A Pleasant Night on Ichorous Waves
Fiction
There was no question that the blade resting in Cosette’s hands was a genuinely unique artifact, a custom weapon from a far-removed time. Most swords sold by the antique dealers of the Maghreb were made from common iron that vanished beneath centuries of rust and rot, hastily ornamented and sold to unwary Europeans for fifty times their actual worth. This piece, on the other hand, was authentic Damascus steel — Cosette could tell that much as she ran her knowledgeable fingers along the distinctive patterns that ran the length of the blade. Authentic, too, was the ruby-eyed silver sea serpent that twined around the hilt, its hungry jaws eternally clamped around the tang. Each detail, each tiny etching and delicate feature, was the work of a master who had toiled at the ornament for untold hundreds of hours.
“Miss, is it desirable? You’ll take it?” There was a hint of eagerness in the Algerian merchant’s voice, an unfortunate failing for a hawker.
“It is a fine piece, and I most certainly can find a home for it.” Cosette rested the blade on the counter and fetched an oversized bag from the flounces of her dress. “Does monsieur take francs?”
“Surely, Miss.”
Cosette dug out a fistful of banknotes. “Twelve hundred. More than fair, given the uncertain pedigree.”
