The capital city of Cedar's Falls was lovely and crowded. The streets, still the same after centuries, were narrow and lined with carefully placed flat stones. Kiosks dotted the streets and alleys, competing with more permanent buildings lining the street. Everything drew my eye—red flags snapping in the afternoon breeze over a storefront, a rice wine bar called The Dragon's Breath had customers inside and out, while another shop sold jewelry. What pulled me was the ringing sound of a hammer on steel far down the way. Someone was crafting metal. I hoped they were making a sword. Hastily I jerked my rolling bag behind me as I walked in that direction.
"This is incredible," I breathed. An artisan was indeed fashioning a blade inside the dim smithy. Tools hung on walls, ready for use. The forge was in the center of the room and the sword maker had just taken the heated metal out to hammer. The blade was still in the rough stages of manufacture, and I understood that the steel would be folded and beaten, folded and beaten, many times before the craftsman would be satisfied. Then, the steel would be wrapped around a core of iron, forming the heart of the blade.
Sword making on Falchan was a highly respected art and the blades were quite expensive, taking months to create. I'd seen what Drake and Drew had, although theirs had been created by Grey House. Just as complicated a process was employed there, only at the end, one of Grey House's Master Wizards placed spells on the blades. The least expensive of those kept the blade sharp and prevented rust. Drake and Drew's held protection spells. Those spells protected the owners from harm in some way. I could never hope to afford even a knife from Grey House. It still angered me that Teeg kept the one that Great-Aunt Glinda had given me. I wanted it with me now.
"Does this fascinate you?" An assistant carried in a basket of charcoal for the fires.
"Yes," I stared at the traditional fold in his dark eyes, his black hair braided down his back and the leather apron he wore over loosely-woven black pants. He wore no shirt, revealing the tattoos of a wildcat of some sort, running up and down his arms. He had no chest or back tattoos—he hadn't earned them. On Falchan, every tattoo had to be earned. One did not go out to find an artist on a whim. Fathers usually approved their son's or daughter's first—after their child had passed their weapons classes or distinguished themselves in some way. After that, military commanders gave permission for tattoos as they were warranted. A chest or back tattoo, in old Falchani lore, denoted exemplary service in battle.
Once, as a special demonstration, Drake and Drew's father and uncle had sparred in full leathers for visiting dignitaries on Le-Ath Veronis. I'd stared, spellbound, as the two warriors went after each other, as if it were a dance. Drake and Drew, sitting next to me, had explained that any one of those blows would be deadly if the opponent weren't ready to block it. Dragon, his sons and his brother fought with two blades each. Not every warrior had that talent or ability.
"You're welcome to watch as long as you don't get in the way. Visiting?" The assistant eyed my bag.
"Yes. I've looked forward to this for a very long time."
"There's an inn just down the street," he jerked his head in the direction I'd come. I'd ignored what I walked past, once I heard the ringing of steel.
"I'll look into it." He'd known to speak common Alliance; I was an obvious outsider. I knew a few words in the Falchani language, but not enough to do anything other than embarrass myself.
I watched for nearly a click, but the folding and hammering was repetitive. I went looking for the inn. "One gold piece, one Eight-Day," I was told. I handed over a gold piece for a Falchani week. Meals served there cost extra and I could have paid for those in advance, but I wanted to taste what the streets had to offer instead of limiting myself. That's what took me out again, searching for food after hefting my bag onto the small bed inside the tiny but immaculate room.
Sliding onto a stool outside an open-air restaurant, I watched the proprietor make rice noodles. He flattened and steamed the rice mixture before brushing oil over it and placing another layer on top of the first. After steaming all of them, he set about cutting the noodles in thin, even strands. I'd done something similar with traditional pastas. At least they were traditional where I came from. The noodles went into a broth he'd prepared as it was ordered, cooked together for a short time and then served with a small spoon and a flourish.
"Do you have any chives, green onions or leeks?" I asked, gesturing over my bowl of noodles.
"Some here," he set a small bowl down next to me. I sprinkled the finely chopped green onions into my bowl and tasted the best rice noodles I'd ever eaten.
"This is exceptional," I said. The cook merely nodded, as if he got that compliment all the time. "How much to teach me how to make?" I asked.
"You want to learn?" He quirked a black eyebrow at me. The tattoos on his arms were falcons, their beaks open in silent screams as they prepared to strike an unseen enemy.
"Yes." I nodded enthusiastically at the cook's question.
"Finish dinner. Then learn."
"All right." I smiled for the first time in several days.
"Soak rice first. During night." I nodded as he drained rice with a bamboo colander. "Now, grind down fine." He showed me by grinding the rice against a stone slab, using another stone fashioned to fit both hands. He handed the stone to me; I set to grinding. He grunted in satisfaction—I'd done something similar before.
"Texture like this," he pinched some in his fingers, so I'd know what to look for. I nodded. We coated a flat pan with oil before spreading the first layer. He was surprised and pleased that I'd been watching him before. I did it exactly as he'd done. We ended up with usable noodles afterward. Then we turned to the broth. He made a quick version, but I asked him about making a reduction.
"You make, I taste," he smiled.
"All right." I went looking to see what spices he had while bits of beef cooked into a broth. Taking out the beef, I chopped it finely, appreciating the knives the cook had to work with. Adding the beef bits back to the broth, I threw in several spices and let it simmer. While we waited, we made two more batches of noodles. He introduced himself, too—his name was Flyer. No surprise—he did have bird tattoos.
"Reah?" He rolled the sound of my name on his tongue.
"Yes. Or Re, if you prefer." I sliced more noodles under his watchful gaze, and even put a bowl together for a customer who walked up. Flyer collected the money while I offered green onions. We served a crowd after that, and I put my broth to the test.