I meet Jack Calahoun outside a warehouse, walking across the street to get to him. He’s still wearing his tan trenchcoat, and a tan bowler hat.

“You’ve got the knife, right?”

I pull it out of my pocket. The texturing on the edge of the grip still felt weird to me. “Yeah.”

He knocks on the door. A man opens a slat in the door and peers out. “What’s the password?”

“The space between the sword and stone.”

“Alright.” He closes the slat and opens the door for us, as we enter. The warehouse was filled with a combination of cardboard boxes, weapons of many varieties poking out of barrels, and a table stacked with booklets that appear to be less than professionally printed.

“Would you like a catalog?” His voice was calm, neutral, almost monotone, like he had done this a thousand times before.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” I had to admit, this guy had me intrigued. Swords in barrels instead of firearms? What kind of arms dealer was this?

The guard-a man in a dark brown suit, 6 feet tall and bulky to say the least, though not quite as big as the Bull-grabs one of the booklets off the table nearest to us and hands it off to me. It’s surprisingly thick, but is in black and white only.

Jack only looks over to me briefly before looking right at the guard. “We’d like to see the Blacksmith.”

“He’s in his office. Right this way...”

The guard motions us along as we’re watched by other guards in suits at various corners of the warehouse, some of them visibly wearing axes or maces in their belts. It was a surreal sight for sure, but it goes by in almost a blur as we’re directed to a blue door and a window with shutters on it. The guard knocks on the door. “Go ahead,” called a voice, muffled by the door. Jack opens the door and I head inside, following him in. What’s inside is a desk and in a chair behind that desk, a man with a rather impressive beard, that also looks to be roughly in his forties, wearing a green vest against a brown shirt. The vest has a golden chain hanging out of its upper pocket, and the pocket itself had a bulge that looked roughly like a hockey puck.

“Oh, it’s you again, Calahoun. What are you going to be asking me about this time?” He sounded as gruff as he looked, crossing his arms.

“Well… my associate found a weapon. We were hoping you could help us figure something out about it.”

The Blacksmith sighs. “Finally, something that’s in my wheelhouse. What is it?” I pull out the knife, setting it on the desk. He picks it up. “Oh, and who’s this? Don’t tell me you have a girlfriend or something.”

Jack laughs. “Oh, who, her?” I catch him smiling as I look towards him, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, she’s way out of my league.”

The Blacksmith chuckles. “I’m not surprised. Her very aura is as stoic and commanding as any man I’ve met. She’s pretty, too.” He finally looks over the knife closely, moving his hand to either end. “Hmmh, I think I recognize these. Skulban pattern, I think. Meant to be a reasonably-performing knife but built more towards style and intimidation.”

“Any clue who uses them?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Hmmmh,” The Blacksmith puts a hand on his chin. “Throwing knives are actually more common of a request than you’d think, but if you thought highly enough of these guys to call in a favor, there is one notable client that’s ordered these before: Barakan company. A group of underworld mercenaries, they usually deal in machetes and shortsword-like weapons, but a few of their higher ranks—the ones that really take the craft seriously—also pack throwing knives for intimidation and style. Of course, what most don’t know about them is that they apparently can be traced all the way back to the sixteenth century, when they served the various Robber Barons that infested this city. They started basically as a scheme for bandits of all stripes to get some sort of legitimacy as a mercenary company.”

I set my hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly as I take in the information, left wanting for further answers. “Okay, so where do I find them?”

“Eager, aren’t we?” The Blacksmith lets out a deep chuckle, letting his hands come to a rest on his desk. “Well, it’s known that they tend to hole up somewhere in town, but they’re also fairly secretive about where exactly they hole up. I’m about as in the dark on that part of the particulars as you are, darling.” He slides the knife back across the table, and I pick it up.

“Thank you for your help, Blacksmith.” Calahoun crosses his arms, having leaned against the wall for the majority of our conversation. “Let’s go.”

We exit the warehouse without another word, though I can feel his guards’ eyes on us the entire way out.

“Do you know where we can begin our investigation?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I think I’ll just contact you again once I come up with something, but it might take a while to dig.”

“Very well.”

We go our separate ways, down different sides of the streets.