Ankh-Morpork operated a busy arms trade, happy to fill a gap in the market consisting of sub-standard junk just suitable for arming pimply teenagers in their pointless and less-than-strategic attempts to walk very slowly towards Johnny Klatchian. But amongst all the production line recycled-tin rubbish there were still the true smiths who took pride in their work. The dwarfs took up a still significant portion of the armoury district, pre-requisite that it was that any true dwarf should have a properly crafted axe and at least two piece of chain-mail, whether they be a well seasoned warrior with their own collection of trolls' teeth or that nice Mr MountainScaler, purveyor of fine cheeses. Still, if you wanted quality and you wanted discretion you looked off the beaten track. You walked away from the showy street smithies with their impressive bursts of steam, sparks flowing, and displays of swordsmanship drawing crowds of eager young dwarfs fresh from the old country. Instead you found the quiet back street shop with the sleepy old retriever sitting on the threshold, and the only sound the slow clink clink of metal on metal. This was Joe Smith's place. Joe, like all the men of generations before him, had earned that surname.

As Angua stepped through the door with a quiet knock she gave the faintest of nods to the old bitch who merely blinked and went back to dozing. Her master was equally unresponsive within. He was an average looking man, bent over his latest work with intensity, being beaten patiently down on an anvil, down in the dim and warm cluttered interior of the shop.

Angua's eye gazed all around the craft on display, some finished, some still in process. Everything here lay or hung in quiet confidence of its quality without needing to shout the fact with showy workmanship. Everything here would kill very very effectively. She picked up a shortsword lying on a wooden bench, and couldn't help but give a look of surprise at how well balanced it was. She gave it a few experimental swings. It hummed.

"Private order I'm afraid Sergeant."  Joe called calmly from within.

"Shame" Angua muttered quietly, and, regretfully, placed it back down.

Joe put down his work and came towards her rubbing his hands on a dirty rag.

"Care to place your own order Sergeant? Something similar perhaps?"

Angua smiled wryly." But not exactly the same right Joe?"

"Not in the mass produce business ma'am, you know that" he replied unblinking.

"Of course. Everything's got to have its own heart ..isn't that what you told me once?"

Joe's eyes flicked to the knife scabbard at her waist and back up again with a faint expression of nostalgia.

"She's serving you well ma'am." It wasn't a question.

Angua nodded anyway.

"I came to you for the best, and that's what I got. Survived a trip to Uberwald and back for one thing."

Joe nodded approvingly. "That blade's at home in the ice. Like its mistress."

Yes Joe knew weapons. He knew that to be effective they had to be one with the person wielding them. The two had to fit. Otherwise it was just another hunk of metal. A hunk of metal could do the trick alright. Ankh-Morpork rules taught you that. But there could never be an art to it.

He watched as Angua pulled out a folded piece of paper from her breastplate and placed it on the workbench beside them.

Silently he picked it up and unfolded it, looking at the rough sketch Cheery and Igor had come up with of the blade that was used against Carrot.

He didn't so much as blink but she sensed the recognition.

"This is special order stuff Sergeant."

"An order you'd do?" she asked quietly.

His eyes flicked up to hers.

"The City doesn't look kindly on things of this sort ma'am. Not fair play as it were." He folded the drawing back up. "But then you know that."

Angua smiled a chilling smile.

"But then that wasn't a 'no' was it?"

Joe gave the faintest of shrugs.

"City doesn't mind what foreigners order out Ma'am. It's all good trade." He sneered the last word.

"This thing found its way back into the City Joe. In fact it found its way into the chest of a Watchman last night."

Joe Smith was a calm and collected man. He knew his trade, he knew what it was used for, and he felt no guilt in it. But she could sense unease in him now for the first time in all her dealings with him.

"This was what was used on Captain Carrot?" he asked very quietly.

"What do you know about it?" Angua's voice was hard now and menacing to the point that Joe tentatively took a small step back.

"The attack? Only what I hear on the streets. I'm glad to hear he's recovering." The last part was offered gently with full sincerity. It only served rile Angua more. She grabbed him by the lapels as he backed up to the wall.

" The blade Joe. Who ordered it? Someone out there wanted the best and you delivered. Who?"

"I didn't know it was coming back here ma'am. It was a long time ago, special order for abroad."

"Who?" She was practically growling now.

It was then she saw something of great concern in his face.

"I can give you a name ma'am. But if you find her, you better be careful."

 Her? Angua was thrown momentarily but didn't let it show.

"Is that a threat Joe?"

He shook his head, his eyes closed as he sighed.

"No ma'am. It's a warning."

She let go of him gently.

"Give me the name."

Across town  Mrs Palm, head of the Guild of Seamstresses sat in her private residence alone. Several items of correspondence were on the table before her alone and tea had been set out. She only occasionally sipped it or picked up her letters whenever one of her maids came in. Otherwise she sat in the shaded room unmoving and staring off out of the window over the rooftops of Ankh Morpork. At one point she realised her hands were shaking.

Eventually a tentative knock on the door was followed by the entrance of one of her girls.

"A visitor Madam" she announced quietly, and quickly curtsied out with her usual discretion.

Mrs Palm heard the quiet rustle of skirts as the visitor stepped in, and waited for the heavy door to fall shut.

She slowly turned around to see her guest pull the hood of her cloak back, and the shadows leave her face.

"It's been a long time" a voice called out quietly.

Mrs Palm shook as she stood, her eyes filling with uncharacteristic tears.

"Not long enough" she whispered.

TBC

one for daily wear, one for special occasions