Chapter 7.
High summer lay over the city. The wall caught the heat first.
Hewn stone at the base, unfired brick above it, pale and dry where the sun had worked it for generations. Thick enough to matter. High enough that ladders alone would not do the work. Towers broke the line at intervals, guards posted along the walks with halberds resting against the stone.
Traffic pressed toward the gate from inland.
Carts rolled ahead of him, heavy with barrels and crates, wheels crusted white where salt had dried into the grain. The air carried fish and pitch even here, mixed with old rope and sun-warmed wood. Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried, their voices cutting sharp through the heat before being swallowed by the noise below.
The line moved in short increments.
Guards worked it from the shade of the arch. One checked seals and waved carts aside for a moment at a time. Another took coin and marked tallies on a board darkened by use. Voices overlapped, practiced and flat. No one raised them.
When he reached the front, one of the guards stepped into his path as the others continued on around him.
Eyes went to the swords first. Then to the medallion. Then back to his face, taking him in.
"Here on business," the guard said, not quite a question.
"Yes."
The guard glanced at the horse. Light packs. No cart. No marks of a merchant's run.
"Staying, or moving on?"
"Staying a while."
The guard grunted and shifted aside, already turning his attention back to the flow.
"Don't block the way."
Stone swallowed sound inside the gate arch. It came back out changed—voices flatter, hooves louder, iron sharper against iron. Inside, the street was already full. People moved close and did not apologize when shoulders brushed.
The road ran straight and wide, stones polished smooth by years of traffic between land and water. Stalls crowded the edges where they could. Barrels were stacked in the open, marked with tar and chalk. Somewhere ahead, water slapped against hulls out of sight.
Shade cut the heat into bands. Whitewashed walls threw it back again. Tar softened between stones. Rigging creaked overhead where wind reached it, faint but constant.
This was the main way through. He learned that before he learned its name.
Iron on iron reached him first. Heavy. Regular. Not patchwork. Not hurry.
The smithy stood open to the street, doors pulled wide for air that did not help. Heat lived inside it anyway, held by brick and soot. A trough of dark water steamed faintly.
A man worked the forge.
Broad-backed. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Old burn scars crossed his forearms, pale against darkened skin.
The witcher tied the horse where it wouldn't foul the way and stepped inside.
The hammer fell once more. Then stopped.
The smith looked up.
The witcher came to the bench and rested the steel sword there, easing it down flat instead of letting it ring.
The working blade. Clean. Kept sharp. The edge had softened slightly in places from use, nothing dramatic.
The smith picked it up, tested the balance, checked the blade's line with his thumb.
"Seen worse," he said.
The witcher nodded.
Then he set the other blade down beside it.
Silvered. The edge nicked despite care. The guard a fraction out of line. Runes lay along the fuller.
"This as well."
The smith didn't answer right away.
His eyes dropped once—to the medallion resting against the witcher's chest—then back to the blade.
He leaned closer. Looked along the edge. Checked the guard. Lifted the blade carefully, holding it by the grip and spine only, turning it once to catch the light.
He set it down on a folded scrap of leather, well clear of the forge mouth.
"Doable," he said.
The witcher reached to his harness and began to unbuckle the plates.
He set them on the bench one by one. Shoulder. Thigh. The smaller pieces last. Each bore shallow dents and scuffs that hadn't gone anywhere important, but would if left alone.
"These too."
The smith looked at them, then back at the blades.
"I can have them ready by tomorrow," he said. "By midday."
The witcher set coin down beside the steel sword. Not much. Enough to show intent.
The smith drew it closer, counted it once, then nodded.
The witcher turned and left him to it.
—
He hadn't gone far.
The street shifted a few turns on, noise thinning, work changing. The smell of pitch gave way to oil and cured hide. Doorways stayed open where light mattered.
He found what he needed.
Leather hung in strips along the wall, darkened by dye and use. A bench sat near the opening, tools laid out where hands could reach them without looking.
He waited until the man working there glanced up.
The witcher loosened what remained of his gear and set it down in a careful line. Straps first. Then the backing pieces. Hardened where sweat had worked into them. Worn where plates had ridden too long without rest.
The man ran his fingers along the seams, testing tension. He didn't ask questions.
The witcher left the leather where it lay and set coin beside it.
When he stepped back outside, the weight was gone from his shoulders.
—
Evening had settled over the street.
The heat hadn't broken, but the light had thinned, stretched longer between buildings, slipping off the stone instead of sitting on it. Shadows pooled where doorways stayed open.
He stopped where voices spilled into the street.
Music bled through the noise—a fiddle worrying at a tune it hadn't quite mastered and refused to leave alone. Cups knocked together. Laughter rose and fell without pattern.
He went in and took a place near the wall where the shadows held.
A woman came over with a jug and a practiced look that took him in without stopping on any one thing. She poured and set the cup down.
"Beer," she said.
He nodded and drank. Thin. Cold enough.
He'd finished half the cup when someone sat beside him without asking.
She smelled of smoke and salt and something sharp beneath it. Older than a girl. Younger than careful. Her elbow rested too close to his arm.
"You're not from here," she said.
"No."
Her eyes flicked to his face. Then stayed there.
"They say your kind sees in the dark," she said.
"Yes."
She smiled at that. Not shy. Not kind either.
"And they say your eyes never change," she went on. "Always like that."
He met her gaze. Didn't correct her.
She laughed softly and leaned closer.
"And they say other things," she said. Lower now. "About witchers."
He didn't look at her.
"They say you don't tire," she said. "That it's… different."
He didn't answer.
She watched him over the rim of his cup, then let her hand slide down, slow and deliberate, resting against his thigh. Not squeezing. Just there. Testing.
"Ships are loud tonight," she said quietly.
He didn't move.
Outside, a gull screamed and was answered.