As time went on, both Pitkins and Donive found themselves increasingly grateful for Bandit’s odd interception of the spice before she had put it into their evening stew. It was becoming clear that those who used it tended to use it too often—that is, morning, afternoon, and evening seven days a week. Some users seemed practically possessed. Filled with energy, they would rant and rave, talking rapidly and ceaselessly but often failing to make a point. Others seemed to have enhanced intelligence after taking moderate amounts and could accomplish in two hours of work what previously took six.
But, more and more often, Pitkins was beginning to both see and hear about its negative effects. There had been reported cases of young men of twenty or thirty years old falling dead from heart attacks after days of non-stop sniffing. There were stories of people going to doctors and asking for help to stop it because they could no longer sleep. There were stories of people becoming considerably violent and, numb to pain, beating each other to death with their bare fists.
Pitkins was beginning to feel relieved he had managed to craft himself a new sword on par with the quality of Carlos, and to which he had decided to give the same name, because just striding through the city he often saw emaciated shadows of people staring at him with an evil eye, as if trying to decide whether he would put up a fight if they leaped upon him and attempted to tear his flesh off with their bare hands.
One look at the glint of steel attached to his hip, and so far they had thought better of it. Furthermore, in spite of the fact this herb was turning some people into such fearsome specters, it was so cheap that beggars could obtain enough money in a day to get their fill, although this occurred at the cost of not eating, something the worst of these fiends had essentially lost interest in anyway.
The noticeable menace to Sodorfian society caused the nobles to have a vigorous debate as to whether this substance perhaps should be outlawed. Unfortunately, too many of them were users themselves for this to be a realistic possibility, especially since—at least for the time being—none were as flagrantly shameless and corrupt as Senator Hutherton. However, they took note of the fact it had been outlawed all but the upper class in Sogolia months ago and recently in Selegania. Thus, they did take the measure of banning the exportation of Spicy Green, as they did not wish to become an outlaw state and risk the wrath of surrounding nations.
Some nobles proposed an investigation into the origin of Spicy Green, but they were quickly shouted down by the vast majority of the nobles, who feared this was simply a stratagem to cut off the source of Spicy Green, the mere thought of which sent a shiver down their spines.
It perplexed Pitkins deeply how Bandit had so quickly detected the vile nature of this substance and reacted so viciously in order to protect those in his household, and he had earned the undying love of Pitkins, who before had been rather lukewarm towards the adopted stray. Every night, he stroked Bandit’s long soft hair and looked into his intelligent eyes, as if hoping to learn some hidden secret, but Bandit usually closed his eyes lazily and purred, as if to say: My life’s work has been done.
However, while Pitkins had been saved from addiction by Bandit, he had another enemy, one he had never confronted in so strong a form in his life: boredom. Pitkins had been raised from childhood through adolescence in a physically and mentally stimulating atmosphere, all of which was designed to prepare his mind and body for a lifetime of military service in the upper echelons of Sogolia’s elite military unit: the Nikorians.
At the age of sixteen, he had formally entered military service, and from there the physical and mental training had only intensified. By age twenty-four, he was a captain. By age twenty-nine, he was a general. By age thirty-three, he was framed and exiled, whereupon he went to Sodorf. But, at least then, he had found his niche plying the trade he had mastered as part of his training in the military: sword crafting.
And although he had disliked the nobles intensely, their insatiable appetite for his swords—the quality of which they had never seen before—resulted in him being busy day after day forging, crafting, sharpening, and polishing. After the war, he had naïvely thought perhaps there would be a still greater interest in swords, but the reverse had happened.
At first he thought it was just a brief slowdown. Maybe all the killing had made people not want to even look at weapons of war. But as time went on it became clearer and clearer his services were in a serious slump. He still went to his sword smith shop nearly every day. He didn’t want to admit the horrible truth to Donive.
And it wasn’t even that he lacked money. He and Donive lived on a large estate they had purchased with Pitkins’ immense earnings from the days when his swords were selling like apples to the nobility. And the dowry alone that she had brought into the marriage would have been sufficient for them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
But Pitkins was finding out quickly that he was not made to live in mere comfort. He had been raised from birth for challenges, and the utter lack thereof tortured his soul. He realized the bitter truth—he had no skills other than war and the making of implements of war. He now felt as needed as an acrobat at a business meeting.
He had begun slowing down the progress of his work at the shop, for he hated to craft swords that were unlikely to be sold. And furthermore, his preference was to craft personalized swords, not just direct a client to a wall and tell him to pick. He considered most of the swords on display to merely be tools to determine what kind of sword best matched the individual. Every last detail was important—the man’s height, strength, coordination, and purposes for the weapon.
Today, Pitkins found himself feeling nearly at the point of despair. He was wondering whether moving might not be a bad idea. Surely, there were other locations where a master sword smith’s skills would be more highly appreciated. And hadn’t Donive said long ago that she wanted to see new lands and learn new languages? He seemed to recall that. Perhaps this was a sign.
As he was ruminating over the sweet escape offered by moving to a new country, something very rare happened. A man nearly reached striking distance without Pitkins so much as noticing.
“Sir?”
Pitkins looked up from his chair startled. This seemed further evidence of the negative effect boredom was having on his very soul.
In front of him, he beheld a man whose every square inch emanated power, yet tranquility at the same time. Six feet and three inches put him at Pitkins’ height, but he clearly had an extra thirty pounds of muscle in his upper body alone that Pitkins knew he could never obtain, not in a thousand years of exercise.
“Yes, sir,” Pitkins responded. “How may I be of service?”
“You . . . will . . . please forgive . . . baad Sodorfian; I no speak so good.”
Pitkins felt more awake now than he had since the war. He’d be damned if this man wasn’t speaking with a Seleganian accent. He had been trained thoroughly in that language—amongst many others—during his time in the Nikorians, although he hadn’t spoken it for years.
“My accent is terrible,” Pitkins began in Seleganian, “but I believe I can speak a little of your language. Hopefully, you are from Selegania, or I will be one embarrassed fool, indeed!”
A smile as warm as the sun emerged from the man, and Pitkins breathed a sigh of relief.
“What terrible accent? Your Seleganian is perfect!” the man replied in Seleganian, appearing greatly relieved to be saved from further embarrassment.
Pitkins smiled.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Pitkins began, “what is a man from The Land of No Swords doing in a sword smith’s shop in Sodorf?”
“What is a former general doing running a sword smith shop?”
Pitkins felt his good humor vanish. He hadn’t exactly been able to keep his origins a secret very long after riding at the head of a Sogolian army and crushing the Dachwaldians besieging the capital city. But it was never a topic he liked to personally broach.
Then, he felt his defensiveness evaporate, as another beaming, yet shrewd, smile emanated from his strange visitor, who said, “I never knew we had earned that nickname. But, as they say, don’t believe everything you hear. Perhaps there are some people in Selegania who need swords to protect themselves from those who have them and use them to rob and kill. Outlawing something’s not the same as getting rid of it.”
Pitkins found the man both charming and cunning at the same time. An odd mix, but for some reason he liked it. He himself found it hard to imagine abiding by a law against swords.
“Perhaps, you and I each have a rebellious side,” Pitkins said good-naturedly. “As for military life—I’ve seen enough of it. But as for swords—they’re my true passion.”
“Well, I will probably be of immense disappointment to you, Sir Pitkins,” Righty said, with a smile, extending his hand. “My name is Richard Franklin Simmers, and I’ve never touched a sword in my life. But I want the best sword in this world that money can buy. And, more importantly, I want to learn to use it better than anyone on this earth.”
For a moment, Pitkins thought he was hallucinating. Perhaps he was in the middle of a week-long binge of Spicy Green like the poor emaciated souls he saw on the city streets and had only imagined Bandit’s heroic interference with the vile herb, the way a man being swallowed alive by a boa constrictor perhaps hallucinates that his brave dog has killed the beast currently consuming him.
If what this man was saying was true, he felt like he just might have found more than an answer to his boredom. He felt he might be about to embark upon one of the greatest projects of his life. And that was what made him feel so foolish. He knew nothing about this man. And even if he could afford a good sword and could pay for lessons, that in and of itself did not necessarily spell adventure. But he could sense there was a fire in this man’s soul, and he found it contagious.
As if Mr. Simmers had somehow sensed Pitkins was having doubts, suddenly, large stacks of Sodorfian currency were being placed on top of Pitkins’ table.
“Tell me when to stop,” Mr. Simmers said calmly.
“Easy there, Mr. Simmers,” Pitkins began, with a smile, “you’re talking about buying a sword, not a castle. Having said that,” Pitkins then smiled again, “I think that ought to cover it.”
“Money’s not everything to me, Mr. Simmers, but your willingness to part with it shows me that you’re serious, and that’s what means the most to me.”
He noticed Mr. Simmers’ eyes were studying him carefully.
Pitkins continued, “For what you’ve given me, I’ll make the best sword . . . not in the world but for you. I’m a firm believer that perfection in this art is only fifty percent knowing how to make swords. The other half is knowing how to read people. Please, step this way,” Pitkins encouraged.
Pitkins brought him towards a wall adorned with nearly fifty swords. “But another factor is knowing what the sword is going to be used for. You’re under no obligation to be honest with me. But the more honest you are with me, the better your sword will be.”
“As you say,” Righty began, with cunning eyes, “I’m from The Land of No Swords. Thus, it wouldn’t behoove me to walk around with a sword on my hip. It has to be concealable. Absolutely concealable. I’m an expanding retailer, and I have to make frequent trips to Sivingdel. There are a lot of bandits in some parts of the city, and I got ambushed just last week.
“One of the guys had a sword. It was the most frightening experience I’ve ever had in my life. I survived because he didn’t know how to use it very well. But while I was busy dealing with him, some of his accomplices hit me from behind several times. They left me with a left-foot shuffle I still haven’t gotten rid of yet, and I’ve had headaches nearly every night since as well, thanks to being hit over the head with a club.”
Righty didn’t like divulging this mostly accurate information, but he sensed Pitkins was telling the truth when he said that the more information he knew the better the sword he would make.
“Do you have any kind of fighting experience?” Pitkins asked.
“Is all this information confidential,” Righty asked, his eyes piercing like spears.
“You’ve got my word on that,” Pitkins responded, and his countenance convinced Righty.
“Bare knuckle boxing,” Righty said calmly.
“Are we talking a couple fights at the bar over the last ten years or something beyond that?”
“Professional. I made it to the championship years ago.”
Pitkins grabbed a medium-sized sword from the wall and handed it to Righty.
Pitkins then unsheathed Carlos. “Copy what I do,” he told Righty, standing next to him.
Pitkins leaned back into a defensive stance with the sword over his head and tilted down at an angle. Righty copied the movement reasonably well. Suddenly, Pitkins lunged forward with a quick downward stroke. He watched as Righty then copied the move.
Next, Pitkins changed his two-handed grip to a one-handed grip and then, with the sword facing downward, made a circular movement. Righty copied it satisfactorily.
“Try this one,” Pitkins said, handing Righty a heavier sword.
They went through the same series of movements. Righty seemed to have no trouble.
Pitkins then exchanged the sword for an even heavier sword. He noticed no detriment in Mr. Simmers’ ability to use the sword, even on the one-handed portions.
Although Pitkins had noticed the man’s massive muscles in spite of his loose-fitting clothing, he still found himself surprised at the man’s upper-body strength.
“Use this one,” Pitkins said, handing Righty the largest sword he had ever made, one he had long considered a waste of time, as no customer could adequately handle it. And although Pitkins wouldn’t have readily admitted it to anyone, he himself could not.
Pitkins was shocked when he noticed no detriment in Righty’s ability to copy the movements, and in fact he was now copying what he had previously seen without need of further example, and it seemed his technique was improving considerably even during this short practice session.
Pitkins was a firm believer that the perfect sword was neither too light nor too heavy in its bearer’s hands, and he now realized that for this customer he was going to have to make a sword that dwarfed what he had once thought of as an oversized weapon and a colossal waste of his time.
“I will make you what you need, Mr. Simmers,” Pitkins said. “I’ll need one month. Would that be satisfactory to you?”
“I’ll need something in the interim to practice with,” Righty said. “What about this last one here I practiced with? I kind of like it.”
Pitkins couldn’t have heard better news. Not only was this customer purchasing two swords, he was purchasing a sword he could have sworn would sit unused in that shop until he retired.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Simmers. Normally, I would sell a sword like this for around $40,000 falons, but since you’ve paid me $100,000 upfront for a customized sword, I’d part with this for $5,000 falons.” Truth be told, Pitkins wouldn’t have had to be pressed too hard to part with it for $1,000 falons due to his frustration with selling the weapon, but on the other hand, while it hadn’t been tailored for any particular individual, it was still a top-quality sword.
“I’ll agree to that on one condition, Sir Pitkins,” Righty said.
Pitkins groaned inwardly, expecting to hear something he couldn’t possibly accommodate.
“While I wouldn’t mind boldly wearing the sword you’re going to craft for me on my hip for all the world to see and be on notice, that won’t exactly fly in The Land of No Swords. It’s going to have to be somehow concealable.”
Righty had caught Pitkins at the right time. At any other time, Pitkins would have doubled or even tripled the price for such a request. He had only done this once or twice, and it was going to push his technical skills to their limit, perhaps beyond it. B
ut this was precisely the kind of challenge Pitkins yearned for at this time.
“Your wife won’t know you’re wearing it,” Pitkins said smiling, hoping Mr. Simmers was aware the ring on his finger was in full view and that he was not making suppositions.
Righty glanced at his ring finger and grinned.
Then, he held out his right hand. “Sir Pitkins, you have yourself a customer and a deal,” Righty said.
Pitkins shook his hand and then handed him the accompanying sword sheath and a belt to go with it. Righty handed him $5,000 falons. While the Sodorfian currency was different, there was a reasonable amount of trade between Selegania and Sodorf, and most vendors could make currency calculations and accepted falons.
“I’ll be back in one month, Sir Pitkins,” Righty said.
“You’ll have your sword ready, Mr. Simmers.”
Righty stepped outside the shop and began heading towards the nearby forest where Harold would be waiting for him. He felt about as confident in his ability to use a sword as he did a fiddle, but he nonetheless felt nearly intoxicated by the powerful feeling of having six feet of razor-sharp steel a hand movement away. And he was certain of one thing—he was going to make that weapon an extension of his body.