His name was not actually Gimli.

  His name was Durnok Ashpeak, Master Smith of the Millhaven metalworkers' collective, and he was four feet eight, built like a door, and had a beard that I was fairly confident contained the memory of every piece of metal he'd ever worked with. He came to find me in the guild the day after the D-rank assessment, while I was eating breakfast, and sat down across from me without asking, which was becoming a pattern in my life that I was starting to accept.

  "You're the enhancement one," he said.

  Still that, I thought. Still that title.

  "What do you need?" I said.

  He put a sword on the table. It was a nice sword — good construction, proper weight distribution, clean edge geometry. Clearly made by someone who knew what they were doing. "Enhanced this yesterday," he said. "D-rank enchanter at the guild. Standard run. Same as I've had done for two years on client weapons before delivery."

  "And?"

  "And then I heard about the troll clear and the dagger demonstration with Hadric." He looked at me. He had very direct eyes for someone in his profession. "I want to know what the difference is."

  I looked at the sword. Picked it up. Ran a pass.

  The D-rank enchanter's work was good — proper single-pass enhancement, the edge improved to the ceiling of what standard Enhancement could do. But the ceiling was low because the metal's quality was the limiting factor, and the standard skill had hit it and stopped.

  I ran a second pass. The metal's ceiling moved.

  Third pass. The edge quality surpassed the base material grade. The sword was performing above its steel.

  I handed it back.

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  Durnok held it. His expression went through several phases. The last one was something I recognized from Rena after the swords — that specific stillness of someone recalculating something fundamental.

  "The metal," he said slowly.

  "Can be pushed past its grade. Multiple passes, no cap."

  "What's the limit?"

  "I don't know yet. I'm still learning it."

  He was quiet for a long time. A craftsman's quiet, the kind that had actual thought behind it. "Standard steel has a performance ceiling around what a master smith can achieve by traditional methods. You're implying you can push past that ceiling with enough passes."

  "I'm not implying. That's what I just demonstrated."

  "How far past?"

  "Depends on the base material quality and my current skill level. Better base metal responds better. My level is five. The ceiling moves further as it goes up."

  He's doing the same math Rena did, I thought. The same math Hadric did. What does this mean, how far does it go, what happens when the skill is higher.

  "What would it cost," he said, "for you to enhance a test batch. Controlled. Different steel grades, I'll supply the blanks, you run your passes, we test the results systematically."

  That's Sera's approach, I thought with some amusement. He wants data.

  "My time isn't free."

  "I'm not asking for free. I'm asking for a rate." He pulled out a coin pouch. "I have a budget."

  We negotiated. He was a better negotiator than the consortium man, which was to say he knew what things were actually worth and didn't pretend otherwise. We settled on a fair rate, a testing schedule, and an arrangement where he provided materials and documentation and I provided passes and didn't share the specific pass rates with anyone until we both agreed to.

  "One question," I said, as he was standing up.

  "Mm."

  "Why come to me now? The troll clear was four days ago. The Hadric demonstration was yesterday."

  He looked at me with the eyes of a craftsman who had spent his life reading materials. "Because four days ago you were F-rank with a troll kill. Yesterday you were F-rank with a documented anomalous skill. Today you're D-rank party and you had a conversation with a regional assessor that ended with sixty days before a report, which means you're not naive about what you have." He tucked the coin pouch away. "I wanted to find you before someone from Valorheim did."

  Huh, I thought.

  I like this man.

  "Tomorrow," I said. "Morning. Bring the test blanks."

  He nodded and left. I sat with my cooling breakfast and thought about the report Hadric wanted and the sixty days I had and the consortium man and now a dwarf smith who had done his homework.

  Things are moving, I thought. Faster than I planned. Which is fine. Plans survive partial contact. That's what makes them plans.

  I ate my breakfast and went to enhance some scrolls.