It was a Gill's-at thirty-one, he sensed he had already developed a conservative streak, and some positively rigid prejudices-less elegant than his lost one, but more fit for the melee. His old hanger had been slimmer, a true gentleman's "hunting sword," slightly curved. His new blade, the cutler had told him, was patterned upon a French grenadier's hanger. The blade was wider along its entire length, a tad thicker in cross-section, and only slightly curved; much less like a Light Cavalry saber than most, with all but the first two inches before the guard honed razor-sharp, and the first eight inches of the top behind the wicked point as well. It fit his hand, felt solid and durable, yet nowhere near as heavy as a humbler cutlass. Like all hunting swords or hangers, it was shorter than a smallsword-only twenty-six inches of blade-but he preferred that in the confusion of a shoulder-to-shoulder, nose-to-nose melee. And it was reassuringly heavy close to the guard, but wickedly light and quick as it tapered to the point.
Black leather grip wrapped in gilt wire, a slim, gilt-steel swept hilt with a large oval guard to protect his fingers. There were no seashells this time, but a fairly plain pattern of stylized oak leaves. The scabbard was black leather, with gilt furnishings. They had soldered a coin-silver plaque to the outer face of the upper furnishing, with a pair of crossed cannon over a fouled anchor engraved, wreathed in oak leaf. Almost like the design of his old watch fob… which was now the prize of some garlic-breathed French sergeant of Lancers, too, unfortunately!