The Dark Ability Read Free Page A

head and turned away. His father laughed at him enough; he did not need this stranger to do it too.
    “Hey, boy, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    Rsiran stopped and turned back.
    “I’m not used to seeing lorcith blades, at least not anymore. There was a time when our folk made many weapons, knives, and swords of such quality that they were highly prized. Problem was, men killed for the blades.” He shook his head. “I haven’t even seen a blade forged out of lorcith in years and thought that this must be the work of some ancient weapon smith. Most smiths these days don’t even mark their work.”
    Panic settled in his chest, sending his heart racing. Rsiran swallowed, trying—and failing—to tamp down his nerves. The etching had felt like a touch of vanity, but he had done it the same, almost drawn to make the marks, as if he had known it was not complete without them.
    “Your master must have shown you how to forge such blades.” He smiled. “Perhaps the smiths have changed their stance? Work like that…”
    He shook his head. “My master,” he began, deciding not to mention that his father ran the shop—it wouldn’t do to get his father in trouble with him, “thinks this blade was a waste of ore.”
    The man frowned. “Waste? Why—because a knife can kill? So can a fork or a platter or whatever else the smiths think is in fashion these days. You hit someone hard enough with lorcith, and they’ll die the same as if you cut them.”
    Rsiran started to turn. The hour was late, and he would have to be up before his father and back in the shop, getting the forge fired up and ready for the day. Lingering in the street would only leave him tired. He didn’t want to think what would happen were he to oversleep.
    “You thought about selling that knife?” the man asked.
    He glanced over his shoulder at the man and shook his head. Other than the smith guild, none were allowed to sell forged lorcith wares. “I already told you I’m only an apprentice,” Rsiran said carefully. This man already knew about the lorcith blades. If he wanted, he could report Rsiran to the constables, or worse, to the guild. Then Rsiran would never become a master smith.
    The man leaned against a nearby wall, pale eyes holding Rsiran intently. The misting rain didn’t seem to bother him, but he ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. “Because you’re an apprentice doesn’t mean you can’t profit from your work.” He smiled. “Knife like that would probably fetch at least three dronr.” He shrugged. “Probably quite a bit more outside the city.”
    “Is that your offer?”
    The man leaned forward and his smile broadened. “Didn’t say I would buy it for three dronr.” He laughed and there was darkness in the way that he laughed.
    Rsiran started to turn away, ready to run. What was he even doing waiting here? Already he would be home late—probably late enough to anger his father further—that he shouldn’t wait any longer.
    “Hey, now,” the man said, catching his sleeve, “didn’t say I would buy it for three dronr, but didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it at all.”
    Rsiran reached into his pocket and fingered the knives. He wouldn’t have to tell his family where he got the coin and could even use some of the money to buy more lorcith. Then his father wouldn’t have any reason to be upset with his forging. “I can’t sell it for three dronr,” he said. “That would barely pay for the lorcith.”
    The man narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. A smile stayed fixed on his face and wrinkled the corner of his eyes. Rsiran worried that he might simply take the knife from him again. “Four?” the man asked.
    He swallowed. “I would need five dronr.”
    The man leaned back and looked up at the sky. “Five! And here I thought the Great Watcher finally smiled upon me.”
    He turned away. Had he pushed his luck too hard? Nothing stopped this man from simply taking the knives. Rsiran wouldn’t even be