The fox cubs came out just after sunrise.
Tam and Jory had been lying on their stomachs in the wet grass at the top of the bank for half an hour by then. They were under the thorn, not talking. Jory had explained the rules on the way down in a fierce whisper: no talking, no moving, and if you have to sneeze, sneeze into the ground. Tam had followed every one of them. His elbows were soaked. The cows were waiting to be milked, and Seth would be wanting him. He didn't move.
The vixen came first. She slid out of a hole under the roots as if she'd been poured. She was red and thin, and she moved carefully. She stood in the grey light with one paw lifted, smelling the morning. Then she trotted off a little way along the bank and sat down.
Then the cubs.
There were four of them, just as Jory had said. They were brown and fluffy, nothing like foxes yet, with big ears, short noses and legs that didn't seem to belong to them. They tumbled out of the hole one on top of another. At once they started fighting, rolling and squeaking, biting each other's tails.
Jory's hand found Tam's sleeve and squeezed it.
Tam lay in the wet grass and watched them. One of the cubs found a feather and ran around in circles with it. The others chased it. Nobody won. He tried to remember a fox cub in the game, in fifteen years of it, and could think of only one, far to the south, that you couldn't even click on.
The vixen gave a short, sharp bark. The cubs tumbled back into the hole, and that was all.
Jory rolled over onto his back and looked at the sky with an expression of complete satisfaction.
"Told you," he said.
"You did."
"Four."
"Four," Tam agreed.
They walked back up to the cow shed together. Tam was late for the milking and soaked to the elbows, and he had not gained a single point of experience all morning. He didn't mind.
* * *
On the evening round he sold the bows.
Yesterday's bows were already gone from the shelf in the general store's window. The shopkeeper looked at Tam come through the door with an expression of deep, patient suffering.
"Longbows," said Tam. "Ten. And ten oak ones."
"Oak," said the shopkeeper.
"Oak."
"Who," said the shopkeeper, "is going to buy an oak longbow in Lumbridge?"
"Someone going to Draynor to shoot at the wizards," said Tam. "I hope."
The shopkeeper paid for them anyway. Ten longbows, at a price that slid down with every one. Ten oak longbows, at a better price that slid down the same way. Three hundred and sixty-three coins went into Tam's inventory, and twenty squares came empty. The shopkeeper wrote something in a little book that Tam suspected was about him.
Then Tam bought a hammer for one coin. Six days ago he had sold the shop one for nothing.
"I could have kept it for you," said the shopkeeper.
"I know," said Tam. "This is cheaper."
The shopkeeper gave up and handed over the hammer. Tam made him put it on the counter first.
Bob, at the south end of the town, sold him a bronze pickaxe for one coin.
"Again," said Bob.
"Again."
"You know you can keep a pickaxe," said Bob. "Between times. In a shed."
"I haven't got a shed," said Tam, and went down to the swamp.
* * *
Monlum was on his stump at the swamp mine with his pipe, exactly where he'd been the first time, as if he had never moved. He took the pipe out of his mouth as Tam came up the path.
"Lad."
"Evening."
"Bring me a story?"
Tam had promised him one, the first time. He sat down on a rock and told Monlum about Fred the Farmer's egg, and the yolk on Fred's boot.
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He told it as a joke. He left out why the egg fell through. Monlum laughed.
"Straight through," Monlum said, wiping his eyes. "Straight through the pot."
"The pot was a goblin's helmet," said Tam.
"Even better."
Tam mined while Monlum laughed. Copper, then tin, then copper. Each lump of ore vanished into his inventory as it broke loose. He mined with his back to Monlum so the old man wouldn't see. Mining 4 came on the sixth ore. Mining 5 came, and Mining 6.
Twenty ores, ten copper and ten tin, and his inventory was full. He could feel the weight of it in his shoulders.
He thanked Monlum, walked down the path until the reeds were between them, and cast Home Teleport.
The first time he had walked back from this mine with a load of ore, it had taken a slow, heavy hour and more.
This time it took fourteen seconds.
* * *
The castle courtyard was blue with dusk, and the gates had just been shut for the night. The guard on them was the big sleepy one with the dented helmet, the one who'd caught him here at midnight on his first night. He saw Tam appear by the fountain.
He looked at Tam.
"Sleepwalker," he said.
"Evening."
"You weren't there."
"I was," said Tam. "I'm a very quiet walker."
The guard thought about that. Then he decided, visibly, that it was nothing to do with him, and looked at the far wall.
The smiths' building was a short walk north. Feoras was banking the furnace for the night. He looked up and grinned.
"Is the furnace still hot?"
"For you," said Feoras, and stood back.
He smelted ten bars, one after another. Then he took them to the rusted anvil and made two daggers. The second brought Smithing 3. He stood with the third bar in the tongs and thought about a helmet.
His hands moved.
It was a small, plain, round bronze helmet, a bowl with a rim and a bit of a guard over the nose. In the game it was called a med helm, the weakest of its kind. New players made one and threw it away inside a day.
+12.5 Smithing.
He put it on. It was cold and heavier than it looked, and it sat on his head as if it had been made for it, which it had.
He thought about his worn equipment, and the panel opened. For two weeks its armour slots had been empty, with only a dagger in the weapon slot. Now the head slot had a little picture of a bronze helmet in it, and his inventory had one more empty square.
Wearing it costs nothing, he thought. Carrying it costs a square.
So he kept it on. He made seven more helmets out of the last of the bars, for the experience and the store. On the last one Smithing 4 came. Now he had the level for a sword.
Not tonight. He was out of bars.
"Suits you," said Feoras, who had been watching the whole time. "You'll want a shield next. And something on your feet." He looked at Tam's feet. "Mostly something on your feet."
* * *
He walked home over the bridge in the dark in his bronze helmet. A barefoot farm boy in a helmet drew looks.
Gillie was on the dairy step with a lantern, scrubbing out a churn. She looked up and stared at the helmet.
"What," said Gillie, "is that?"
"A helmet."
"I can see it's a helmet. Why is it on your head?"
"It's the best place for it," said Tam. "Trust me."
Gillie said, "Goodnight, Tam," in a voice that was trying very hard not to laugh, and went back to her churn.
* * *
The next evening he did it again.
He sold the helmets and the daggers, gave Monlum the one about the ram, mined twenty ores and cast Home Teleport at the reeds. The sleepy guard at the courtyard gate didn't even look up this time.
At the anvil, with the first new bar in the tongs, he thought about a sword.
It took longer than the dagger. It took longer than the helmet. The bar went into the fire and came out glowing. The hammer stretched it until it was longer than his forearm, thinned the edges, and left a narrow spike at one end for the grip.
When it was done, he quenched it in the trough, and the steam went up to the rafters.
He held it up.
It was a short sword, plain and bronze, as long as his arm from shoulder to wrist. It had a simple crossguard and a grip he would wrap in leather when he had some. The edges were straight and even. It had a dull gold shine, like the helmet, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever made.
+12.5 Smithing.
Feoras had come over without Tam noticing. He stood at Tam's shoulder, looking at the sword.
"That's a sword," said Feoras.
"It's a butter knife's big brother."
Feoras laughed, and Tam let him. He was thinking about Wren on the riverbank, looking at his first bronze dagger and saying keep it, you'll want it when you're old, to show people. He had lost that dagger. He had made this.
Then he put it away in a square, and made three more helmets, because he was one level short of something better.
On the third, the warmth ran down his arms.
Congratulations, you just advanced a Smithing level. Your Smithing level is now 5.
He took two bars, laid them together in the fire, and thought about a scimitar.
His hands moved, faster this time, sure of themselves. The bronze came out of the fire. The hammer drew it long and curved it into a broad blade with one edge and a plain grip. It was uglier than the sword. It was also better. In the game, a scimitar hit harder than a sword and swung just as fast. It cut where the sword stabbed.
+25 Smithing.
He equipped it. Lozar's dagger slid out of the weapon slot and back into his inventory. The combat panel redrew itself: chop, slash, lunge, block. He set it to slash, for Strength. The scimitar hung at his side from the cord at his waist.
Then he took the sword out again and looked at it.
It had been the best thing he owned for about ten minutes.
"Sorry," he told it.
Feoras looked from the sword to the scimitar and back. "You made a sword," he said slowly, "and then you made a better one. In one evening."
"I'll sell the sword."
"You'll sell it?"
"It's a good sword," said Tam. "Somebody should have it who'll use it."
Feoras stared at him. "Who are you?"
Tam made two more scimitars out of the last four bars, for the experience. He put them away with the sword to sell. Then he shut down the furnace for Feoras, because Feoras had stopped working some time ago and was just watching him with his mouth open.
* * *
He walked home in the dark with the scimitar at his side. For the first time since the river, he felt like somebody who could fight.
When he went up to the coop to shut the hens in for the night, they wouldn't settle. They stood on their perches with their necks stretched and their feathers fluffed, making a low, uneasy noise. They were staring at the dark hedge across the field.
Tam stood in the doorway of the coop and stared at it too.
There was nothing there but the hedge and the dark.
He checked the boards he'd nailed on the other week. He checked the latch. He shut the door and stood outside it for a long time, with his hand on the grip of the scimitar, listening.