock one. Now this was solved.
After loading both pistols, he stuck them into the wide black leather belt that supported his rapier and knife. "They'll do," he said, adjusting the red cloak over his white blouse.
Snake took the coin. "Thank you, Count Dashif."
He nodded and walked back into the heat. As he stepped through the door, four others entered. They were young, raffish, and looked as if they couldn't afford even to look at most of what the Tiger's Eye carried. Troublemakers, of course. It occurred to him that quite a bit of Snake's merchandise was breakable, which must make her susceptible to such as these. He wondered how she'd deal with it. He could offer his help, of course. He shrugged. Either she could handle it or she couldn't. None of his concern. He resumed walking. Behind him, from inside the shop, he heard the crack of a whip, followed by a scream, and the sound of several persons making a hasty retreat to the street. He smiled to himself.
•
The walk back to the Levar's palace took him through the Merchant's Quarter near the canals. He passed a fruit stand and took an apple, paying for it with a half-copper. A beggar-child, recognizing his red cloak, low black boots, and long dark hair, hastened out of the way. A trader's camel, not recognizing him, spat on his cloak. The trader tried vainly to suppress his mirth, but didn't quite succeed.
Dashif pulled one of his pistols from his belt and cocked it. The trader's laughter died at once. Dashif caught the trader with his eyes and raised the pistol. The trader licked his lips, but the pistol didn't come to rest aimed at him. Still looking at the trader, Dashif held it against the head of the camel. The camel started to swing its head to bite. Dashif fired the ftrst barrel, then the second. The animal fell at their feet and began jerking spasmodically. The trader's expression turned from fear to anger. Dashif allowed his left hand to rest on the butt of the second pistol. The trader turned away.
Dashif resumed his walk to the Levar's palace. Behind him, he heard faint mutterings, but ignored them.
He knew several of the names he was called when he wasn't around, but they didn't bother him. Hate was preferable to contempt, and contempt preferable to pity. The only name he dreaded hearing was "Dashif the Luckless," but few knew enough to call him that. Of the people who could have done so, one was his wife, who had long ago left him and was now, probably, in Tichen, living with his children—he hoped. Probably as someone's pet. That would suit her.
Dashif's master, His Scarlet Eminence, knew enough to add "the Luckless" to his name, but wouldn't. It was in His Eminence's interest to keep that story
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