The sun had long since set. Emily was working by the light of a tallow
lantern when a noise from the shop doorway made her jump. She turned with a start—and spied the long,
angular figure of her employer leaning up against the door frame.
Her heart slowed—a bit, but
not completely.
“Puttin’ in ‘nother long
evenin’?” She nodded in response. “Mind if I ask why?”
Emily swallowed, thought for a long
moment. He’s testing me. Of course
he was. He was always testing her. John Ammerman was always testing everyone. Probing.
Prodding. Folding the metal, over
and over again, seeking out flaws and impurities. At length, she spoke. “Because this is the only hour of the day
when I can stand at a work desk without worrying about whether one of my
coworkers behind me is checking out my ass.”
That earned a snort, and Emily
figured she’d passed. But she knew
better than to assume the examination was over.
“Boys givin’ ye trouble? Jes say
the word, I’ll set ‘em straight. Yer a
free woman; ye don’t need to just take it from ‘em.”
Emily shook her head. “They’re buffoons some of the time, but
they’re no threat to me. When I need
your help with them, Mr. Ammerman, I’ll be sure to let you know. But a free woman needs to be able to take
care of herself.”
Ammerman nodded. His hand moved to his chin, fumbled idly with
a few hairs of his patchy beard. “Reckon
yer right on that score. Still…” His eyes narrowed. “These’r dangerous times ‘round these
parts. Dangerous times t’ be a free man
in Haven…or woman, of course,” he added hastily. “Reckon Ramesh found that out the hard
way.” He pursed his lips. “What if it weren’t me in this doorway here? What if it were th’ murd’rer?” A toothy, feral smile. “What’d y’do then, young miss?”
“Mr. Ammerman,” she replied, “I
have, within arm’s reach, six different deadly weapons. Each of them was crafted by the hands of a
free man, in the hope that another free man would use it to defend himself—or
herself—against the initiation of force.
And you’ve trained me in the use of each and every one of them.” She gave him a slight grin. “This shop is, I think, an unwelcome
environment for impolite guests.”
That earned her a full barking
laugh. “Now THAT’S a good answer,
missy,” Ammerman replied. “Not jes’
spirited, but more m’portant, correct. An’ I reckon I recollect training ye up a
bit. Ye were a good woman with a blade
in ‘er hands, an’ a quick study.” He
nodded at the pile of crossbow bolts on Emily’s desk. “Still are, it seems. What’s with th’ fletchin’ on those?”
She picked up a bolt and extended it
to him shaft-first; he advanced across the room to accept it. “I’ve been experimenting with a slight right
offset,” she explained. Each of the four
feathers that ringed the arrow shaft was slightly askew, like the blades of a
boat propeller. “With the last set of
broadheads we got back from the smith, we’ve had some stability problems.”
Ammerman held the shaft of the
weapon between his thumb and forefinger.
His thumb stroked it idly.
“Customers complainin’?”
Emily shook her head. “No, I just had some trouble at the practice
range. Anyway, with the offset, I’ve
been getting more rotation on the bolt as it flies. More stability in the air.”
Ammerman frowned, his fingers
continuing to caress the weapon. “What
about air speed, though?” He glanced at
Emily. “Penetration?” He raised an eyebrow.
She met his gaze levelly. “Mr. Ammerman,” she said, “I’m confident that
I’d get sufficient penetration with these to take care of anyone who was giving
me trouble.”
The feral grin again. Then Ammerman nodded. Holding her gaze, he reached out his fist
and, rather than placing the bolt back on the desk, dropped it from a couple of
feet up; it clattered to rest alongside the others.
Their eyes met at a distance of not
more than a few feet. “Y’know,” he said
in a low voice, “y’don’t have t’ work late every
night. What’ve ye got t’ prove?”
Emily’s expression never
changed. “Myself.”
Ammerman’s smile dimmed. “What fer?” he muttered. “Who cares what people think? Why cain’t ye just believe in yerself a little bit, ‘staida provin’ yerself all the time?”
“Any idiot can believe in himself,
Mr. Ammerman. That’s what makes many of
them idiots.” That earned her an
approving guffaw, but she went on.
“Belief is…subjective. It’s a
matter of opinion. Proof is better. Proof is empirical. As you say, other people’s opinions don’t
matter. The opinion that matters is
mine—and I base my opinion on proof.”
Ammerman’s smile had evolved into a
wry grin. “Not much fer ‘self-esteem’,
are ye, young miss?”
Emily’s expression remained
serious. “On the contrary, Mr.
Ammerman,” she replied. “This is self-esteem. I seek to prove myself, because I am a thing
worthy of being proven.”
At that, Ammerman threw back his
head and laughed aloud. “Mighta known
better than t’ seek out a battle o’ wits with ye. Leave me lookin’ like an unarmed man.” The feral grin made one final cameo. “And I never like bein’ unarmed. Still,” he continued, “I’m gonna turn in fer
th’ night, even if yer not. Door’s
locked, shut it behind ye when ye leave.”
He turned and marched across the room towards the hall that led to the
stairs, and to his quarters atop them.
As he was about to enter the
hallway, Ammerman turned again. “Learned
a lotta new tricks, young miss. Wouldn’t
deny it. Well on yer way t’ bein’ a free
woman.” He paused. When he continued, his expression was
blank. “Got more t’ teach ye,
though. And not jes’ ‘bout weapons
either. I’m a man what remembers…an’ a
man what knows, as well. Lotta truths waitin’ for ye…if ye got what it
takes t’ learn ‘em.” And he was gone.
Emily stood for several long
moments. Then she released a long,
shuddering breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding in. She stood for a few long moments, shoulders
shuddering. She made herself exhale
slowly.
Emily stared for a few long moments
at the doorway leading to the street outside.
She spent those moments thinking about obligations, and loyalty, and
about a promise she’d once made.
Then she squared her shoulders,
stepped behind the desk, and returned to her work.
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