The Librarian has matched the gait across three fragments. She has not matched it across more because the other fragments do not describe how the figure walked. The initiates' account is the only one that names the stride length. Two-thirds of a meter. She has recorded where else she has encountered this specification. She has filed the cross-reference under a heading she has not opened again.
The figure does not always carry a weapon. Five of the seven accounts describe him as empty-handed. Two describe a knife.
The knife in the two accounts is described with specificity. A working knife, eight inches, ground on both edges, hilt bound in leather softened against the palm. The descriptions are identical. The Librarian has catalogued knives for the duration of her tenure and she knows how difficult it is for two witnesses to describe the same knife in the same words. The two accounts were filed eleven years apart.
The knife from entry 11,847 matches the description.
She has not moved the entry. The knife is in a box under her desk. The descriptions were filed before the knife came to her. She has compared the leather wear. The comparison was inconclusive in a way she records without remarking on.
Fragment. Personal account of a journey-smith who had mended armor for travelers at the junction of the eastern crossroads. The man wrote it at the end of his life and left it in a box that came to the archive among the effects of his daughter.
"I sold him a knife. He came to my forge at the hour of the second bell and he stood in the doorway and he did not step in. He asked for a working knife. He said the word working and he said nothing else about the purpose. I sold him a knife. He paid in silver that had the Order's mint on one side and a mark I did not recognize on the other. I set the coin aside and it was gone from the box in the morning and I did not remember putting it somewhere safer.
He did not speak his thanks. He turned and walked into the evening and I watched him until he was past the edge of the lamp and then I realized I had not seen his face. I had seen his hood. I had seen his hands taking the knife. I had not seen his face. I spent the rest of the evening trying to remember what he looked like and I have spent every evening since.
The knife was one I had made for a caravan guard who had died of fever before picking it up. I had kept it for eleven years. I had cleaned it once a month. The leather on the hilt was softer than leather has any right to be. I sold it for half the price a knife like that should fetch. I do not know why I set the price where I did. I remember opening my mouth and saying a number that was not the number I had intended.
He took it and he left and the sound of his boots on the stones of the crossroads was the sound of a man who had been walking in boots for a very long time and had stopped noticing the ground under them."