by Jaxon Reed
No thanks to you, Endrick thought. But he held it to himself.
The battle’s outcome had been disastrous for Emerald, despite having the army of metal men, despite fielding a large cadre of trained soldiers, and despite Darkstone’s grand plan to trap all the wizards in an impregnable magical prison.
None of those bold ideas, not one of those superior advantages, had made a whit of difference. Endrick’s army had been virtually wiped out. Killed, by all accounts, by common villagers. And a battlemaiden. Endrick suspected that Darkstone had not expected a battlemaiden to be present. Or was it two? Some had reported seeing two black-clad women flying through the air and destroying things on the ground.
“We’ll send an extra contingent of soldiers to collect the taxes,” Endrick said. “Maybe let them take a few of those young widows. Kill a few children. The grain will get collected, Darkstone. Don’t worry about that.”
“Nonetheless,” the wizard demurred, “It might be prudent under current circumstances to cut back the food allocations.”
Several terse remarks coursed through Endrick’s mind as blood rushed to his face. Most of them involved reminding the wizard that he was at fault for their current manpower shortage. Endrick clenched his jaw while sifting through possible replies for one that expressed irritation without crossing the line with the wizard.
Before he could say anything, a sprite flew into the room through an open window, performed an aerial somersault, and landed flat on its face with a splat at the wizard’s feet.
Darkstone said, “Ah, Thanden! How are you, my little fellow?”
The sprite pulled himself up off the floor and walked in circles for a moment, dazed.
Endrick stared down at the creature stumbling about, wings weakly flapping.
“Its color looks off,” he said.
“Indeed. Thanden has left the realm of the pixies and serves me now. As such, his original color of green has faded a bit.”
Endrick nodded. Instead of a vibrant, brilliantly shining primary color, Thanden glowed a muted, dull, putrid sort of green, the light dimly surrounding his small body.
Endrick said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a fat sprite, either.”
“I wouldn’t say he’s fat.”
“He’s got a little beer belly. What do you feed him?”
“Let’s not discuss the eating habits of garden variety sprites. Thanden serves me as a courier. Let’s have your message, Thanden.”
The little sprite stopped walking in circles at the mention of a message and grew quite alert. He raised his hand as if to make a great announcement, and flapped awkwardly up into the air again.
He performed a half bow to the wizard and made a flourish. A scrap of parchment appeared in a small flash of light.
Darkstone plucked it from the sprite and held it up to read in the light of the window.
Exhausted from his efforts, Thanden spiraled quickly back down to the floor, where he promptly passed out, sprawled on his back.
Endrick waited patiently as Darkstone read through the message. Meanwhile, the guards returned from their trip to the dungeon and resumed their stations along the wall.
Finally, Darkstone crumpled the parchment into a ball, tossing it aside. It burst into flames and burned up before hitting the floor.
“Anything interesting?”
“Yes, Endrick, you could say so. It seems our friends are forming a plan to obtain the Forlorn Dagger.”
“Ah, yes. Another one of your mishaps.”
Darkstone looked at Endrick sharply, but decided to let the dig pass unchallenged.
“When the time is right,” Darkstone said, “when they least expect it, I will step in and alter their plans.”
He smiled cruelly, and Endrick found himself shrinking from the wizard’s hate-filled eyes.
Chapter 6
Horse stopped at the curb of a cobblestone street while Bartimo pulled gently on his reins. Bellasondra helped Kirt down from the wagon as Bartimo handed over a copper to the stable boy who led Horse away.
Kirt craned his neck looking up at an enormous building, all white stone and giant columns perched atop at least a hundred steps.
“Come on,” Bellasondra said. “It’s the Hall of Commerce!”
She hurried up the steps after her brother. Kirt cast a wistful glance at Horse, now several paces down the street, then followed them up the steps.
They paused for breath near the top and Kirt stared out at a field of red-tiled rooftops as far as he could see. Refugio was a city unlike any other, and made an especially strong impression on the former street urchin raised in the back alleys of Ruby City. He found himself continuously amazed at how clean the Ageless Isles’ capital could be. Whatever odors the populace might generate were swept away by the constant sea breeze, which always left the streets smelling fresh and clean. Frequent rain washed away litter and grime.
Evidently the sewers were kept in good order, too. Probably to drain all that rain, he thought. Every street had tunnels underneath designed to wick the water away, channeling it out to sea before it could do any damage. The process seemed to take the city’s dirt and debris away as well.
Refugio, Kirt thought, received a good cleaning at least twice a week from rain. He never realized a city could ever be this clean. And stay clean.
The Ageless Isles, Stin had told him before they left on their voyage, had a reputation for reviving flagging spirits and health. The wealthy from the mainland often made their way here to the capital for those very reasons.
The thought of Stin made the sights suddenly less attractive. He turned to follow Bartimo and Bellasondra through giant wooden doors and into the great hall.
Inside, the air felt cool and the interior seemed well-lit by ambient sunlight from high windows. A large open floor dominated the space, with a speaker’s platform at the far end. On the floor, clusters of people stood or sat around flags set at various points. On both sides, stone bleachers stretched up the walls, providing a gallery for spectators.
“We’re to sit in the Speaker’s Corner, up near the platform,” Bartimo said while leading them across the floor.
A few people from the clustered groups recognized them. The twins stopped and spoke a few warm words with several folks, slowing their progress.
Finally they neared the spot in the gallery known as the Speaker’s Corner. Kirt tarried, staring back toward the floor and said, “Who are all those people around the flags?”
Bellasondra said, “They are the great families of the Ageless Isles. They’re here to conduct commerce.”
Bartimo added, “Someday, Kirt, Bellasondra and I will have a flag on the floor of the Hall of Commerce. Just you wait. When we have made our fortune, we’ll be out there with them, bidding on ventures and letting the young people go out on our behalf for a change!”
Bellasondra smiled at Kirt and said, “First he’s got to find a suitable wife.”
“First,” Bartimo said, “we’ve got to secure funding. If the Creator is with us, Kirt, we will leave the hall with a thousand gold pledged to our cause.”
Kirt tried to share in Bartimo’s enthusiasm, but Stin’s absence tugged at the boy’s heart. He looked around at all the wealthy merchant families seated on the floor of the great hall, and even the people around him in the Speakers’ Corner and elsewhere in the galleries, and he wondered how many pockets Stin might be picking if were he present.
“I miss him, too.”
He looked up at Bellasondra, intruding on his thoughts.
She wiped away a tear and said, “I dreamed of showing Stin the city, our home, this hall. But everything I wanted to show him, I can’t. Bartimo needs to find his wife, his partner, his soul mate, and begin his family. But I already found mine. Only to lose him.”
Kirt squeezed her hand as more tears trickled down her face. He said, “Stin’s not dead. We saw him fished out of the water along with the pirate who took him. The one I clipped with an arrow. They both wer
e alive when the others hauled them onboard.”
At least, Kirt thought, that’s what he wanted to believe. Stin wasn’t moving when they pulled him up onto the burning ship by a rope wrapped under his arms. Kirt had watched it all from his perch in the sails.
But surely, the boy thought, they wouldn’t have bothered pulling a dead body onboard. Several sailors and pirates who died in the fighting were left in the water, their bodies bobbing between the two ships as Dream of the Isles pulled away while the pirates fought the fire.
He clung to that hope, fiercely, and convinced himself his logic was sound. Why would anyone pull a dead body up onto the deck when all the others were left in the water? And surely the pirates were able to put the fire out on their ship and return to port. Stin had to be alive.
“I know, I know.” Bellasondra patted his hand, as if she were the one comforting him and not the other way around. “We’ll find him. Pirates hold people for ransom, usually. If we don’t find him, he’ll find his way back to us.”
She smiled at him through her tears and Kirt realized she had worked through some logical thinking of her own. She clung to her reasoning just as desperately, too.
Bartimo pointed at the platform and said, “The Speaker approaches.”
Conversations throughout the building died down as the Speaker of the Hall of Commerce cleared his throat. He stood at middling height but had a distinctive face with a sharp aquiline nose. Kirt decided he must be about half a century old. From their vantage point, sitting high and to his right, everyone in the Speakers’ Corner could see the bald spot on the back of his head.
His skin, instead of sporting the deep tan typical of native islanders, seemed lighter than most. Kirt decided the man did not go outside much.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. Esteemed colleagues of commerce and people of the Ageless Isles. May I have the attention of your eyes and ears.”
His voice boomed out across the hall, and Kirt realized someone had placed an amplification spell on the platform. Maybe the Speaker himself, Kirt thought. It must be part of his personal magic.
“We are here to engage in the holy act of commerce. All entreaties, all deals, all transactions will be dealt with honorably and honestly. The Scriptures tell us the Creator loves fair scales and virtuous transactions. In all that we do and say today, may our dealings remain fair, and our words ring true.”
A round of polite applause went up throughout the hall.
Kirt remarked, with respect edging his words, “They take their trade seriously.”
Bellasondra nodded and said, “Punishment for dishonest dealings is severe. More than that, those known to have earned gold under false pretenses are shunned by others. They become outcasts, of a sort.”
“Maybe Stin wouldn’t like it so much here after all.”
“Ah, but there’s a lot of intrigue. One man’s honest trade can be another man’s loss. It gets complicated, but some houses have a reputation for gains that scrape hard against ethical bounds, even though they broke no laws.”
-+-
An hour passed, then another. Kirt quickly lost interest in the deals struck on the floor guided by the Speaker. Representatives from city councils made agreements with council members from other cities. Merchants negotiated rights for exclusive sales in certain areas, with a percentage reserved for governments granting those rights. Individuals agreed to prices on land, houses, livestock and other things.
Restless, Kirt wandered off for a while. He found a food vendor selling sweetcakes for a copper, and sampled his fare. Everywhere the underlying hum of conversation, with the exchange of money or the promise thereof, swirled around him.
The Speaker’s voice boomed out from the platform as Kirt headed back for his seat.
“And now for the new ventures!”
A cheer erupted from the crowd, and Kirt decided most of the people in the galleries were here just for this part. He sat down next to Bellasondra, who grew quite nervous. She grabbed his hand and squeezed.
“We’re going last. Bartimo said the Speaker thought his was an interesting pitch. We’re probably asking for more money than anyone else, though, so I hope people are still willing to invest by then.”
Kirt looked down at the platform and found Bartimo standing with nine or ten other people, waiting patiently for their turn at the podium.
The first to make his pitch served as captain and owner of a ship. He explained to the crowd he wanted to establish a new trade route to the southern ports. This generated considerable interest among the families, with several offering to help finance his maiden voyage and others offering their own cargo for sale. He ended with 300 gold pledged and a full hold of promised cargo.
The second was a cook hoping to start a new restaurant of her own in Refugio. Several on the floor questioned her, asking who she apprenticed under, how she planned to make ends meet, how many helpers she would require, who her landlord would be. The woman answered with assurance and had a ready response for every question. Satisfied, several families responded and she left the podium with 25 gold pledged in exchange for a cut of her future profits.
And so it went. A pub owner wanting to expand. A tailor looking to start his own shop. A caravan leader seeking gold for an overland supply train. And half a dozen more with similar ventures. The families waved, the Speaker recognized them, and they shouted out their commitments from the floor while a scribe took notes.
At last, the Speaker turned to Bartimo and motioned for him to step forward. He said, “My esteemed colleagues! I have saved the most intriguing for last. This venture, should you find it of interest, will require copious sums of gold. But hear young Bartimo’s pitch, and decide for yourselves if you wish to offer him some coin!”
A hush settled over the crowd as Bartimo approached the podium. When he spoke, his voice boomed out across the floor under the amplification spell. He began by telling the story of encountering dwarves in Port Osmo and sampling their ale. It was far too strong, but a local pub offered some watered down mugs for human sailors who frequented the place. Bartimo developed a taste for it and began inquiring about purchasing some kegs to take home. The pubmaster told him all he had was the cheap swill, but in Ore Stad he drank beer prepared by the greatest brewer in all of Norweg. This dwarf happened to be the pubmaster’s distant cousin. After considerable persuasion, and with the promise of much gold to be made, Bartimo talked him into arranging a meeting with the master brewer in Greystone Village, a neutral midway point.
The crowd, now hanging on his every word, listened as he described the most amazing ale any man had ever tasted, and how the patrons of the pub in the magical village deep in the heart of the Hidden Forest quickly drained every drop the dwarf and his son brought with them.
Then he described the attack by Darkstone and his metal men, the wizards’ plight and the battlemaiden’s struggle. He told of his and Bellasondra’s experiences in the Battle of Greystone Village, and how the dwarven prince returned with an army that turned the tide of battle. At last, he told them about the tragic death of Barley.
“But his son lives on. His son, who apprenticed under him for lo these many years, is brewing the barrels as we speak. If I can deliver the gold to Port Osmo in time, I have the assurances of Prince Dudge himself that this remarkable ale will be delivered, prepared to ship.”
When he finished, a buzz went up around the floor as husbands and wives conferred with their children, in-laws and each other.
Someone stood up under a flag bearing a red sigil. He was an elderly man who stood straight and tall, despite his ring of gray hair. The Speaker approached the podium next to Bartimo and pointed at him. He said, “House Paladio has the floor.”
“I understand the beer is good, and I judge you are speaking honestly here, as we all are bound to by oath. You say it’s the best anyone has ever tasted and I believe you. However, don’t you agree a gold coin per barrel is awfully expensive? How do you propose to turn a profit when your wholesale produ
ct is that steep?”
Bartimo nodded as if expecting the question and said, “The dwarven ale is so stout, it must be diluted with water for human consumption. Each one will produce three barrels of quality beer when properly diluted.”
The buzz of discussion picked up again, a little more excitedly this time, Kirt thought. Bartimo looked up to the Speaker’s Corner and smiled at him.
“He has them,” Bellasondra said. “Now he just needs to close the deal.”
“My colleagues! One final word.”
The buzz quieted down as everyone looked back toward Bartimo.
“I want you to know that no one else can produce this remarkable ale. No human can, anyway. I will hold the exclusive rights to the best drink in the land. Yes, there will be imitators as it grows in popularity. Some may even start buying cheap dwarven beer in Port Osmo and passing it off as our product. But it won’t be the same. It won’t be anywhere near the same. And anyone tasting the cheap stuff will know it’s not ours.
“I believe after one sample, every owner of every establishment in all the major kingdoms will happily pay one gold coin per barrel. And since I’m getting three barrels for every one I buy, I expect to return 3,000 gold back to my investors, minus the standard 15 percent cut for arranging the venture.”
The conversational buzz picked up in earnest. A young man signaled the Speaker.
“House Enesto has the floor.”
“House Enesto will commit ten gold for Bartimo!”
The Speaker nodded and pointed at the scribe seated to his right, who dutifully recorded the amount in a ledger.
Someone else signaled.
“House Florio has the floor.”
“Twenty-five gold for Bartimo from House Florio!”
Several more hands went up and the Speaker called on each while the scribe recorded them all and kept a tally.
An older woman with a wrinkled face, wearing an elegant dress and expensive jewels sparkling brightly in the diffused light, signaled the Speaker.
