‘We like horses,’ Atlon said.
‘I can see that.’ The smith moved to the horse’s feet. He lifted one and let out a low whistle. Then he stood up and cast an equally assessing eye over Atlon. ‘This is better tack than I’ve ever seen, and I’d consider myself a master of my trade indeed if I could make shoes half as good as these.’ He straightened up and pointed to the sign above. ‘I’m Heirn. Not much of a sign-writer, as you can see, but the best blacksmith in the whole of Arash-Felloren. Until the man who shod your horse arrives, that is.’
Atlon gave a slight bow. ‘It was a woman, actually,’ he said. ‘And she’s well content to stay where she is.’
‘A woman!’ Heirn laughed loudly and shook his head. ‘Then I’d be doubly lost if she set up here. I’d probably have to marry her to stay in busine
