"A remarkable piece," he said grudgingly, hefting the hunk of raw gold. "May I know where this was found?" he said, as he set it on one pan of his scales.

"No, sir, you may not." Kydd's uncle would find his haven destroyed by prospectors if ever Kydd let it be known. It had been his uncle's gift to probably the last family member he would see, and Kydd was going to see it well used.

The valuer carefully added weights to the other pan. Kydd glanced at Renzi, who seemed unaffected by the excitement. The man peered at the weights, then said, "This is what I can offer. Four hundred silver pesos on account now and an adjustment later after it has been assayed."

"That would seem equitable," Renzi said. Outside he added, "At six pesos to the guinea, an excellent trade—more than enough to ... ?"

They knew where they had to go: a bare twenty minutes along the familiar bustle of Main Street was Town Range, the residential quarter for army officers, and in a side-street they found the garrison sword-cutler. Kydd turned to Renzi. "Now, Nicholas, understand that it's a fightin' sword I'm getting, none o' your macaroni pig-stickers."

"As you've mentioned before, dear chap."

The steel-glittered interior was hung with every conceivable hand weapon, ceremonial armour, regimental gorgets and armorial heraldry. Kydd wandered along the racks of edged weapons: this was no quartermaster's armoury, with stout grey-steel blades and wooden hilts. Here was damascened elegance in blue, gold and ivory.

"See this," Kydd said, selecting one. He flourished it—the military style seemed heavier, the slightly curved blade urging more of a slashing stroke than a direct thrust. It did, however, have a splendid appearance, the blade blued along its length with silver chasing down from the hilt, the half-basket guard ornate and fire-gilded.