He was a lean man with a prominent nose and large, intelligent eyes. He was not the first of Lord Jorthun’s Weaponsmasters—that would have made him as old as Lord Jorthun, if not older—but he had studied at the feet of the man who had been from the time he was barely old enough to hold a stick and pretend it was a sword. Since he was older than their parents, that had been a great many years ago indeed. He was not only an expert in many kinds of weapons and none at all, he was also an expert in how to conceal weapons. In that, he had the aid of a very fine craftsman down in Haven, a man whose hands were as clever as his wits were feeble. All Master Leandro had to do was to imagine what he wanted and give detailed instructions as to what it should be like, and the fellow—whose identity their father kept secret even from them—could produce it.

But it appeared that they were not getting a lesson in one of those today. “It’s been a very long time since I worked you two at stickwork,” he said thoughtfully, as a puff of breeze stirred Abi’s hair. “Abi, what is the likeliest such object that is going to come into your hands on a job?”

“Probably the stick we keep our chalk-string on,” she said, after a moment. “We use it for measuring and laying out straight lines. It’s about so long,” she added, helpfully holding her hands a little farther apart than her hands were long.

“Yes, that will do. Go and get two each of the right size from the armory and come back here.”

“We’re going to get bruised knuckles,” Perry said, grimacing, as they both headed for the armory.

She winced, but she nodded; there was going to be no way around that. They wouldn’t put full force into their blows, of course, but they were still going to get bruises.

Oh, well.