After the last war, it had been Rostam Marzani’s dream to leave violence behind. Hard for a man whose entire adult life had been about perfecting the art of soldiery. Hard for a man who wanted to believe that this was what he had been born to do. But it became necessary; he had led too many men to their deaths, had made too many decisions that turned out to be flawed. Had realized that even when he got the orders right, the consequences could become too awful to live with. So he’d hung it up, at fifty, and taken his proceeds, and opened a small carpentry shop.
The truth was, he wasn’t much good at carpentry. He had done his share of woodworking out on the borders — it could make a camp into a home, knowing how to knock together some chairs and a comfortable seat for the latrine — but when it came to varnishes, sanding, the finework that civilians expected, he was in trouble. So he hired a young man that was good at that sort of thing, and he sat back, and he let him work at it. Rostam handled the project management, and he enjoyed it. He spoke to customers, putting on either his posh officer’s accent or his rough soldier’s slang, whichever seemed to please them more. He built a reputation as a shrewd negotiator, hard but fair.
The trouble, when it started, began without much subtlety. Some fellows came into the shop one day. They spent a little too much time looking over his ready-for-sale objects. One of them sat down in a simple basket chair, something Rostam normally didn’t permit. But it was obvious that they were making a point. They all carried small clubs on their belts, blackjacks, and made no effort to hide them. And then they left.
That night, Rostam couldn’t sleep. He sent round to his ‘apprentice’, the real mastermind of his shop, and recommended that he not come in for a few days. He sent messengers to the houses of his most pressing clients, claiming that he was ill. He offered to deduct money from their commissions in recompense. He went to the chest that he kept under his bed, and unlocked it.
It wasn’t that he never drew the saber out. Metal had to be cared for, and if you kept a tool, it was best to keep it in working order. So every few weeks, Rostam would take it out and oil it, test the blade, make sure the fittings were still tight. He’d go through the old sword-drills, the draw-cuts, the grappling maneuvers, the nutcrackers with its spiked pommel. But there was no reminiscent joy in it when he did these things; he was just being a responsible weapon owner, ensuring that he knew how to handle the thing. One did not keep a sharp object as a toy.
This was different. He laid it out with his clothing, took it with him after his sleepless night to the shop. Spent the morning roasting and grinding coffee rather than ordering more varnishes. Kept the sword just out of sight, below the counter, as a bartender might keep a truncheon. Sat sipping his coffee, relishing the taste of the fresh-ground beans. Waiting for the fellows to come in, which, eventually, they did.
“Master Marzani! A good day to you!” Overly-friendly, Rostam noted.
“Yes. And a good day to you. But we’ve not met!” Rostam came to his feet, though he doesn’t come around the counter. He could play the overly-friendly game with anyone and come out ahead; years of dealing with difficult subordinates and superiors had made sure of that.
“Etan Yarvik. And these are my associates. We’re representatives of the local fire-insurance collective. You see, we encourage small businesses like your own to pay a nominal fee for membership, and in return, we provide fire-safety measures.” The tone was friendly, but this Etan was leaning forward slightly, his friends fanning out. And, well, the scam felt a little predictable. A little over-done. It was offensive to Rostam’s sensibilities, more as an indication of creative lapses than any moral issues he might take.
“Ah, Master Yarvik. You know, I’ve been wondering when someone from the neighborhood watch or fire-insurance collective might come by. Thanks for your interest, gentlemen, but I will decline.” Rostam was still smiling, still holding the small mug of fresh-brewed coffee. An observant man might notice it was in his left hand.
Etan Yarvik smiled at him, calm as a dew-wet morning. “Of course,” he said. “I’d hate for you to be under the impression that this is mandatory. My friends and I will just be on our way.” He snapped. That’s when Rostam knew he was going to hate this fellow - he actually snapped his fingers to summon his little minions to him. Rostam hated that sort of thing.
The men filed out, one after another. Rostam noted, interested, that Etan was the last one out the door.