Crooked Words

by K A Cook

books, apples guaranteed to grant the knowledge of the universe, preserved rats, dried dates and supposedly enchanted rings (with the ensuing screaming, swearing, cuffing, hitting, punching and apologies) to make his way towards the corner of the souk reserved for sword smiths and arms merchants. Darius swallowed the last of his spit-roasted possum (at least his mother would be pleased to note that he’d now eat a boiled boot if he got hungry enough) and headed towards the closest stall, something easier said than done when he had to get around a man trying to herd five longhorn cattle through the alleyway. “Good morning. My name is Darius and I—”

  The seller—a broad, slab-shouldered woman—looked him up and down and burst out laughing. “You? You’d take your own head off if I sold you a sword.”

  “Yes,” Darius said, rolling his eyes. It stopped being funny once he’d heard the sentiment expressed in ten different languages. Yes, he did not look much like a swordsman—in fact, he looked very much like a scrawny twelve-year-old boy. As a magician, however, swords weren’t required; as a magician, looking like a non-threatening twelve-year-old boy was by far the preferable approach. Smiling, tripping and apologising didn’t get him dragged into dark corners and his throat slit. “I know. I don’t suppose you could tell me where Safi’s stall is?”

  She gave him a long, doubting glance.

  “I’m buying a present for a friend.” Darius stood up straighter and tried his best to look capable.

  She gave a shrug and the kind of sigh that suggested this was ill-advised but so not her problem. “Three streets down, fifteenth stall on the left after you turn right.”

  “Thank you.” He meant to stalk off with some pretence at dignity—but ran face-first into a low-lying wooden beam and fell flat onto the ground. The vendor shrieked with laughter; Darius groaned, poked at his nose, and pushed himself upright. “I … uh, I meant to do that.”

  “You go and tell yourself that, dear,” she called out between snorts. “Have a nice day!”

  Darius gulped, blushed and walked away from the stall as fast as he could manage.

  A faded red awning marked Safi’s stall, which otherwise didn’t look any different from any other stall, displaying a collection of weapons from several countries that fell in the range from beautiful to hard-used. Two-handed swords brought in from the west by traders or left behind by mercenaries lay on the front table; a few dusty rapiers rested in a painted barrel; a multitude of curved-bladed shamshir hung on hooks at the back of the stall. Select pieces rested on swatches of velvet—Safi even had a few zweihänders and cinquedeas with nonsense alliterations scored into the blade.

  Darius eyed them off and snorted. Not a one of those alliterations made any sense. They certainly weren’t going to make a common sword any more or less magical. He might not be able to walk through a marketplace without making an idiot of himself, and he might look like a boy, but he’d been top of his year at school. If that wasn’t good for identifying rubbish being passed off as magic, he didn’t know what was.

  “Good morning,” he said as he approached the turning figure at the back of the stall. “I’m Darius and I—”

  Safi was at least three times as tall as Darius and five times as broad, his dark hair falling in raggedy curls about his face. He looked as though he could break Darius’s skull with a single punch, and just the way Safi peered down at him made him feel a little nervous. “Go back home to your mother,” Safi said, shaking his head. “You’re far too young to need a sword, boy.”

  Darius sighed. “I’m not a boy,” he said, and he wiped his sweating hands on his trousers before reaching inside his shirt for the piece of crumpled paper more dear to him than anything else in the world: his diploma. “I am a fully-qualified magician from Greenstone’s College of Magickery, on an errand of grave importance. I have heard that you have in your possession certain eldritch artefacts in which I may have a professional interest.”

  “I have what?” Safi frowned, peering at the diploma. Whether or not he could read didn’t matter: a large, red, official-looking wax seal adorned the page.

  “Certain eldritch artefacts that—”

  “I’m not going to sell you anything if you don’t start speaking in small words—and don’t you roll your eyes at me, boy, or I’ll slap you into next week.”

  Darius had the rather uncomfortable feeling that Safi could hit him well before he could alliterate a ward spell, so he nodded and tried his best to straighten his face. “Magic swords.”

  Safi glanced over towards the display; his face broke out into something close to a blush. “I see. I suppose you’re after something … well, real, then?”

  “Yes.” Darius attempted a modest smile. “I’m—if you should have one—most interested in a loquacious … I mean, a talking sword.”

  Safi stared at him and broke into loud, raucous snorts.

  Why, why did everyone laugh at him when he said that? Sure, the chances of finding a talking sword that wasn’t obnoxious or cherished weren’t high. Finding a talking sword—if taste weren’t an issue—wasn’t hard at all, and Darius had already passed one by on the way to Safi’s stall, one that shouted not-so-helpful fashion advice at everyone that walked past. Finding that rare item, a talking sword that didn’t drive its owner to despair, was a much harder quest.

  It was, however, the only kind of sword Professor March didn’t have displayed on his bedroom wall, the one thing that might make him look at Darius for just a moment and see something other than an awkward, green magician.

  “A talking sword isn’t going to make you fight better, boy,” Safi said, once he could get a word out between bursts of laughter. “How about a nice little dagger you can wear at your belt?”

  Darius knotted his hands into fists and counted down from ten before speaking. “This is an errand of grave importance,” he said, trying not to snarl; he flipped his diploma back and forth to brush away the flies droning around his face. “I am a magician in need of a certain magical artefact. Can you help me or not?”

  Safi paused, stared and then sighed. “I’ve been saving it for someone special, of course.” He bent down for something tucked under the front display. “Here. If you want it badly enough. It’s real, I assure you.”

  Too real, Darius thought in horror. The zweihänder (for a moment Darius just wondered how he was going to get the damn thing home, since even Safi appeared to have trouble holding it: if the chape of the scabbard touched the ground, the pommel rested at a level with Darius’s chin) was … well, hideous. He cringed, unable to look away from the gaudy hilt and guard fashioned like a serpent’s head and coiled tail, or the fist-sized red glass ‘gemstone’ clasped between the serpent’s teeth to form the pommel. The scabbard was covered with paste stones, golden tassels and too many glittering trimmings to count. Darius couldn’t imagine anyone with a sufficient ability for embarrassment ever looking at the sword, never mind wielding it—the only thing not embarrassing about the sword, in fact, was the battered leather belt wrapped around the scabbard, and even then someone had tried to pretty it up with a few tassels.

  There was no way he could bring that thing back to Greenstone and expect any kind of reaction save March throwing the wretched thing at Darius’s head.

  “See?” Safi drew the blade far enough that Darius could see the ricasso, etched with nonsense alliterations in Khaloun and Eastern Orthodox. How did ‘Sword’s Strength Sings of Sweet Summer Sopranos Sighing in the Sultry Sands’, in two languages no less, mean anything at all useful? “It’s the genuine article. I got it from a little old man who found it a cave with other wizardly things, but—well, I think some magicians have trouble seeing past the outside to the beauty within.”

  “Really?” Darius drew in a deep breath. “Ah … no. No. I’m pretty sure if I return with that, my master will kill me.” If Darius managed to make it back to Greenstone with that thing in tow without first dying of shame; he didn’t like his chances.

  “You sure? I’m willing to offer a very di
scounted price. I’m happy to see it go to a good home with magical-type folk who’d treat it right. That’s always important to me.” Safi held out the sword for closer inspection. “I know people think I’m some common sword seller, but matching up warriors and their weapons is a sacred calling, you know. I think you both could have a lovely relationship.”

  Darius took a slow step backward. He was going to go home and join the monastery. He was going to spend his days gardening and transcribing sacred texts and giving sermons and never having lustful thoughts about Professor March or anyone else. “That’s really nice of you, really, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to—”

  A loud, strident, metallic-sounding voice interrupted him. “You are going to give me to some random stranger off the street? A boy you do not even know? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Darius jumped and sent a matched pair of throwing knives clattering to the ground.

  Safi didn’t even blink. “Why the hell not? You’re annoying and bloody ugly. A boy like this is the only one too stupid to know how off balance you are. Do you think I’m made of money? Do you think I have the stall space for you to just lie around all day and not be sold?”

  Darius swallowed. “I do know that, actually.”

  The sword raised its voice. “So you are just