Chapter 22
I needed something to clear my head. A place that I could push some of the worries aside for a few hours. The jumble of emotions—hearing the concern in Garth’s voice for James.
Which left me standing in the doorway of a building that smelled of coal dust, iron and fire.
The forge was pristine and to say that’s unusual is an understatement. Forges were full of coal dust and slag from overheated iron, sweat and blood from the blacksmith and dirt and shit from the horses that came to have their feet trimmed and shod.
Pristine was not a usual descriptor for a blacksmith’s shop. But this place was swept, tools were all hanging in their places, the bin of extra iron was carefully stacked, and the stalls where the horses stood had fresh straw and not a bit of shit anywhere.
I hoped I could do what I needed to do here, and even more, put my current troubles at the back of my mind for a little while.
I needed a moment to breathe. Funny how sweating and blistering up my hands working was the place I turned to for respite.
Or maybe not so funny, being the Tinker that I was.
“Hello?” I called out into the empty space as I took a step into the forge.
“What you need, ma’am?”
I smiled at the thought of anyone calling me ma’am. I kept walking, looking for the source of the voice. I headed around the back side of the main forge. “I’d like to rent your shop for a few hours, if I could?”
“That’s a new one. You kidding, right?”
I found myself thinking of—and missing—my buddy Smitty, back in The Smudge. Why couldn’t this guy have been a doppelganger? I had a feeling I could’ve won ol’ Smitty over no matter what world he inhabited. Now I had to get this guy to believe in me, too.
Once I found him, at any rate…
Behind the main forge was a small, tidy set up, a table and two chairs, teapot and plate of some sort of golden pastry that had a thick white glaze on it that had to be sweet.
The old man who sat in one of the chairs had long white hair carefully slicked back and braided almost to his waist. His knuckles were big for the size of his hands, and he wasn’t very big—probably about my height and lean.
Sharp blue eyes narrowed on me. “What do you mean, rent my place?”
I motioned to the second chair, and he nodded for me to sit down.
“My father was a blacksmith, I know my way around a forge, and I’d like to build a tip for this.” I pulled my whip out and showed him the bare end.
He took the leather and ran his fingers over the braided end, and I took note of the Tideblessing on his wrist. Flames with a sword inside it. “You’ll need something better than raw iron for this.”
I touched the pouch of coins at my waist, my earlier thoughts on forging the dagger end of the whip finally coming to the surface. “I am hoping to use a bit of gold, to refine it.”
“Gold is too soft, would blow out on the first crack.”
I nodded and took a breath to say the thing that I knew he would understand. “I know, but…I have a feeling that it’s what this weapon wants.”
He arched a single eyebrow. “Not many people would say that.”
I shrugged. “You understand though.”
“I do.” He sat back in his chair. “You think gold fused with iron, eh? I never done it.”
Not just any gold, but gold from Alabaster.
A place that had been my home for my whole life—or at least my whole life that I could remember—gold that Duncan had given me.
And using it here was a way to connect myself to that past, no matter where I went next.
Gold could be spent, but a weapon that I was learning to use, and would hopefully be with me for a long time…
that warranted the best I could give it.
“It’s a gut feeling.”
“Hmm. Anything else?”
“If you’ll allow me the time, a new knife. Lost mine and could use a backup.”
With a tap on the table he stood, spry for the shocking white of his hair. “Smithson Coal’s the name.”
Of course it was—I had to contain the grin that tugged at my lips.
I held out one hand. “Harmony Fallowell.”
He took my hand gave it a firm shake and then turned it over and inspected my palms. “Got some calluses. I don’t think your lying about working hard, at least.”
“Thank you?”
He held up the end of the whip. “You should start with the dagger. Let your mind rest on how you’re going to make this work. Cause I want to watch you blend gold and iron into something usable. Not seen it done before. Not sure you can do it.”
I stood. “Fair enough. How much for the time and iron?”
Smithson motioned for me to go ahead of him. “Depends on what I learn from you. Knowledge is worth more than gold to me at this point in my life.”
“I will do my best.”
He followed me to the front of the forge and I got to work, gathering tools and setting them on the anvil. It was not far off the perfect height for me, being that Smithson and I were of a similar height.
I moved to his scrap heap, so perfectly piled. “You mind if I pull from here?”
“Go right ahead. You’re not from round here, are you?”
I didn’t need this line of questioning, but I didn’t need to answer him—someone else did.
“She’s not. She’s with us, Smithson.” Trick-Eyed Tom stepped into the forge, the door shutting softly behind him.
“A pirate?” Smithson snorted. “Nah, she’s too pretty for you lot.”
“That she is. But she’s tough as nails and loyal.
You know that Hook takes loyalty over what anyone looks like.
” Tom pulled a single stool away from the wall and plunked himself down on it.
“That being said, I was curious what she be up to, seeing as she didn’t have blacksmith on her application to come aboard. ”
My lips twitched. “All you wanted was a falconer. Didn’t think you needed my entire skill set.”
Smithson looked to me and then back to Tom. “You sticking around then?”
“Curiosity.”
“Good, you can drink with me.”
“Ahh, I knew I liked you Smithson. What you got? Rum? Whiskey?”
“Tea.”
A laugh burst out of me as I sorted through the iron heap. “Make him drink it straight, Smithson, no cream or sugar.”
A low chuckle from the other room and the clinking of pottery faded as I focused on the iron in front of me. I needed a dagger, but the right iron for the whip was more important so I searched for that first. I let my hands ghost over the bits and pieces.
An old draft horseshoe the size of a dinner plate caught my eye first. There were several nail heads still embedded in it along with dirt. The front of the toe was worn—the horse had worked hard to wear it that much in a single shoeing cycle.
My fingers slid over it and my magic rose to the surface, testing it out. Hard as iron, gritty, and unwilling to give up. The horse had strangely, unknowingly imbued some of its own qualities into the iron.
That was perfect for the whip.
The dagger iron was easier to find. A solid chunk about eight inches long that already had a slight curve to it.
My magic kissed along the edges of it, inspecting it.
It had started out being molded for a water barrel but broke rather than be trapped like that.
I shook my head. What the fuck was happening to me?
Iron didn’t have…wants. Did it? I wrapped my fingers around the metal and it seemed to warm to me.
I couldn’t think too much about it, or I’d get sidetracked.
“Which for which?” Smithson asked.
I looked up to see the two men sitting with tea mugs in their hands. Tom looked totally unbothered by the fact that he was drinking tea instead of rum. He held up his mug. “Smithson makes his own…tea…it’s got a kick, especially when heated.”
I held up the eight inch chunk. “Dagger.” Then the horseshoe. “Whip.”
“Interesting choices. Proceed.”
I turned my back to the men and focused first on the dagger as Smithson had suggested. If they wanted to sit there for the next few hours while I worked, that was their issue.
The low hum of their voices was in the background while I stoked the coal and started to turn the blower handle, pushing more air into the base of the forge and bringing the heat up.
I slid the eight-inch chunk into the coal and grabbed a set of tongs.
The three hammers I’d set on the anvil were waiting for me and I let my mind wander as I worked on the dagger’s shape.
My magic was shifting and changing what felt like every day. It didn’t frighten me, but I was trying to understand what I could do and what I couldn’t with it. Like Xander had said, a little bit of everything really.
Like a jack of all trades. Even this time, as I forged the dagger my magic was actively bleeding into my movements, down my arms and into the tools and metal. The form of the dagger came quicker than ever, as if the metal was working with me, moving into the shape I wanted.
The spine of the dagger curved, following a wicked swoop on the business side of the blade. I didn’t fold the metal as I had before—I didn’t need to. This blade was all business and wouldn’t break even if I jabbed it into a stone.
It…hell…it wanted to be made.
What felt like a moment passed and it was done, the edge sharpened and the handle made of a solid chunk of white ash wood.
I turned the dagger over in my hand, my magic reaching toward it as if it were its own living thing and with it, little designs emerged from the flat edge as I stared.
Flames licked up from the tip of the blade to the handle, etching into the iron. “Wow.”
I blinked and looked up to see both men staring at me, eyes wide and cups dangling from their fingertips.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen a blade made in less than an hour, never mind a blade that looks like that.” Smithson breathed out. “No cost to use the forge. Do the other now.”
The door banged open before I could turn away, and a wide shouldered figure stepped through. Damn it, why did he have to show up? “Tom, you in here?”
“Yeah, Hook. Watching our Harmony.”