The large-headed, raw-boned smith, sporting a beard which evened a roughcomplexion, rose with exaggerated effort and turned to another customer, juststepping up to the firing line. 'No, Stealth, not like that, or, if you must,I'll change the tension -' Marc moved in, telling Niko to throw the bow up tohis shoulder and fire from there, then saw Tempus and left the group, handsspreading on his apron.
Bolts spat and thunked from five shooters when the morning's range officerhollered 'Clear' and 'Fire', then 'Hold', so that all could go to the wall tocheck their aim and the depths to which the shafts had sunk.
Shaking his head, the smith confided: 'Straton's got a problem I can't solve.I've had it truly sighted - perfect for me - three times, but when he shoots,it's as if he's aiming two feet low.'
'For the bow, the name is life, but the work is death. In combat it will shoottrue for him; here, he's worried how they judge his prowess. He's not thinkingenough of his weapon, too much of his friends.'
The smith's keen eyes shifted; he rubbed his smile with a greasy hand. 'Aye, andthat's the truth. And for you. Lord Tempus? We've the new hard-steel, though whythey're all so hot to pay twice the price when men're soft as clay and even woodwill pierce the boldest belly, I can't say.'
'No steel, just a case of iron-tipped short-flights, when you can.'
'I'll select them myself. Come and watch them, now? We'll see what their nerve'slike, if you call score ...'
'A moment or two. Marc. Go back to your work, I'll sniff around on my own.'
And so he approached Niko, on pretence of admiring the Stepson's new bow, andsaw the shadowed eyes, blank as ever but veiled like the beginning beard thatmasked his jaw: 'How goes it, Niko? Has your maat returned to you?'