Sara Morninghawk's page

"Exactly what kind of 'questionable people' are you talking about, Sawyer?" Sara Morninghawk bristles. "Let's just get this out in the open."

"Believe she was staying at the Howling Hound. Place just inside the Inner Quarter, gives newcomers a place to lay their heads and get their feet under them, those that can't pay Cham Larringfass or stay on her good side." She chuckles. Marikel and Vhailor realize that the Howling Hound must be the same flophouse where Alicia said another of Daktani's known associates lives. "If she's prospecting, though, she may be camping at their dig site. Protecting their claim from jumpers, you know." She laughs again. "Who am I to judge? If I hadn't been trained as a smith, I might be tempted to dig for a fortune as well. If that's all, Padre," she goes on, glancing back into the smithy, "I've got work to do."

"Daktani?" she repeats, mildly surprised. "You think he had something to do with this?" She thinks a moment and then shakes her head. "Haven't seen him in several weeks. He used to hang around here pretty often. I think he was courting a woman who was working here for a while, Urnsul. But she quit. Said she was going to try her hand at prospecting. I figure she'll be back eventually. Most folk think they'll be the ones to stumble on a new line of ore or a cave of diamonds." She gives a short laugh. "Doesn't take them too much scratching on the outside of Bloodmarch Hill to learn that the most valuable supply of ore in town's here at the smithy. Might not be glamorous, but it pays steady."

After a few attempts, Marikel manages to make himself heard. The message is passed across the small shop by shout from one smith to another before it reaches its intended recipient. Sara Morninghawk raises a protective mask, squints across the smithy at the pair silhouetted against the light of the open door, waves them over, thinks better of it, waves them back again, removes the mask, carefully sets down her tools, and weaves her way through the workers, equipment and open flames to the front door.

She steps out into the cool morning air, appreciatively stretching her sweat-spangled arms and pushing a hand back through her damp hair. She gives Vhailor a quizzical look but addresses herself to Marikel. "What is it you're needing, Padre?"

Sara strides back into the smithy and comes out after a moment with a small chest. "No, they're all here," she shows Banny. "We had four on hand before yesterday, and there's three here; we'll be working on a new one to replace the one granted in last night's ceremony."

"But, look, d'you only make knives as needed for those ready to have their ceremony? There's no store of new blades or nothin' kept by the council, then?"

Sara shrugs. "We keep a few spare on hand, in case of loss or breakage. Mostly loss, of course; it'd take one hell of a blow to break a Clamor-forged blade. They're locked up inside the smithy. I can check right quick, if you want, and make sure they're all there."

"Damned varmint'll try and tree me anyway," Sara growls, with a glare in Bumpus's direction, but she takes care to keep the swaddling cloth between her skin and the metal as she turns the knife over in the light. "This'n looks new. Banny, let me see yours." When the dwarf produces her own hopeknife, the half-orc nods. "Aye, see, yours is less than a year old, but you can still see some wear around the haft: the deeper bits of the carving aren't quite so sharp, and it picks up a bit of tarnish from the oils in your skin. This knife hasn't seen use, not even handling, and I've never seen the bairn with a new hopeknife who hasn't fondled the handle or pulled it from the sheath a couple dozen times for practice. This could be the one awarded last night. Have you checked with the girl living at the church?"

Outside, and away from the eyes of curious employees, Banny quickly explains at least some of the truth, in a low voice.

"You heard about Kurst? This knife was in the wall where he... fell. Made to look like he put it there, but it ain't his, an' I reckon you know that. Looks a new blade to me. How often you make the hopeknives?" she says, pulling aside the cloth.

Sara frowns at the sight of the blade. "No, that ain't Kerst's knife. His is engraved. Did it myself. What's he doing with this one?" She reaches out to pick up the knife and take a closer look at it, and Bumpus growls. "Damn it, Jess, take the hound out of my yard!"

"Oi, Morninhawk!" Banny shouts as they come up to the smithing area, timing it between blows of the hammer in order to be heard at all. "Mornin'-- you got a tick of time?"

"Time for what?" the half-orc smith calls back over the sound of her and her employees' tools. "What's worth letting my iron cool for?" It's hard to imagine that the metal will cool too precipitously; although the morning is chilly outside, the heat from the forge makes the interior of Clamor as warm as a summer day, and the smiths are already sweating through their rolled-up shirtsleeves.