His canvas trousers were scuffed and stained, but they were durable work pants, a farmer’s garment made to last, and they had served him well aboard the ship. His homespun shirt was now torn in two places, but he would have time to mend it once the Wavewalker set sail. There would be quiet listless days adrift on the water as they voyaged south, and Bannon was handy enough with a needle and thread. He could make it right again.
Someday, he would have a pretty wife to make new clothes and do the mending, as his mother had done on Chiriya Island. They would have spunky, bright-eyed children—five of them, he decided. He and his wife would laugh together … unlike his mother, who had not laughed often. It would be different with him, because he would be different from his father, so very different.
The young man shuddered, took a breath, and forced his mind back to the bright and colorful picture he liked to hold in his mind. Yes. A warm cottage, a loving family, a life well lived …
He habitually brushed himself off again, and the smile felt real this time. He pretended he didn’t even notice the bruises on his face and leg. It would be all right. It had to be.
He walked out into the bright and open city streets. The sky was clear and blue, and the salt air smelled fresh, blowing in from the harbor. Tanimura was a city of marvels, just as he had dreamed it would be.
During his voyage from Chiriya Island, he had asked the other sailors to tell him stories about Tanimura. The things they had described seemed impossible, but Bannon’s dreams were not impossible, and so he believed them—or at least gave them the benefit of the doubt.
As soon as the Wavewalker had come into port and tied up to the pier, Bannon had bounded down the gangplank, enthusiastic to find the city—at least something in his life—to be the way he wanted it to be. The rest of the crew took their pay and headed for the dockside taverns, where they would eat food that wasn’t fish, pickled cabbage, or salt-preserved meat, and they would drink themselves into a stupor. Or they would pay the price asked by the … special ladies who were willing to spread their legs for any man. Such women did not exist in the bucolic villages on Chiriya—or if they did, Bannon had never seen them (not that he had ever looked).
When he was deep in drink, Bannon’s father had often called his mother a whore, usually before he beat her, but the Wavewalker sailors seemed delighted by the prospect of whores, and they didn’t seem interested at all in beating such women, so Bannon didn’t understand the comparison.
He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the sunshine and the fresh air.
Absently, he pulled back his long ginger hair to keep it out of his way. The other sailors could have their alehouses and their lusty women. Since this was his first time here, Bannon wanted to get drunk on the sights of Tanimura, on the wonder of it all. He had always imagined that the world would be like this.
This was the way the world was supposed to be.
The white tile-roofed buildings were tall, with flower boxes under the open windows. Colorful laundry hung on ropes strung from window to window. Laughing children ran through the streets chasing a ball that they kicked and threw while running, a game that seemed to have no set rules. A mop-headed boy bumped into him, then rebounded and ran off. Bannon felt his trousers, his pocket—the boy had brushed against him there, possibly in an attempt to pick his pocket, but Bannon had no more coins for the would-be thief, since he’d already been robbed. The last of his money was safely tucked in the bottom of his boot, and he hoped it would be enough to buy a reasonable sword.
He took two breaths, closed his eyes, opened them again. He made the smile come back and deliberately chose to believe that the street urchin had just bumped into him, that he wasn’t a feral pickpocket trying to take advantage of a distracted stranger.
Searching for a swordsmith, Bannon emerged into a main square that overlooked the sparkling blue water and crowded sailing ships. A heavy woman pushed a cart filled with clams, cockles, and gutted fish. She seemed unenthusiastic about her wares. Older fishermen with swollen, arthritic knuckles worked at knotting and reknotting torn fishing nets; their hands somehow remained nimble through the pain. Gulls flew overhead, wheeling in aimless circles, or shrieked and fought over whatever scraps they had found to eat.
Bannon came upon a tanner’s shop where a round-faced man with a fringe of dark hair wore a leather apron. The tanner scraped and trimmed cured skins while his matronly wife knelt at a wide washtub, shoving her hands into bright green dye, immersing leather pieces.
“Excuse me,” Bannon said, “could you recommend a good sword maker? One with fair prices?”
The woman looked up at him. “Wanting to join Lord Rahl’s army, are you? The wars are over. It’s a new time of peace.” She ran her eyes up and down his lanky form. “I don’t know how desperate they are for fighters anymore.”
“No, I don’t want to join the army,” Bannon said. “I’m a sailor aboard the Wavewalker, but I’m told that every good man should have a good blade—and I’m a good man.”
“Are you now?” said the leatherworker with a good-natured snort. “Then maybe you should try Mandon Smith. He has blades of all types, and I’ve never heard a complaint.”
“Where would I find him? I’m new to the city.”
The leatherworker raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Are you now? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
The tanner’s wife lifted her hands out of the dye basin. They were bright green up near the elbows, but her hands and wrists were a darker color, permanently stained from her daily work. “Down two streets, after you smell a pickler’s shop, you’ll find a candle maker.”
The leatherworker interrupted, “Don’t buy candles there. He’s a cheat—uses mostly lard instead of beeswax, so the candles melt in no time.”
“I’ll remember that,” Bannon said. “But I’m not looking to buy candles.”
The woman continued, “Pass the dry fountain, and you’ll find the sword maker’s shop. Mandon Smith. Fine blades. He works hard, gives a fair price, but don’t insult him by asking for a discount.”
“I—I won’t.” Bannon lifted his chin. “I’ll be fair, if he is.”
He left the tanners and went off. He found the pickler’s shop with no difficulty. The tang of vinegar stung his eyes and nose, but when he saw large clay jars with salted fermenting cabbage, his stomach felt suddenly queasy, and unbidden bile came up in his throat. It reminded him too much of the stink of his old home, of the cabbage fields on Chiriya, of the bottomless prison pit that would have been his life back there. Cabbages, and cabbages, and cabbages …
The young man walked on, shaking his head to clear away the smell. He passed the disreputable candle maker without a second glance, then marveled at an elaborate fresco painted on the long wall of a public building. It depicted some dramatic historical event, but Bannon did not know his history.