The door at the back opened, and a woman with the shoulders of a brick-carrier or a blacksmith entered from the rear. Her red hair was as short as Jicks’, the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up over her biceps, she wore a leather apron over her shirt, and her arms were muscular enough to match her shoulders.

I thought this was a Mage, not a smith. . . . “I’m sorry,” Abi apologized. “I was looking for Mage Evelie—”

“You came to the right place, dearie,” the woman replied, sounding like someone grandmama, amused, but kindly. “You’re one of those Valdemarans, aye?”

“Well, yes, but . . .” she glanced again at the weapons on the counter.

“I’m a Mage-smith. I hammer spells into metal,” the woman explained with a laugh. “Now, I’m not one of your legendary types. I don’t make unbreakable swords, or daggers that never miss, or gods-forbid bleeding talking swords, and why you’d want one of those I can’t imagine. I just make weapons that are a good bit tougher than your ordinary sword or knife, with edges that never need sharpening, weapons that never rust. Once in a while I make one you can use as a torch, in a pinch.”

Abi had to remind herself that she wasn’t here to talk about magic swords, much less buy one, even though a dagger that could be used as a torch sounded awfully useful. “Well, I was wondering if you might be willing to help me. Would you be able to tell if the false Valdemarans used magic to bring down the city wall?”

The woman stroked her chin. “Maybe, if there’s anything left to find. They might have wiped out their work . . . though I should be able to pick up some traces. Did you want me to go have a look at it? There’ll be a fee whether or not I find anything.”

“If you could do that, it would help us a lot,” Abi admitted.

The woman nodded. “I dunno why that dolt of a mayor didn’t ask one of us to come have a look in the first place,” she said, lifting up a section of the counter that swung up on hinges and coming out into the shop. Now that she was out from behind the counter, Abi saw she was wearing breeches not unlike Abi’s, only with leather patches on the thighs and the front of the lower legs, and stout working boots. “No, wait, I do know. Skinflint didn’t want to pay us.” She barked a laugh, and led the way out of the shop, pausing only to lock it behind her.