The next stall over was a sort of junk shop, with things of all sorts spread out over rugs and on a low table. There were strange hairy fruits suspended from the overhanging roof, nearly touching the small cloths sold to clean dishes. There were small pieces of jewellery - rings and bracelets - and here an ink pot and there a paperweight in the form of some barbaric imperial god. What had caught Mulberry’s eye however, was a small knife with a leather sheath. It was double-edged, so she supposed dagger might be a better word than knife. Its lines were simple, and the metal was dark save for the brightness of the sharpened edges, but the knife appealed to Mulberry. She smiled at the stall-keeper. He was a young man, obviously imperial, with ruddy cheeks and dark eyes.
“Is that knife sharp?” she asked, pointing to it with her chin.
The young man smiled, wiping his hands on his dark blue tunic.
“Sharp enough,” he said, “But I’ll not be selling it to the likes of you.”
“I can pay,” She said in confusion, showing him the handful of coins she still carried. Two silver coins and three copper glinted in her hand.
“I’m sure you can,” the young man commented dryly, “But you can’t buy it.”
“But why not?”
“Hah, when they find your master dead, and that knife up to the hilt in his back, well, I won’t answer for it.”
Mulberry blinked at him.
“Dead? What? – I would never kill Marcus!” she exclaimed defensively.
The young man sniffed, and commented, “Still, I’m not selling a dagger like that to a slave. Especially one who calls her master by his given name.”
Mulberry blushed. She hadn’t even realized what name she had used. It was obvious, with the way her hair was cut, that she was either a slave or had suffered a long illness with high fever. And her Estavacan accent put her firmly in the slave category, secret Estavaca mistress of the Emperor or no. She knew that she was drawing attention to herself by not acting in the way a slave was supposed to behave, and it was natural to think that a slave would buy a weapon to harm an unkind master.
“But it’s just a little knife,” she pleaded, “I could use it to cut apples, or to sharpen a pen.”
“Or to stick a man in the gut,” the young man said placidly.
“I am not going to stick anyone in the gut!” Mulberry replied angrily, almost hysterically.
“And I am not going to sell you the knife,” The man said, “Not unless you have permission from your master.”
Mulberry sighed. Marcus was a good half hour walk away, and besides, he might not want her spending his money on the delightful little knife. After all, he had sent her to buy herself clothes, and all of them food, not to buy knives. Though he had written in that note, that she was to buy whatever she pleased. Marcus had said so, when he read the note aloud. An idea occurred to Mulberry.
“Written permission?” she asked.
The man looked confused.
“Would written permission do?”
“I – I suppose. Sure. Yeah. Written permission is just fine.”
Mulberry wished she could read Marcus’ language as well as speak it. She dug about in her pouch and drew out the letter.
“Look at the end,” she said, realizing she wasn’t even sure if Marcus' language was written from top to bottom or from side to side.
The young man sighed. He looked over the paper critically. Then he eyed Mulberry, and looked at the paper again. Finally, he picked up the little knife, sheathing it.
“One silver,” he said.
Mulberry was pleased, until she heard the price.
“Silver?” she gasped. Of all the pile of coins, only two had been silver, the rest being copper. And Mulberry hadn’t intended to spend the silver coins at all.
“You’re lucky I’m selling it to you at all, ridiculous written note or not.”
Reluctantly, Mulberry held out the coin. She sighed as she handed it over, but she liked the feel of the tough, smooth leather case and the cool metal handle as the man pushed the knife into her hand. She wanted to slip it into her sleeve, but the sleeve was too loose, the cloth too giving. Instead, she stuck it down the neck of the dress, enjoying the cool metal against her skin. Then she walked over to the stall with the meat pies, picking up six, two each, even though they were large.
YOU ARE READING
The Baby and the Battlefield
FantasyA baby? On a battlefield? Marcus is a clerk in the Imperial army. When he finds an abandoned baby on a battlefield, he has no idea what to do with her. His best friend is no help; he thinks Marcus is a sucker for taking the kid in. The slave who end...
