Wooden swords and spears clattered against one another, stabbing toward the sky and ground. The Alchemist walked among the rows of Sun Army recruits, inspecting their drill forms. Fifty men practiced in pairs today, wielding swords against spears. Although polearms were both cheaper and easier to use than swords, a soldier who lost his polearm would need to know how to fight at a significant reach disadvantage.

A gleam of metal caught the Alchemist’s eye. One man was using a metal short sword instead of the standard wooden practice weapons. Most recruits did not even own a polearm, much less an expensive sword; a soldier who owned a decent blade, and who knew how to use it besides, would be a valuable addition to the ranks.

The Alchemist stopped in front of the sparring pair. The sword-wielding recruit used an unusual fighting style, but the Alchemist could not identify the pattern in his strikes. The recruit must be quite skillful to move in such an unpredictable manner.

After a few minutes of observation, however, the Alchemist decided that no such pattern existed. The recruit’s sword-work was not advanced; rather, it was abysmal. He had no sense of motion, and he had clearly survived this long in the practice by sheer luck alone. Although this recruit owned a metal weapon, his form was most appalling. He had apparently never handled a sword in his life.

The recruit kept glancing at the Alchemist as he sparred. After he was nearly impaled by his partner twice, the Alchemist called a stop to their practice. He helped the recruit upright, brushing dirt off the recruit’s drill uniform.

“Your technique could use some refinement. May I?” The Alchemist gestured at the recruit’s metal sword.

The recruit gladly offered his weapon. When the Alchemist took it, he swung the sword once to get a feel for how it moved. The problem was immediately apparent: the recruit’s sword weighed far more than a normal weapon, and the balance was completely skewed toward the tip of the blade. This weight distribution might work for a mace, but it was inconvenient in a sword. As an experienced swordsman, the Alchemist could work around such handicaps, but a new recruit might have more difficulty.

“Begin,” the Alchemist told the spearman.

When the spearman attacked, the Alchemist parried and moved into striking distance, where the shorter reach of the sword might have less disadvantage against the spear. At this close range, a swordsman could attack on nearly equal terms, forcing the spearman into more defensive fighting tactics. The Alchemist moved slowly and clearly through the stages of the exercise, exaggerating each form. When finished, he turned back to the recruit.

“Defend, dodge, advance, attack. Do you understand?”

The recruit nodded.

The Alchemist held the sword up to the light. The surface looked normal, with the typical metallic sheen of any cutting blade. However, the leading edge was speckled with divots even from this light practice. No steel would dent from impacts against wood; this sword must have been made from a much softer material. Near the dents, silvery flakes had peeled upward or chipped off entirely, revealing hints of a less glossy grey metal beneath the surface.

“Interesting,” the Alchemist muttered.

The recruit wrung his hands nervously. “What’s interesting, sir?”

“Keep practicing, but use wooden practice weapons until you are comfortable with the basic stances.” The Alchemist returned the peculiar weapon to its owner. “This is no ordinary sword. Who gave it to you?”

“Bought it for seventy gold off a fellow in the supply department. Bit on the expensive side, but he swore that I’d never find a sword like this in the city markets,” the recruit said. “Can’t remember his name. He said that he was a professional arms dealer.”

The Alchemist nodded gravely. This so-called arms dealer was right about one thing: a bright-eyed recruit would never find a sword like this one in city markets, since the local military force in any city should know the difference between a good sword and a useless one. The Alchemist set off to find the con artist who was selling cheap lead weapons to gullible recruits.

The supply depot was a low, sturdy building near the center of town. Before the Sun Scholar’s movement arrived at Redmarsh, it had been used for storage of grain and tax income. In the months since then, the Sun Scholar’s followers had fortified the building in anticipation of long-term resource storage, expanding the depot to nearly twice the original capacity. It now housed both food reserves and the military supplies needed for the growing Sun Army. When the Alchemist entered, a surprised clerk greeted him from a desk facing the door.

“Fair morning to you, good clerk. Is there a ‘professional arms dealer’ in these parts?” the Alchemist asked.

“Ah, you must mean our top acquisition specialist. He was so successful at procuring weapons that they let him sell a few on the side. He’s been quite popular with the soldier types lately,” the clerk said, setting aside the stack of paper that she had been sorting. She smiled and shook her head. “Haven’t you heard? They even promoted him to Supply Manager this morning. He has a fancy new office in the Hall of Finance.”

Thus, the Alchemist went across the street to find the Hall of Finance. It was one of the administrative buildings that the Alchemist had never seen the need to set foot in before. The outer walls were studded with an impractical number of glass windows, while the main door looked flimsy enough that anyone could walk through it, open or otherwise.

Inside the Hall of Finance, the Alchemist followed the sound of voices to a corner office. The conversation soon came to a halt, and two people exited the office. The Alchemist recognized a local shop owner and one of the new peddler recruits; his patrolmen had broken up a dispute between these two earlier in the week. For merchants, they could certainly cause a significant amount of property damage when riled. However, now the shop owner and peddler were walking side-by-side like lifelong friends instead of rivals.

The Alchemist entered the office.

The Supply Manager was shelving a stack of loose papers when the Alchemist entered. The Manager was even shorter than the Sun Scholar, who was already a head shorter than the Alchemist, but his very person vibrated with youthful energy. When he spotted the Alchemist, his face split into the open grin of a fellow who had never told a lie in his life.

“Alchemist! Or is it the Alchemist? What a pleasant surprise to meet you at last,” the Manager said in a voice of warm camaraderie. “What brings you here on this fine afternoon?”

“I heard that you were the person to contact for weapons requests. I am searching for a good steel sword.”

“What a perfect coincidence. I have just the item for you.” The Manager led the Alchemist across the street to the supply depot. The Manager nodded at the supply clerk as they passed, and she waved back. Two doors down the hall, the Manager selected a large brass key from the key-ring on his belt, unlocking the weapons storage.

Inside the depot, weapons were neatly organized in bins and on wall-mounted shelves. The contents included almost every type of polearm imaginable, as well as several clearly homemade designs; several bows and huge barrels full of arrow bundles; buckets of small knives; stacks of clubs and maces; and of course, swords of all lengths and styles.

“Help yourself,” the Manager offered, flashing another cheerful smile that showed too many teeth.

The Alchemist inspected the nearest rack of swords with a critical eye. Every single one looked like steel, but the first one he picked up seemed far too heavy for its size and build. The second one was too light, and the third felt reasonable. He tapped the blade of this sword curiously, and it gave the dull metallic ping characteristic of cast iron.

“Difficult choice, isn’t it? There are just so many factors to consider when picking the right sword,” the Manager commented. By this point, the Alchemist had gone through about seven swords, swinging or tapping each before returning it to the rack. The Manager leaned against a wall, idly tapping his foot against the ground. “If there’s something you are looking for in particular, maybe I can help you find it. Our inventory records are extremely thorough.”

“Indeed,” said the Alchemist, but he did not elaborate. The Manager nodded in understanding.

“Of course, there’s no rush. Take your time. After all, it’s important to make the right choice.”

Of the twenty swords on this rack, the Alchemist estimated about half of them to be legitimate iron-based alloys, albeit improperly forged or tempered. The other half had the wrong heft and balance for steel; the lighter ones might be cheap zinc or tin, while the heavier ones could be lead. All of them certainly looked like real steel, with a silvery metallic gleam along the blade and everything. A soldier unfamiliar with the intricacies of metalworking might overlook the sound or weight peculiarities, thinking that these were indeed steel swords. However, the Alchemist knew his metals.

“Impressive collection,” the Alchemist said. “The Sun Army needs quality weapons. Are these all from reputable smiths?”

“Of course. Every item we stock is top quality. Inspected them myself,” the Manager assured him.

“I see.” The Alchemist held his gloved hand horizontally and snapped his fingers. Sparks coalesced into a wispy flame hovering above his palm. The Manager flinched.

“Sorcery,” the Manager gasped, face falling slack before he remembered himself. The smile slid back into place. “So the rumors aren’t unfounded after all.”

The Alchemist held the flame to the edge of an unusually dense knife. The surface began to shimmer and warp, and the shiny exterior peeled aside to reveal the liquid sheen of differently composed foundations. Soon, the blade itself began to droop. As the Alchemist suspected, the lead core could not handle heat for long. Blobs of molten lead dripped to the ground, hissing upon contact with the stone floor of the supply depot.

The Manager stared at the dripping knife. “Huh. That’s some magic of yours, to melt steel just like that.”

The Alchemist took a knife from his own belt—actual steel, shaped and tempered by a skilled smith to his exact specifications. He held the same flame to this knife. After the same time of exposure, the blade still retained its original shape, though it was warmer to the touch. The brief heat exposure would not have altered this blend of steel significantly, and the Alchemist could easily touch up any shift in the temper later. He closed his hand, extinguishing the flame.

“Top quality indeed. Well then, Supply Manager, either you are a fool or a fraud.” The Alchemist pinned the other with an ember-bright glare. “You strike me as observant enough to know the difference between lead and steel.”

The Manager paled considerably.

“Let’s not be hasty, good sir,” he said, flapping both hands in a placating gesture. “It was an honest mistake. I had no idea that you wanted a weapon for actual battle. You see, lead is much better for use in training. It helps the wielder develop strength, and besides, you’re less likely to hurt your sparring partner if your sword doesn’t carry a razor edge.”

The Alchemist raised one brow. The Manager was clearly a quick thinker, but quick thinking could only be useful if accompanied by quick results.

“Have you any real quality weapons?” the Alchemist asked.

Glancing warily at the Alchemist’s gloved hand, which no was no longer on fire, the Manager led the way deeper into the supply depot. He stopped at an unremarkable door labeled “cleaning supplies,” with a helpful sketch of a mop beneath the paper sign. Just steps from the entrance was a shelf holding labeled clay and glass jars. The Alchemist’s eyebrows shot up at the contents.

“Sulfur... phosphorus,” the Alchemist mused. Some powders were instantly recognizable for their color, and he could certainly read all of the labels—though it took him a while to equate the colloquial names to his preferred system: for instance, brimstone to sulfur, or quicksilver to mercury. However, there were some compounds stored here that he did not recognize by sight or text. “Interesting collection.”

The Manager cleared his throat. “This way, sir.”

Behind the shelf, heaps of weapons were stored in bins. One pile of spearheads had the dull grey surface of plain lead, while a nearby set of lead spearheads were half-coated in the silvery surface that had coated all of the false weapons. This must have been the Manager’s workshop.

The Manager directed the Alchemist to the far wall, where four barrels of swords, polearms, and arrows were lined up.

“If it’s quality you seek, this is the best steel that can be found for a hundred miles,” the Manager said, a ghost of the old sales cheer flitting across his face. He tacked on a half-hearted, “Sir.”

The Alchemist selected a sword at random and held it up to the light, admiring the high gloss of the blade. There were no scratches or flaws—but then, the fake blades had shown flawless faces as well. However, when he gave it a test swing, the difference was instantly apparent. The balance and weight felt near perfect. When the Alchemist tapped the blade, it rang with a pure, bright note. This was not just real steel, but well-alloyed, well-tempered steel from a knowledgeable weaponsmith.

“Supply my army with these weapons, not the forgeries outside, and we’ll have no further problems,” said the Alchemist.

“Will do, sir,” the Manager said faintly.

The Alchemist returned the sword to its barrel. Before he left, he paused on the threshold.

“The lead was well-disguised—almost invisible to the eye, if not for the weight and softness. Nickel plating, was it?”

The Manager gaped at him, struck wordless for the second time that day. The Alchemist placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Always a pleasure to meet another with the makings of an alchemist. You should join the Sun Army. The pyrotechnics division could use more people with sharp minds as well as spears.”

The Manager grimaced. “Don’t think me ungrateful, sir... the army life just isn’t for me.”