Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(29)

Ransom, still gripping the lead rope, looked at the morsel in his hand. It was the size of one of the gaming dice used by the soldiers. He plopped it into his mouth and stopped in his tracks as the delicious morsel began to dissolve, unleashing the most wonderful flavor he’d ever tasted. He’d never had anything like it before.

As he chewed, he stared at the knights passing to and fro. Most of them were his elders. Some were younger, mostly pages scurrying about, running errands for their masters. He listened for the tongue of his native land, but everyone around him spoke Occitanian. His training in Averanche had made him familiar with it, however, and he could make out words and phrases. He saw a pair of Brugian knights, recognizing the style of their armor, which temporarily dampened his mood, but even they spoke in Occitanian. Seeing the armor, the weapons, hearing the snort of horses, the rowdy banter, he couldn’t help but grin as he wandered through the crowd, soaking it in, enjoying the flavor of the penuche still dancing with magic on his tongue.

Through the chaos of noise, he heard the clank of a hammer and anvil. For some reason, it stood out to him amidst the cacophony. Yes, he needed a blacksmith to repair his armor and sharpen his sword, although he’d given it a few swipes with his whetstone already.

Ransom led the palfrey through the crowd, trying to find the source of the noise. As he drew closer, he felt the familiar rippling sensation he’d previously only experienced during a fight. The feeling didn’t come from him, though. It was radiating outward from a tent.

Ransom was confused by this, but the sensation excited him. Searching for the source, he eventually caught sight of a tent with an open circle at the top of the poles. The tent was sooty and charred in places, and smoke billowed from the opening at its peak. Ransom approached it, sensing the rush of water, the sound reminding him vividly of the noise of the waterfall outside Kingfountain.

He reached the front of the tent, where there was a display of horseshoes, a dagger, and a single gauntlet. Each was made out of a smoky metal that looked like polished silver reflecting a cloud. He’d never seen its like. His fingers lowered to the metal, and a loud hissing noise startled him. It took him a moment to realize the blacksmith inside was quenching a piece. Steam drifted from the flap of the tent.

Ransom reached to open the flap, but someone else opened it first. A short, wiry man emerged. At first Ransom thought it was a boy, but the grizzled whiskers and threads of gray in his hair belied that first impression. The man had eyes that were either green or blue, or maybe a mix. He had a hammer in his hand, and his expression was stern as he looked up at Ransom.

“Can I help you, lad?” he asked with a thick Ceredigion accent.

“You’re not from Occitania,” Ransom said, switching to their shared language.

“Neither are you,” said the man brusquely. “You just arrived?”

“I did,” Ransom said.

“In need of a blacksmith?” He looked over Ransom’s shoulder at the net strapped to the palfrey.

“I am looking for one,” Ransom said. The rushing sensation he’d felt earlier was fading. In fact, it had completely stilled.

“Who are you?” the blacksmith asked, his eyes narrowing.

“My name is Ransom Barton.”

The blacksmith looked surprised. “You’re not the kid the king almost hung?”

Ransom smiled. “That was a long time ago.”

The blacksmith grinned back. “I served as a blacksmith at the palace. I worked for King Gervase. You don’t look familiar at all, but you’re not a child anymore. What are you doing outside Pree? There isn’t a tournament for a while still. You’re too early.”

Ransom couldn’t believe his change in fortune. He’d come here a stranger to everyone, and one of the first people he’d met was a man who’d served his king. It was as if that rushing sound had led him here. “I served Lord Kinghorn in Averanche. Can we talk inside?”

“Sure, sure. Let me tie your horse to something.” He grabbed an iron hook from a metal stand near the entrance and plunged it into the turf, using the hammer he still held to drive it in like a stake. Ransom tied the lead rope there, and the blacksmith opened the flap of the tent.

“Come in.” The innards of the pavilion were black with soot, and the fire blazing inside made sweat pop out on Ransom’s brow.

“What’s your name?” Ransom asked.

“Anders Scarbrow,” the man replied. Even though he was a wiry man, his arms were corded with muscles. But he didn’t look like any of the blacksmiths that Ransom had met, and he did not remember him from his time at the palace. “And what can I do for the King’s Ransom?”

“I need my armor repaired,” he said. “We just finished fighting the Brugians at Menonval. Lord Kinghorn dismissed me.”

“Why? Did you murder someone?”

“No. That wasn’t it at all. I had a rouncy that died during an ambush. The same ambush that ruined my armor.”

Anders nodded knowingly. “That explains a lot. It would have cost him too much to fix your armor and buy you a new horse.” He sighed. “That’s unfortunate. So what you are saying is you can’t afford to hire a blacksmith yourself.” The interest was quickly fading from the man’s eyes. “You’re not even a knight yet. Boy, I can’t—”