We climbed into the elegant carriage waiting in front of the inn. I saw no driver, but Chareleos seated himself on the box without hesitation. With a decisive jerk of the reins, he set the carriage racing through the streets of the city.
After fifteen minutes, we reached Chareleos’s palace. It was a magnificent two-story marble building, its main entrance decorated with columns like those of a Greek temple. To myself, I wondered how many taxes Chareleos had imposed on ordinary people to gather the millions of sesterces needed for such a grand construction.
I assumed the carriage would pass through the main gate leading to the palace steps, but I was mistaken. Chareleos turned left onto a side street that ran parallel to the fence surrounding his estate. Shortly afterward, we saw a secondary gate, much smaller than the first and almost hidden by vegetation that had grown over it. Our host climbed down and unlocked the gate with a massive bronze key. Leading the horses by the bridle, he brought the carriage into the inner courtyard and came to open the door for us.
No servants came to greet us when we stepped down. Clearly, Chareleos wished to settle the matter of the Lycian sword as discreetly as possible. In my mind, I agreed with him, since his reputation as a collector was at stake. Servants were known to talk too much, and it would hardly benefit him if mysterious rumors began circulating and casting doubt on the authenticity of the weapons in his collection.
I took a few steps to loosen up while looking around. We were standing on a training ground surrounded by tall protective fences made of woven wicker. Along the edges stood massive oak racks filled with swords of every kind and bronze spears. In the center were several wooden practice dummies used for fencing exercises. Their bodies, scarred by hundreds of cuts, showed that combat training was a daily routine here. I realized that the old collector did not merely keep weapons as exhibits but used them regularly to stay in shape.
Without offering any sign of hospitality, Chareleos asked me to show him what I had for sale. I immediately took the sword from my bag and handed it to him in silence. He examined the ornamentation on the hilt for a long time, then asked harshly:
“Where did you get this sword?”
“It was bought by my father from an old woman in Narbonensis,” I lied calmly. “She was a widow who had inherited her husband’s private collection—he had been a sailor. In turn, he had won the sword through gambling in taverns in Aeolis.”
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“So, an uncertain provenance,” he said with a frown. “I fear your sword is nothing more than an ordinary copy of the one in my collection.”
I shrugged, pretending to be indifferent to the old man’s remark.
“Do you think a copy could fly on its own and behead its enemies?”
“Then prove that it can!”
I realized I was dealing with a highly authoritarian man, difficult to deceive. His years as governor of the region had clearly shaped his character. He was probably hoping to catch us in a lie and have us arrested for fraud. But this time, he was in for a surprise.
“Very well,” I said confidently. “Normally, we don’t give demonstrations to just anyone. However, since you are a man of importance, we’ll make a small exception this once. What would you like me to strike?”
Impatiently, Chareleos waved vaguely toward the training dummies.
“Then I hope you won’t mind if I cause a little damage here,” I said ironically.
I grasped the sword and activated the magic sealed inside its hilt, hidden in the form of a small piece of paper bearing the symbols of Vabazon. Months earlier, I had used the same spell during an exam, when I made a ritual sword fly through the air before the astonished professors of Wyrmlithus. Everyone in the examination hall had been impressed, since no one at the Academy knew magic that powerful.
The spell was triggered, and my sword shot forward in a lightning-fast flight to attack its targets. Within moments, three wooden dummies had been decapitated, and a fourth was split in two. Then the sword returned to the first dummy and began hacking it to pieces, sending wooden splinters flying in all directions. After barely a minute, almost nothing remained of it. Having finished its task, the sword returned to my outstretched hand as if nothing had happened. I smiled defiantly at the old man and placed the sword back in my bag.
I saw Chareleos coughing awkwardly, nearly choking. The small demonstration had forced him to reconsider his beliefs entirely. It was clear I had unsettled him, and he needed time to think before making a decision.
“I invite you,” he said, “to see my weapons collection. It is housed in a hall beneath my palace. After that, we will discuss business.”
I was almost certain that, in his mind, he had reclassified us: from petty fraudsters to high-class ones. Anyone could make a nonfunctional copy of the Lycian sword, but a copy with the same magical properties as the original was something beyond Chareleos’s comprehension.
We walked toward the left wing of the palace and stopped before a massive bronze door carved with scenes of war. Chareleos spoke an access spell while pressing his palm against the metal surface. There was a metallic click of moving mechanisms, and the door slid open.
