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used.
    The valuer carefully added weights to the other pan. Kydd glanced at Renzi, who seemed unaffected by the excitement. The man peered at the weights, then said, “This is what I can offer.
    Four hundred silver pesos on account now and an adjustment later after it has been assayed.”
    “That would seem equitable,” Renzi said. Outside he added,
    “At six pesos to the guinea, an excellent trade—more than enough to . . . ?”
    They knew where they had to go: a bare twenty minutes along the familiar bustle of Main Street was Town Range, the residen-tial quarter for army officers, and in a side-street they found the garrison sword-cutler. Kydd turned to Renzi. “Now, Nicholas, 32

Julian Stockwin
    understand that it’s a fightin’ sword I’m getting, none o’ your macaroni pig-stickers.”
    “As you’ve mentioned before, dear chap.”
    The steel-glittered interior was hung with every conceivable hand weapon, ceremonial armour, regimental gorgets and armorial heraldry. Kydd wandered along the racks of edged weapons: this was no quartermaster’s armoury, with stout grey-steel blades and wooden hilts. Here was damascened elegance in blue, gold and ivory.
    “See this,” Kydd said, selecting one. He flourished it—the military style seemed heavier, the slightly curved blade urging more of a slashing stroke than a direct thrust. It did, however, have a splendid appearance, the blade blued along its length with silver chasing down from the hilt, the half-basket guard ornate and fire-gilded.
    “A fighting sword?” Renzi drawled.
    “Aye, well, a fine piece,” Kydd said, replacing it as a man stepped out from the workshop at the rear.
    “Gentlemen, an honour.” He spoke softly, but his eyes took measure of Kydd’s strong build and upright bearing. “Balthasar Owen. It’s not so often we are visited by the navy. Not a small sword is my guess,” he added, with a smile, glancing at a discreet light-bladed hanger usually worn by gentlemen in the street.
    “A fightin’ sword for a naval gentleman, if y’ please,” Kydd replied.
    Owen hesitated.
    “The expense is not t’ be considered. Let th’ blade be the best y’ have.”
    “Should you have any fine Toledo steel blades, it would answer,” Renzi added.
    “A Toledo blade! This will be difficult. Since the late war began you will understand . . .”

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    “The best steel in the world, we agree,” Renzi pressed. “And in the matter of your price . . .”
    Owen closed the front door. “Toledo steel is the hardest there is because it is forged from an iron heart and the finest steel lapped and folded on itself more than three hundred times. This gives it flexibility but great hardness. It can take a razor’s edge that has been known to last centuries. You see, at the forge, the swordsmith works only by night. Such is their care that when the blade is plunged into the oil the heat’s colour is exactly known.
    The result, an impeccable temper.”
    He paused, and looked keenly at the two. “There have been many attempts at fraud. Can you tell the singular damascening of a Toledo blade? No? Then the only one you may trust is myself—for if I sell you an inferior, then my standing as sword-cutler to the military will be exploded. Now, if I can find such a one, it would cost dear, perhaps more than three hundred silver pesos—in English money say fifty pounds.”
    “Very well,” said Kydd immediately.
    “Which is to say, no paper money, payment upon delivery.”
    “Aye.”
    “And workshop time compensated.”
    Kydd began to count out the Spanish coins. “Should ye need an advance t’ assist in th’ looking, then—”
    Owen’s expression eased. “As it happens, I have knowledge of two suitable blades—these are, of course, just that, blades. I will fetch them. They will be hilted here in my workshop to your instructions, er—”
    “L’tenant Kydd, Royal Navy, sir.” Bows were exchanged, and Owen withdrew.
    Kydd smiled at Renzi.