Read Online Cate Campbell by Benedict Hall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Benedict Hall
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the door, and his glance fell on a short curved sword in a brocade scabbard.
The dealer, a small man with dark eyes gone rheumy with age, emerged from the back of his shop through a curtain of beaded fabric. He wore a fez, and he smiled at Preston with lips so dark they were nearly purple. “Many fine thing,” he said, bowing, clasping his hands before him. “Many fine thing, special for you. For your lady.”
His accent was thick, but he spoke decent English for a Turk. Preston pointed to the sword, and the shopkeeper scurried to take it down from the wall display. He carried it to Preston, and presented it on both palms. Preston took it in his hands, and slid the blade slowly out of the scabbard.
Just then Carter appeared at his shoulder. He gave a low whistle when he saw the sword. “Have a care, guv. That looks bloody sharp.”
Preston ran a finger down the flat of the blade. The edge of it, with its cruel arch and pointed tip, had the shiny look of steel recently sharpened, though the flat was pitted and stained with age.
The shopkeeper murmured, “Very nice. Very old, sir.”
Preston glanced up. “How old?”
The dealer shrugged, and spread his hands. “Who knows? Very nice.”
Preston slid the blade back into the scabbard and laid it on the counter. Carter said, “Gonna buy it, guv? Snappy souvenir of our glorious victory.” He drew out the word glorious, laughing, then fell to scrubbing at the spots on his sleeve with the heel of his hand.
“I don’t know,” Preston said. He tapped the scabbard with his fingers. “How much?”
The little man’s eyes brightened. “For you, very nice, very nice. Five pounds.”
Preston turned to Carter. “Five pounds is about twenty dollars, right?”
Carter nodded, and laughed. “Way too much, old son,” he said gleefully. “Make him come down.”
Preston, heartened by Carter’s approval, turned back to the dealer. “I’ll give you ten shillings.”
The shopkeeper pressed his right hand to his heart. “Sir, you pain me.”
Carter chortled, and Preston said, “His English is improving, don’t you think?”
The man dropped his hand to sweep it over the scabbard, brushing the raised stitching, the old stained velvet. “You see, very old.” His dark lips pursed. “Four pounds.”
Carter was fingering a scarf draped over an enameled mirror, but he left it, and came back to the counter. The dealer leaned closer to Preston, making him want to step back. “Very rare, sir,” the man said. “Very old.”
Preston said, “One pound, then. I don’t even know if it’s genuine.”
“Likely not,” Carter said. The dealer threw him a glance full of venom.
Preston pushed the scabbard away from him, across the counter. “Last time. One.”
The shopkeeper’s look of pain was genuine this time. He opened his hands and held them up. “Sorry, sir. Not possible. Three pounds, possible. One, not possible.”
“No good, old son,” Carter said cheerfully. “Too much.”
Preston thought he might have paid it, if Carter hadn’t been so sure. He gave the sword a final glance, rapped once on the counter with his knuckles, and turned away. Carter grinned, and the two of them started out of the cramped shop. The door was too narrow for them to pass through together, and for once, Carter stepped back to let Preston go ahead.
As he stepped into the shaft of hot sunlight falling through the open doorway, Preston looked up, distracted by a gleam of something blue. He stopped, and Carter’s heavy stomach bumped his elbow.
It shone beyond a barrier of smoky glass, its suspending chain draped over a tiny, discolored mirror. It was as long as the first knuckle of Preston’s thumb, and nearly as wide. The facets were irregular, and poorly cut, but the color—violet with tinges of purple—was vivid, alive with light. It seemed to flicker, as if a blue flame burned in its depths. Preston’s fingers curled, yearning to touch it, to feel its weight in his
The dealer, a small man with dark eyes gone rheumy with age, emerged from the back of his shop through a curtain of beaded fabric. He wore a fez, and he smiled at Preston with lips so dark they were nearly purple. “Many fine thing,” he said, bowing, clasping his hands before him. “Many fine thing, special for you. For your lady.”
His accent was thick, but he spoke decent English for a Turk. Preston pointed to the sword, and the shopkeeper scurried to take it down from the wall display. He carried it to Preston, and presented it on both palms. Preston took it in his hands, and slid the blade slowly out of the scabbard.
Just then Carter appeared at his shoulder. He gave a low whistle when he saw the sword. “Have a care, guv. That looks bloody sharp.”
Preston ran a finger down the flat of the blade. The edge of it, with its cruel arch and pointed tip, had the shiny look of steel recently sharpened, though the flat was pitted and stained with age.
The shopkeeper murmured, “Very nice. Very old, sir.”
Preston glanced up. “How old?”
The dealer shrugged, and spread his hands. “Who knows? Very nice.”
Preston slid the blade back into the scabbard and laid it on the counter. Carter said, “Gonna buy it, guv? Snappy souvenir of our glorious victory.” He drew out the word glorious, laughing, then fell to scrubbing at the spots on his sleeve with the heel of his hand.
“I don’t know,” Preston said. He tapped the scabbard with his fingers. “How much?”
The little man’s eyes brightened. “For you, very nice, very nice. Five pounds.”
Preston turned to Carter. “Five pounds is about twenty dollars, right?”
Carter nodded, and laughed. “Way too much, old son,” he said gleefully. “Make him come down.”
Preston, heartened by Carter’s approval, turned back to the dealer. “I’ll give you ten shillings.”
The shopkeeper pressed his right hand to his heart. “Sir, you pain me.”
Carter chortled, and Preston said, “His English is improving, don’t you think?”
The man dropped his hand to sweep it over the scabbard, brushing the raised stitching, the old stained velvet. “You see, very old.” His dark lips pursed. “Four pounds.”
Carter was fingering a scarf draped over an enameled mirror, but he left it, and came back to the counter. The dealer leaned closer to Preston, making him want to step back. “Very rare, sir,” the man said. “Very old.”
Preston said, “One pound, then. I don’t even know if it’s genuine.”
“Likely not,” Carter said. The dealer threw him a glance full of venom.
Preston pushed the scabbard away from him, across the counter. “Last time. One.”
The shopkeeper’s look of pain was genuine this time. He opened his hands and held them up. “Sorry, sir. Not possible. Three pounds, possible. One, not possible.”
“No good, old son,” Carter said cheerfully. “Too much.”
Preston thought he might have paid it, if Carter hadn’t been so sure. He gave the sword a final glance, rapped once on the counter with his knuckles, and turned away. Carter grinned, and the two of them started out of the cramped shop. The door was too narrow for them to pass through together, and for once, Carter stepped back to let Preston go ahead.
As he stepped into the shaft of hot sunlight falling through the open doorway, Preston looked up, distracted by a gleam of something blue. He stopped, and Carter’s heavy stomach bumped his elbow.
It shone beyond a barrier of smoky glass, its suspending chain draped over a tiny, discolored mirror. It was as long as the first knuckle of Preston’s thumb, and nearly as wide. The facets were irregular, and poorly cut, but the color—violet with tinges of purple—was vivid, alive with light. It seemed to flicker, as if a blue flame burned in its depths. Preston’s fingers curled, yearning to touch it, to feel its weight in his
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