“It is necessary for all who pass these gates to present themselves.” The guard’s eyes flickered over Gareth, clearly dismissing him as a person of no importance.
“When would it please Lord Dayan to receive these humble persons?” Cyrillon asked, his voice mild.
“The Glory of Shainsa commands you to appear at the third hour of this very day. May the grace of Lhupan and of Nebran shine upon your footsteps, for Lord Dayan will not be so merciful if you fail to obey his wishes.”
Cyrillon made a warding motion and murmured, “A fire upon my eyes.”
The guard responded with an abbreviated gesture of respect and then went about his business.
Cyrillon motioned for Rahelle and Gareth to come closer. “Continue with our usual preparations, but do not offer anything for sale. We dare not risk Dayan’s displeasure by trading without his leave.”
“What does he want?” Gareth asked. “Is this extortion, demanding a fee to trade here?”
“The great lords amuse themselves by interviewing newly arrived traders. They say it is to keep out dishonorable men, but really, it is to find out who is selling what and to make sure they have first chance at the best goods and at the lowest prices. We will of course present Lord Dayan with suitable gifts. Prepare a selection of your lenses, with perhaps one or two of your best quality but no more, only enough to appear respectful.”
“I suppose that if he wanted to buy everything I had, I would have to sell it to him at his own price.” Gareth said, thinking that would eliminate his professed reason for being here. He had not counted on having to acquire new trade goods. On the other hand, that might give him an excellent reason to ask questions, as a trader looking for curiosities to sell.
“Any of us thus favored must of course accept the offered terms,” Cyrillon went on.
“We make up the lost profit,” Rahelle added.
“Ah, but the lord who presses too hard soon learns that we traders are like the winds we follow,” Cyrillon commented. “We can be bent, for such is the cost of doing business, but only so far.”
Cyrillon did not add, for although no one stood near them, it was by no means certain they could not be overheard, that Shainsa was not the only market in the Dry Towns. Like her sister cities, Daillon and Ardcarran, Shainsa was heavily dependent upon imported food, leather, and other goods, much of them from the Domains. Over the ages, the armies of Shainsa had tried again and again to seize and hold Carthon as a gateway to the fertile lands beyond.
“I suppose,” Gareth said, “that if you wish a man to trade with you, you must make it worth his while.”
“Now you are beginning to think like one of us,” Rahelle said. “Every man, no matter how high or lowly, has his own pride. Yes, even the beggars in the square and the herdsmen with their beasts.”
“Even the women.”
She glanced at him beneath dark, half-lowered lashes. “Even. So the lord who strips his subjects of their kihar and leaves them nothing but dreams of revenge will come, sooner or later, to eat the fruit of his deeds.”
And that is as true in the Domains as it is here, Gareth thought. When the Comyn led wisely and used their laran with restraint, everyone prospered, but when they did not . . . there had been more than one peasant revolt in the turbulent Ages of Chaos. Whatever had happened once could happen again.
Of all the things he anticipated on this journey, standing in a Shainsa market square and discussing politics with a woman in the disguise of a trader’s apprentice was not one of them.
Cyrillon set about preparing himself, changing his trail-stained clothing for a clean shirtcloak of fine linex trimmed with bands of intricately braided leather strips. Gareth, in the better of his two sets of clothing, presented a less imposing appearance, as did Rahelle. They followed Cyrillon across the square, where the morning crowd had already begun to disperse.
When they arrived at the Great House, guards in Dayan’s now familiar livery stood beside the double doors. Cyrillon spoke to the one with the larger headdress, and after a moment the doors opened, and another guard escorted them inside.
Past an entrance hall that would have been almost impossible to take by force, they marched down a colonnade where men in robes of embroidered spidersilk paused in their conversation to watch them pass. To one side, an exquisitely carved arch afforded a glimpse of an interior garden courtyard, quiet except for the plashing of fountains. Gareth caught the blossom-laden scent under the shelter of wide-spreading trees. Here in the Dry Towns, little grew unless it was planted, except thornbush; this oasis was a treasure beyond gold. Gareth had not realized there was such wealth in Shainsa. Certainly, the exterior walls gave little indication of this opulence.
They came to Dayan’s presence chamber, a hall of polished stone, glimmering with pink and gold iridescence. The air was dense with incense, and the room was dim. Guards, their eyes gleaming, hands alert on sword hilts, framed the three doorways, while servants glided about the perimeter like soundless shadows. Hassocks of supple leather, their sides lavishly ornamented with gold-thread embroidery, formed a crescent on the layers of jewel-toned carpets. There, a few men, as richly dressed as those outside, took their ease.
At their head, a man in a dark, austerely cut shirtcloak occupied the single chair. By some trick of light, his fair hair and sculpted beard glimmered like gold, or so Gareth thought until he realized the effect was due to tiny metallic threads intertwined in the natural hair. Even without the man’s aura of power and the intensity of his gaze, there could be no question this was the current Lord of Shainsa.
At a flicker of the lord’s eyes, one of the loungers rose and came toward them, an older man who, unlike the others, wore no sword.
“The Voice of Dayan,” Rahelle whispered to Gareth.
Gareth had some experience with the flowery phrases and formal compliments so common in the Dry Towns. Now, hearing them exchanged between the Voice and Cyrillon under Dayan’s watchful, almost unblinking gaze, each word seemed to take on hidden meaning. Gareth took pride in his knowledge of the undercurrents of power, growing up as he had as the target for every lordling’s ambition. Here, although he understood the literal meanings of each speech, he caught only the surface of what was being said.
Cyrillon spoke for them all, offering the gifts they had brought. The Voice received them, exclaiming at Gareth’s lenses. Dayan’s gaze never left Cyrillon, not even to glance at the gifts. Neither he nor his courtiers took any greater notice of Gareth and Rahelle than of their own servants. Gareth sensed that he had been considered and dismissed.
The interview seemed interminable. Gareth’s legs ached from the tension. Drawing on his experience at Comyn social affairs, he kept himself from betraying his discomfort. He kept his focus on the proceedings, tedious as they were, as a discipline. He knew nothing of the Lord of Shainsa, but he assumed that any man who could seize and hold power here must be both intelligent and ruthless. On the other hand, Cyrillon was an experienced trader, smooth-spoken and astute.
At one point, servants brought out trays of food and drink, jaco in tiny cups of translucent blue porcelain, balls of dried fruit pounded with nuts and sweet spices, and honey-glazed buns. Dayan accepted a cup and one of the pastries, then gestured for them to be offered to Cyrillon, watching with hawk-bright eyes as the trader took a sip and a bite. Gareth supposed that such men lived with the daily threat of poison, and it was an honor bestowed upon a guest to be the first to taste a meal.
Dayan signaled an end to the interview, and the Voice escorted them from the room. Dusk had gathered on the colonnade as other guests strolled or hurried by on their own business. The Voice presented Cyrillon with a small carved chest of spices and a porcelain medallion on a silk cord. On their way back to the encampment, Rahelle explained that the token was their franchise to trade as they willed, not only here in Shainsa itself but also throughout the lands where
Dayan held sway.
“It is a good thing,” she said, “and not often granted. I think he was pleased with your lenses and wishes to encourage greater trade in such things. We will do a good business tomorrow.”
12
The next morning, even before Cyrillon had finished setting up booths to display his merchandise, a small assembly had gathered. He was not the only trader in the market square, nor were his the most sought-after goods, but word had evidently gotten around of Lord Dayan’s favor. The medallion hung in a prominent place from one of the corner poles. As they opened for business, Gareth wondered aloud whether some of the buyers had come only so that they might be seen patronizing one of Dayan’s favorites.
Rahelle laughed but did not disagree. As she had said, they were able to make up the lost profit by increasing their prices. Cyrillon was careful not to charge too much, however. No customer would be able to complain of an unfair bargain.
There was quite a bit of interest in Gareth’s lenses, and at first he was worried that he would sell them all. Most had come to look rather than buy, though, and those who did buy selected only one or two pieces. As useful as they might be, the lenses were still luxury goods. Thanks to Cyrillon’s tutelage, Gareth was able to negotiate in a creditable fashion.
The sun swung overhead, and the crowd dispersed as the day’s crimson heat settled on the baked earth. Gareth, satisfied with the morning’s work, helped to close up the booths. There was nothing to be done until the cooler hours. This might be an opportune time to see what he could learn in the city.
Cyrillon had lain down to rest, but Rahelle sat in the shade of the open-sided tent. Sitting cross-legged, she bent over a bridle strap. Gareth watched her manipulate the curved needle, dipping it in and out of the leather, drawing the waxed thread into a neat seam.
She looked up. “What are you staring at? Have you never seen anyone sewing before?”
“Of course. At home, my mother always had some piece of embroidery at hand, usually for cushions or tapestries. Nothing as useful as what you are doing.”
“There speaks a man who has never had to count the holes in the linens. Embroidery isn’t all for show. The added threads strengthen the cloth against wear, as do the bands on cuffs and collars. Or did you think they were mere decoration, that needlework has no other function except to amuse women who have no other occupation?”
To this, Gareth had no ready reply. He had never thought much about the contribution of the women to the household. “Are you not concerned that someone here will see you doing women’s work?”
“Harness and clothing must be repaired, whether or not there is a woman to do it,” Rahelle answered tartly, “and there is no unmanliness in caring for equipment. I am a dutiful apprentice, performing the tasks set for me by my master. Do you intend to stand there all day? There is a second needle in the mending case.”
“I intend to find a meal and perhaps a little gossip.” On impulse, he added, “Will you come with me?”
She shook her head. “Now that we have opened for business, one of us must stay here.” She drew the thread underneath the last stitch and used a small knife to trim it close. “I don’t like the idea of you going off on your own. You have a talent for getting into trouble. Be careful what you say.”
“And what I do and where I put my feet. It’s daylight—how dangerous can it be? I grew up in a city. I know what to watch out for.”
Rahelle looked unhappy but said nothing more.
Gareth began by wandering through the outer areas, where a handful of other caravans had set up their camps. Most had finished the morning’s business and now rested, still watchful, in the shade of their tents. He approached them with some confidence since he had listened to Cyrillon strike up a conversation with his fellow traders and thought he could do as well with the hirelings.
Traders, like other Dry Towners, rarely got down to business right away. Gareth offered greetings and comments on the livestock and the condition of the wells and roads. There followed conventional compliments and inquiries about where they had come from and what they might have to offer for sale or be interested in buying. Gareth let slip a hint here and there that he was curious about “unusual trade goods” and stories of strange happenings in the desert.
“What stories from the far lands are not strange?” one of the oudrakhi drovers said. “There the sun sucks the very marrow from a man’s brains so that even the strongest sees visions.”
“Do you mean heat mirages,” Gareth asked, “or something more? Men vanishing in a flash of light, perhaps?”
The drover scowled. “It is unwise to speak about such things, lest the gods themselves take notice.”
“I meant no offense,” Gareth said lightly. “I collect tales to bring home to amuse the young children. They’ve grown weary of the same old stories told by the fireside.”
“If it’s tales you’re after, let me tell you of the white oudrakhi with the three calves . . .”
The drover’s tale was, as promised, amusing, although Gareth did not understand all the humor. With a little use of his laran, even unaided by his starstone, he was able to sense when the storyteller found something funny and then laugh appreciatively. Since some form of reciprocation was clearly expected, he offered one of the many story-songs from the Hellers about Durraman and his infamously decrepit and recalcitrant donkey.
Eventually, Gareth bade farewell to his new companions and made his way deeper into Shainsa. The city was a labyrinth, a series of open squares linked by crooked alleys. The sun-bleached walls turned blind faces to the unrelenting glare. Here and there, children with pale fleecy hair played in the shadows. A few old men drowsed on the stone benches. Their faces were as faded as their shirtcloaks, and many of them bore knife scars. What had they seen, and what could they tell? Gareth could think of no way to approach them.
He noticed a figure, hooded and robed in yellow, bent under the weight of a yoke from which hung two huge buckets. The figure went from one decrepit elder to the next, setting down the buckets. Curious but trying not to look conspicuous, Gareth watched the figure dip out a cup of water for each. Nothing was offered in return. The sight moved him unexpectedly, for he had not thought to find charity in the Dry Towns. Perhaps sensing his attention, the hooded figure turned to him, and he saw the symbol stitched on its breast, the same stylized representation of the Toad God Nebran as on the locket Grandmother Linnea had given him.
In the end, he went back to the Street of the Five Shepherds and the wine shops there. By this time, a scattering of red lanterns indicated establishments open for business.
Gareth selected one that seemed neither too run-down nor too elaborate, the sort of place a man with a few coins to spend might seek out. The interior was dim after the brightness of the street. A stale, musty tang hung in the air. Men sprawled on stained cushions or hunkered down in circles on the rough stone floor. From behind a curtain came voices and the clatter of cooking utensils.
Gareth lowered himself to the floor and turned to the nearest man. The fellow looked as weather-beaten and worn as any of them, slumped over a chipped pottery mug that was clearly empty.
“What are you drinking? Can I buy the next round?”
The man grunted. In the partial light, his eyes were gleaming slits. Gareth hesitated, unsure if this meant assent. Then he saw that half the men in the room had taken notice. A few stared outright, their faces unreadable.
“I don’t understand, what I meant—” he began, then realized it was the wrong thing to say. He searched his memory for the words he’d heard in Carthon, “If you have no blood feud with my family, will you drink with me?”
What happened next was too fast for Gareth the follow. Men who only an instant before had sprawled about the room as if they lacked the will or energy to sit up straight now sprang to their feet. Several shouted out words Gareth did not recognize. The ma
n Gareth had addressed whipped out a knife and slashed at his face.
Gareth twisted out of reach and scrambled to his feet. A line of fire shot across his cheek, and he felt a trickle of wetness. It was not a serious cut. The sting would pass in a moment. The danger lay in the meaning of the attack.
The man who had struck at him, the one he’d offered to buy a drink, sank into a fighter’s stance. The foot placement was a little different from what Gareth’s swordmasters had taught, but the intent was unmistakable. Around them, the other men formed a circle, intent, muttering.
Lord of Light! Without meaning to, he’d somehow insulted this man. He had been challenged, and if he did not answer or if he said the wrong thing, the room would turn on him like a pack of wolves on a wounded chervine. A man without pride, without kihar, was fair game; that was the first lesson he had learned about Dry Towns honor.
“Carrion-brained wearer of sandals!” the man spat. Sandal wearer was apparently as much a insult here as it was in the Domains.
One of the onlookers pressed a sword into the man’s hand. Without thinking, Gareth drew his own blade. His heart sank even as his fingers closed around the hilt. The Dry Towner would spill his blood—or his guts, given the chance—without a qualm, and there was no way out. The crowd wanted this fight.
Some response seemed to be called for. Gareth tried to remember what the drovers had called their recalcitrant beasts. If he was forced into an exchange of insults, then let them be good ones.
“Filthy sand-swilling offspring of a bog-spavined cralmac! I will not sully my blade with your blood!”
One of the watchers hooted in appreciation.
“Then wither and die like the droppings of a kyorebni on the Plain of Fire!” Gareth’s opponent narrowed his eyes and stepped sideways, circling. All appearance of intoxication disappeared.
Gareth adjusted his stance for the greatest advantage. His sword felt light and balanced. The quivering in his belly stilled. Heat swept through him. Every detail came into focus. Silvery adrenaline surged through his veins.
The Children of Kings Page 13
