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Summary
“You’ve got no Gaelic, right?” Brian asked, tapping the grip of his dirk thoughtfully against his chin.
“No,” Gerard said exasperatedly. To tell the truth, he was more than a bit tired of that counting against him. The snickers from the men gathered a short ways away but still listening in were expected, but no less annoying.
“Let this be your first lesson, then.” Brian bent to pick up the blade where it had fallen in the sparse grass, glinting in the dull cloudy light. He held it up at eye level; it was only about the length of his nose. “Sgian means knife. Simple enough. Dubh means black, generally, but here it means hidden. Because this isn’t a knife you keep in a scabbard by your side. The advantage is the dubh, the hidden. Your enemies don’t know it’s there until it’s stuck inside them.”