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Cohen shrugged. 'I may be going to die, but I should hope I could be killed by a man who could hold his sword like a warrior,' he said.
The man looked at his hands. 'Looks all right,' he said, doubtfully.
'Look, lad, I know a little about these things. I mean, come here a minute and – do you mind? – right, your eft hand goes here, around the pommel, and your right hand goes – that's right, just here — and the blade goes right into your leg.'
As the man screamed and clutched at his foot Cohen kicked his remaining leg away and turned to the room at large.
'This is getting fiddly,' he said. Why don't you rush me?'
'That's right,' said a voice by his waist. The jeweller had produced a very large and dirty axe, guaranteed to add tetanus to all the other terrors of warfare.
The four men gave these odds some consideration, and backed towards the door.
'And wipe those silly stars off,' said Cohen. 'You can tell everyone that Cohen the Barbarian will be very angry if he sees stars like that again, right?'
The door slammed shut. A moment later the axe thumped into it, bounced off, and took a sliver of leather off the toe of Cohen's sandal.
'Sorry,' said the dwarf. 'It belonged to my grandad. I only use it for splitting firewood.'
Cohen felt his jaw experimentally. The dine chewers seemed to be settling in quite well.
'If I was you, I'd be getting out of here anyway,' he said. But the dwarf was already scuttling around the room, tipping trays of precious metal and gems into a leather sack. A roll of tools went into one pocket, a packet of finished jewellery went into another, and with a grunt the dwarf stuck his arms through handles on either side of his little forge and heaved it bodily onto his back.
'Right,' he said. I'm ready.'
'You're coming with me?'
'As far as the city gates, if you don't mind,' he said. 'You can't blame me, can you?'
'No. But leave the axe behind.'
They stepped out into the afternoon sun and a deserted street. When Cohen opened his mouth little pinpoints of bright light illuminated all the shadows.
'I've got some friends around here to pick up,' he said, nd added, 'I hope they're all right. What's your name?'
'Lackjaw.'
'Is there anywhere around here where I can—' Cohen paused lovingly, savouring the words – 'where I can get a steak?'
The star people have closed all the inns. They said it's wrong to be eating and drinking when —'
'I know, I know,' said Cohen. 'I think I'm beginning to get the hang of it. Don't they approve of anything?'
Lackjaw was lost in thought for a moment. 'Setting fire to things,' he said at last. 'They're quite good at that. Books and stuff. They have these great big bonfires.'
Cohen was shocked.
'Bonfires of books?'
'Yes. Horrible, isn't it?'
'Right,' said Cohen. He thought it was appalling. Someone who spent his life living rough under the sky knew the value of a good thick book, which ought to outlast at least a season of cooking fires if you were careful how you tore the pages out. Many a life had been saved on a snowy night by a handful of sodden kindling and a really dry book. If you felt like a smoke and couldn't find a pipe, a book was your man every time.
Cohen realised people wrote things in books. It had always seemed to him to be a frivolous waste of paper.
I'm afraid if your friends met them they might be in trouble,' said Lackjaw sadly as they walked up the street.
They turned the corner and saw the bonfire. It was in the middle of the street. A couple of star people were feeding it with books from a nearby house, which had its door smashed in and had been daubed with stars.
