legs, and blunt, clever hands, and bright, birdlike eyes. And a kindness like that of the widow who had rented them her extra room, then brought every bit of covering she had to spare to keep Martis warm. “A sword,” Lyran said hesitantly. “This one needs a sword.”
“I should think you do,” replied the little man, after a long moment of sizing Lyran up. “A swordsman generally does need a sword. And it can’t be an ill-balanced bludgeon, either—that would be worse than nothing, eh, lad?”
Lyran nodded, slowly. “But this one—has but little—” The man barked rather than laughed, but his good humor sounded far more genuine than anything coming from the main street and marketplace. “Lad, if you had money, you