Through her years of training, the girl had learned that stealth, nimbleness, and a sort of keen awareness of all the moving parts of any situation were key to the expert application of a Faceless Man's specialized art. Any clumsy scout might blunder upon an enemy's camp and know then where his commander must attack, but his chances of secreting the information away to friendly hands would have been compromised by his carelessness. The widow was no clumsy scout. Though she had a reputation for her ability to slip down dark corridors and in and out of dim rooms without so much as the suggestion of a whispering footstep to betray her movements, it was in the crowd that her abilities truly shone. There was a genius to remaining unseen in a crowd—an innate knowledge of pacing; of the right facial expressions displayed at the right times; of who made a good shield and who drew too much attention to stand near.
As she followed behind Jaqen, keeping her distance, she expertly bowed her head in gracious acknowledgement of the kindly reverences paid her by those inclined to speak courteously to a passing widow of her station. She averted her face in mock anxiety and quickened her step when greeted by those less courteous (typically sailors, suggesting a way they might allay a widow's loneliness and grief) as a wealthy widow of Pentos was like to do. She allowed her gaze to be drawn to the children running about the streets as if longing for children of her own. She did all this while keeping Jaqen's quickly retreating form in her sight. He did not turn around but even this she believed to be due to her effective mummery. If she were strictly following him without thought of blending in, she felt certain he would sense something was amiss and she would be discovered.
King's Landing had its Street of Steel. In Braavos, there was the Armorers District, a collection of armorers' shops and smithies that lined the cobblestone street which flanked the Long Canal. The district's border started opposite the third bridge spanning the canal and ran the length of the waterway to the seventh bridge. The sheer number of shops put the Street of Steel to shame, but how else were the craftsmen to satisfy the demands of the numerous water dancers and pugnacious Bravos for weapons? Not to mention the sailors and ships' captains that required repair or replacement of weapons damaged or lost while out to sea. Even the beautiful courtesans were known to carry delicate daggers with ornate, jeweled hilts (for show mostly, and perhaps occasionally to discourage an overly amorous admirer) and of course their guards were heavily armed with weapons less ornamented but more deadly.
As Jaqen's path led him into the Armorers District, the widow was faced with the dilemma of how to appear to belong in an area so few women normally frequented, much less grieving, foreign widows. It would be much harder to blend among those patronizing the smithies. Fortunately, Jaqen and his wooden case disappeared into the first shop on the street, The Meerios Dinast Armory, home of the preeminent weapons maker in Braavos (and the whole of the Free Cities, Meerios liked to claim. His conceit was excusable as his assertion was valid. The Cat had seen an impressive sampling of weapons and armor flowing from his shop. The cost was great but as the only armorer in Braavos who could claim the skill to work Valyrian steel, it was justified).
Jaqen's fortuitous turn spared the widow from having to pretend she was only passing through the Armorers District en route to the Temple of the Moonsingers. She breezed past the main entrance of Meerios' and swiftly eased into the narrow alley separating the armorer's shop from his neighbor's. There was a row of small, high windows imbedded in the alley wall of the shop which let light into the front room where Meerios and his apprentices dealt with customers and proudly displayed a sampling of their craftsmanship. The windows were too high for a widow to reach, even on her toes, so the Cat silently scrambled atop a few discarded crates stacked in the alley and lifted her gauzy veil to peer through the dirty glass.
Jaqen faced away from her so she saw only his back but she could also see a young apprentice wiping his sooty hands against his leather apron as he spoke with her mentor. The young man smiled at Jaqen and nodded, appearing to agree with something her master was saying, then turned and called to the back of the shop. A moment later, Meerios appeared, his dark face a contrast to the snowy cast of his pointed beard. The apprentice spoke to his master and then it seemed that Jaqen was saying something to him which piqued Meerios' interest. The older man's eyes widened and then a delighted smile creased his face. The men continued their exchange as the Cat strained to read the armorer's lips. The glass was obscuring her view enough to make it an almost impossible feat so she swiped at it with her veil in annoyance. Her efforts improved her vision only a little and she stared intently at Meerios' mouth as a cat jumped onto the table where Jaqen had laid his case, momentarily distracting her. She glared at the cat then felt a little light-headed. Realizing she hadn't eaten in nearly a day, she barely had time to wonder if she should have had those figs after all when she suddenly found she could hear the men speaking. She closed her eyes to better concentrate on the words and could clearly visualize the men in her head.
"…and I assure you, the work will be more than satisfactory. It will be perfection," Meerios was saying.
"And the colors will not be a problem?" Jaqen clarified.
"Child's play," the master armorer sniffed, almost offended.
"How long?" the Lorathi wanted to know.
"A month. Sooner if you don't object to some traces of the original color being left behind."
"It is not the original color," was all the assassin said, settling the matter.
"Very good. A month then. Meerios Dinast is always pleased to be of service to the Temple of Black and White."
The Lorathi nodded and turned to leave when the master armorer stopped him, asking, "Don't you wish to know the price?"
"It is of no consequence," Jaqen returned dismissively, then strode toward the door.
The Cat opened her eyes and tried to shake off the queasy feeling in her stomach, unsure if her lack of food or the confusion she felt at hearing their words was to blame (her confusion was both that she had not completely understood what the exchange was about and also that she should be able to hear them at all from the alley).
One of the windows near me must have been open a crack, she reasoned as she deftly leapt from her perch to the ground. She ducked behind the crates, giving her master enough time to vacate the area before slipping from the alleyway back onto the cobblestone street.
She decided to travel through the Armorers District after all, following the Long Canal, headed towards the Temple of the Moonsingers. It was the shortest way back to the House of Black and White. All was quiet when she entered the temple so she continued on to her own cell to change from the widow's raiment into her own acolyte's robe. After replacing the dress and veil in the storage room, she headed for the small dining hall for the midday meal, exceptionally hungry—she had missed the previous supper due to an unwillingness to leave the training room and had left before the others broke their fast that morning so that she could prepare to do the Many-Faced god's bidding in the market. The others were already seated when she arrived and she saw that she would be getting those figs after all, in a salad with carrots and greens, alongside roasted pork and some of Umma's crusty bread. She sat down and laid into the food greedily, only noting after the growl in her stomach had been quieted that neither Jaqen nor the Kindly Man were present.
After sating her hunger, the girl wandered to the main temple area, stopping in a darkened corridor to study the pale statue of the Stranger upon its pedestal in a shadowy alcove. The rendering of this aspect of the seven was eerie, but peculiarly beautiful. The Cat cocked her head as she leaned in closer to the veiled face; so close that she could feel her own warm breath reflected off the cool stone. Unknown and Unknowable a distant memory spoke in her mother's voice, or at least in what she told herself was her mother's voice. She could no longer be sure; it had been too long since she had heard it outside of her own head.
"Your people believe that the Stranger greets them upon their deaths, do they not?" the Kindly Man's voice softly asked.
"I have no people," she replied without turning around. "I am no one."
"You lie," he stated balefully. "And poorly."
She said nothing for a moment, then suddenly turned and told him, "In another life, my people held to the old gods. The North has little use for the Stranger."
He nodded solemnly, and then wondered aloud, "Will it be the Stranger or the old gods who greet a beautiful maid who it is said departed this mortal realm not long ago?"
She turned around as if to consider the question seriously while studying the Stranger but really meant to hide the small smile she felt burgeoning on her lips at the Kindly Man's words—a self-satisfied smile created of pleasure at her own success as well as amusement at the predictable composition of the principal elder's question.
"Neither," she decided, then considered the nature of the god in whose temple they were now standing and added, "Or, both."
"Just so," the kindly man agreed. "Where have you been?"
"The market," the girl answered simply.
"A lie of omission is still a lie," he reminded her.
She turned away from the Stranger once again and looked at the Kindly Man with wide, innocent eyes, sounding sincerely confused when she told him, "I don't know what you mean."
"Another lie, child. You smell of the sea."
She attempted to deflect his accusation by feigning offense.
"I'm not a child!" she insisted.
"Another lie."
They stood staring at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time, and then the Kindly Man asked her to explain how the thing was done. She obliged him, detailing her choice of disguise, her trip to the market, and her interaction with the maid. Rather than offering praise, the Kindly Man simply nodded, then remarked on the ease of the assignment.
"It was easy," she conceded. "Easy enough that any of the less-experienced acolytes might have accomplished this thing."
The question implied hung in the air between them but the Kindly Man did not deign to address it. Instead, he told her that she was expected by the waif who had mentioned something about needing to replenish the temple's supply of Sweetsleep. The Cat left him, bound for the room with workbenches and crucibles and other supplies for creating the toxins sometimes employed by their order to answer the prayers of devotees. As she drifted through the door into the workroom and saw the waif waiting impatiently for her, she wondered if she could create a more potent version of the poison that needed replacement. Her mind instantly became occupied with inventing new and simpler methods of delivery, devices easier to conceal than even a small glass vial. Gloves with tiny bladders in the tips of the fingers, or perhaps a powdered version of the poison that could easily be sprinkled on food amongst the salt with no one the wiser…
"I know that look," the waif told her sourly in Dothraki. "Stop daydreaming and start working. Let's just focus on replacing what you used today and think about your silly inventions later."
The girl left the waif as soon as the Sweetsleep supply was once again satisfactory and headed for the training room. As usual, she selected a blunted Bravos blade from the racks along the wall and slid into what she had come to consider Syrio's stance. His words played in her mind. Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water. She slashed powerfully at the air in front of her, continuing her mantra. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear.
"Fear cuts deeper than swords," she heard a voice say; a voice that was not Syrio's but might have been for the seamless way it blended with her memories at that moment.
She whirled around as if doing so was her intention all along, blocking a playful cut from Jaqen's broadsword.
"Practice is to improve the skills," he told her, sliding out of the reach of her blade and pointing his own toward the ground in front of him. This was his teaching-stance, so she dropped her sword arm to listen. "A man wonders why a girl would practice so often with the implement she has mastered while ignoring others with which she has merely adequate technique."
"Mastered?" she barked. "You disarmed me not two weeks ago when I was using this blade I've mastered."
He ignored her and tossed her a large, blunted sword. She caught it in her right hand and felt the weight of it pulling at her shoulder. Looking at him questioningly, she finally shrugged and moved to replace her slender Bravos blade in its rack.
"A man does not mean for a girl to fight with the larger sword instead of the lighter," he told her, stopping her movement toward to racks.
"Well, what then?" she queried, confused.
"Use them both," he instructed her, quirking one corner of his mouth up.
"Both?" she laughed, clearly indicating her distaste for the idea. "But, the longsword is so heavy!"
"That is no longsword," he corrected. "That is a bastard sword, lovely girl"
"That's even heavier," she hissed, knowing it would almost exclusively be a two-handed weapon when wielded by a woman.
"Then get stronger," her master commanded without sympathy.
The apprentice looked at the Lorathi assassin, wondering if he had really suddenly decided she should master this sort of dual-handed technique that even the most seasoned of Faceless Men did not typically employ or if this was some sort of punishment for a transgression of which she was not yet aware. Before she had determined the answer, he was relating more instructions which only increased her apprehension.
"A girl will spar with these two swords every day until a man tells her otherwise."
"Jaqen!" she cried in disbelief, thinking he must be japing.
His answer was a swift blow with his broadsword, which she barely blocked by lifting both of her swords and forming a cross, catching his blade between them.
"Good," he grunted, pulling his blade away and spinning to come at her from her right, the side defended by the heavier bastard sword. She raised it but actually blocked his blow with her Bravos blade, crossing her body with her stronger arm and the sword with which she was most comfortable, bastard sword lifted ineffectually at waist level, pointing straight ahead.
He clucked his tongue at her and swatted at her useless arm, telling her, "A girl makes herself a cripple. You must learn to use what you have. A girl has two arms, two sword-hands, and two blades."
"I'm fast enough to fight two men with just one arm, one sword-hand, and one blade," she retorted, ducking under his forceful cut, dragging the long bastard sword against the stone floor as she did. The screeching sound of it was awful and it made Jaqen grimace.
"Learn to be fast enough with two blades," he urged, "and conquer a roomful of men."
She stood up straight, abandoning her defensive posture, dropping both arms so that the points of her blades rested lightly on the ground. She considered Jaqen's words, piercing his eyes with her own. After a moment, she gave a stiff nod, moved the new blade into her stronger hand while transferring her slender sword into her right, then regained her stance.
"Let's dance," she said, her words both invitation and assent.