The customs inspector at the pier had fixed an unpleasant eye on the sword strapped to the dwarf’s back and to the second sword rattling on Salvator’s hip, but the Italian quickly allayed the official’s concerns with a fistful of coins and a few choice words in Eranian that might have been misconstrued to mean that both of the travelers were close personal friends with a certain Master Rashaken.
The two men climbed the gangway and paced along the deck of the Hellan steamer to stand near the bow and watch the other passengers board.
“Is it very cold in Constantia?” Salvator asked.
“Cold-ish.” Tycho shrugged. “Why? Thinking of visiting? I thought you had a sword to deliver to your king in Rome or somewhere.”
“This?” Salvator patted the second blade sheathed below his rapier. After seeing the brilliant white blaze of the dwarf’s sword, he had taken the brightest of the surviving seireikens scattered around the rail yard before the local scavengers arrived to pick the bodies clean. The Italian shook his head. “I can hand this off to another agent in Athens when we change ships. There’s no need for me to deliver it in person.”
“You’d let someone else take the credit?”
“Of course not. I’ve already sent five letters to my associates at court to inform His Majesty that the sword is en route. They’ll know the truth of the matter.”
“Five?”
Salvator smiled. “You can’t trust the postal service, my young friend. Not in any country or any age. Are you sure you wouldn’t be willing to trade souvenirs?”
“No,” Tycho said quietly. “Philo died searching for this sword. I nearly died as well. But when I bring it to my Lady Nerissa, and she presents it to the prince of Vlachia, it will change the world. With Vlachia at our side, Raska and Rus will surely follow. The war with Eran will come to a head, and then it will end, and my city will be safe. Truly safe.”
Salvator raised an eyebrow. “Or, your alliance will call down the full might of the Empire, utterly destroying three northern nations as well as your little town.” He paused. “An extra ten darics for it?”
“No.” Tycho looked up. “Would you say I’m an attractive man?”
Salvator grinned. “No. But a woman probably would. Why?”
“I was just thinking that when I return, I’ll be a hero, right? Heroes get rewards. Honors. Money. Not that I did this for a reward, but if a reward was offered, it would only be polite to accept it, right?”
“Of course. Twenty darics?”
“No. And then, well,” the dwarf shrugged, “it would only be natural for a young lady to hold me in a higher esteem. If I was a hero, I mean. Wouldn’t she?”
“Is this a particular young lady, or a hypothetical one?”
“A hypothetical one,” Tycho said slowly. “With long black hair that shimmers red in the sunlight, and a lovely singing voice…and very muscular legs.”
“Oh, her?” Salvator nodded sagely. “She would be most impressed by your heroics, without question. Thirty darics?”
“No.” Tycho drummed on the white-handled revolver on his hip. “Does the gun make me look dangerous and exotic? Or no? I think I rather like it.”
Salvator frowned. “I hate guns. They’re for cowards and monsters.”
“I love this one.” Tycho threw a wicked grin up at the Italian. “With a gun like this, a person like me can fight a person like you. And that scares you, doesn’t it?”
Yes, it most certainly does.
“Forty darics?”
“No.”