The Unyielding Artisan

That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Domingo Montoya said "no" it meant nothing else but.

Inigo, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.

"No."

Yeste would use his wealth.

"No."

His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.

"No."

He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.

"No."

Insults. Threats.

"No."

Finally, genuine tears.

"No. More tea, Yeste?"

"Perhaps another cup, thank you—" Then, big: "WHY WON't YOU?"

Inigo hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.

"Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, 'Domingo, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,' and I would embrace you and cry 'Yes!' Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do."

"For the last time I ask you. Please."

"For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No."

"I gave my word the sword would be made," Yeste said. "I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection." And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Domingo on Yeste's wedding day.

"Good-by, little Inigo," Yeste would say then. "God grant you your quota of smiles."

It was forbidden for Inigo to interrupt.

"Good-by, little Domingo," Yeste would say then. "Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don't think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble." He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. "The pain is worse than I imagined!" Yeste cried.

"How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?" Domingo asked.

"I'm anticipating, don't bother me, let me die unpestered." He brought the point to his skin, pushed.

Domingo grabbed the knife away. "Someday I won't stop you," he said. "Inigo, set an extra place for supper."

"I was all set to kill myself, truly."

"Enough dramatics."

"What is on the menu for the evening?"

"The usual gruel."

"Inigo, go check and see if there's anything by chance in my carriage outside."

There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.

And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. "We would be partners," Yeste would say. "In Madrid. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things."

"No."

"All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first."

"Have a good trip back."

"WHY WON't YOU?"

"Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Inigo, but I do not have to suffer fools."

"You are an artist," Yeste said.

"No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer."

Yeste entered his carriage. Domingo approached the window, whispered; "I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement."

"Your secret is safe with me."

Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.

Inigo remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. "Inside there," a voice boomed. "Be quick about it."

Inigo's father opened the door. "Your servant," he said.

"You are a sword maker," came the booming voice. "Of distinction. I have heard that this is true."

"If only it were," Domingo replied. "But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me."

Inigo crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Inigo could not tell the country.

"I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur."

"I hope your wishes are granted," Domingo said. "And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—"