“I… I’ve never stabbed a bartender, that I can recall.”

“Soldier, then?”

Evie quickly shakes her head. “I haven’t had any training. But I’m not blind, either. I can see rust and rot as well as anyone.”

Spud-Bar is obviously skeptical, but they don’t press the issue. “That’s a good piece, the ax. It’s a B’ors design, B’ors-made. Which you wouldn’t know, not having ’ad any training and all.”

Evie can’t help but grin. “Right. It’s got a good balance.”

“Also rare among this lot, I’m afraid. But I take what I’m given and do m’best with it. That’s all any of us here can do. The good news is, odds are fair you’ll only need it for one battle.”

“Is that the average life around here? One battle?”

“That’s slightly above the average.”

That news settles like a great granite slab on Evie’s chest. She does her best not to let it show.

“A lot of these people don’t look like they belong here, even for one battle,” Evie observes.

Spud-Bar shrugs. “There are many reasons to ‘belong’ here.”

“I had a friend,” Evie ventures, carefully. “We were… separated. Is it possible you’ve seen him? A handsome man, my age, dark hair, dark eyes.”

“This is someone you know or someone you dream about knowing?”

Evie curses herself silently. “It’s a poor description, I know. But—”

“I don’t look too hard at the new ones, you know? No offense, but you may be dead tomorrow. It doesn’t pay to make lasting friends.”

“Right. Of course. Can I use your tools to work on this?” she asks, holding up the ax again.

“Is bladesmithing something else you’ve had no training in?”

Evie shrugs. “I tinker.”

Now it’s Spud-Bar’s turn to grin. “You tinker.”

Evie nods.

“What’s mine is at your disposal, Savage,” Spud-Bar says.

Her expression darkens. “My name is Evie.”

Spud-Bar doesn’t respond to that at first. They’re staring down at Evie quizzically, as if genuinely not quite sure what to make of her.

“Of course it is,” they finally say, bowing in a formal greeting. “Evie.”

Evie returns the bow. “Spud-Bar.”

The armorist laughs. “It’s a nickname. I’ve learned to like it.”

“May I ask you a question that’s not about steel?”

Spud-Bar’s laughter fades, and they look down at Evie with renewed skepticism in their eyes.

“You may, though I won’t guarantee any good answer. I stick to my trade, mostly.”

“Fair. What happens when this wagon train stops?”

Spud-Bar begins picking up the blades discarded by Evie, dumping them in a basket containing similarly distressed and broken weapons. The task seems almost like a brief escape from answering Evie’s question.

When they finally do, there’s nothing cordial in Spud-Bar’s voice as there was a moment before.