The armourer looked up as the door opened. A stranger entered. Wind gusted in behind him, spraying rainwater over the floor.
'We're closed, friend,' he said. 'Be open tomorrow from nine.'
'I need something now. It won't take long.' The man's voice was low and strained.
'Well…'
'I can pay.' He tossed a heavy purse onto the desk.
'That's changes things,' grinned the armourer. 'How can I help you?'
'I need a sword.'
'Very good. Right this way.' The armourer led the stranger into the storeroom. He held up a torch, revealing crates packed with straw. Racks of weapons lined the walls.
He picked up a fine slender sword, hefted its weight. 'How about this? Good balance, fine bound hilt. Not heavy. What sort of work do you need it for?'
The stranger did not answer. He picked up a sword from the nearest crate and lifted it.
'My apprentice made that,' said the armourer. 'It's a good start, but it's not really for sale. Too heavy, and the balance is wrong. Can't even get the binding to go smooth on the hilt.'
'This is perfect,' said the stranger.
'Why?' asked the armourer, confused. Why would anybody want such a poor weapon when they could have one of his finest swords?
The stranger smiled. One eye glittered green in the torchlight.
'To remind me never to use it,' he said.