“Good-by, little Inigo,” Yeste would say then. “God grant you your quota of smiles.”
It was forbidden for Inigo to interrupt.
“Good-by, little Domingo,” Yeste would say then. “Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. “The pain is worse than I imagined!” Yeste cried.
“How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?” Domingo asked.
“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the point to his skin, pushed.
Domingo grabbed the knife away. “Someday I won’t stop you,” he said. “Inigo, set an extra place for supper.”
“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”
“Enough dramatics.”
“What is on the menu for the evening?”
“The usual gruel.”
“Inigo, go check and see if there’s anything by chance in my carriage outside.”
There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.
And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. “We would be partners,” Yeste would say. “In Madrid. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.”
“No.”
“All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.”
“Have a good trip back.”
“WHY WON’t YOU?”
“Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Inigo, but I do not have to suffer fools.”
“You are an artist,” Yeste said.
“No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.”
Yeste entered his carriage. Domingo approached the window, whispered; “I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.
Inigo remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. “Inside there,” a voice boomed. “Be quick about it.”
Inigo’s father opened the door. “Your servant,” he said.
“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”
“If only it were,” Domingo replied. “But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.”
Inigo crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Inigo could not tell the country.
“I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”
“I hope your wishes are granted,” Domingo said. “And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—”