Arduwyn nodded agreeably. “Any rascal who could sell that Béarnian king false plans and leave Béarn alive must be pretty shrewd, don’t you agree?”
“Well, yes, but. . . .”
“I know if I were a merchant, I’d grab an opportunity to find a salesman that skilled. Only a fool wouldn’t, sir, and you’re no fool.”
“I . . .” the merchant started.
“Fine. Two for ten, and I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Wait!” The merchant dismissed the suggestion with a brisk wave. “I don’t need. . . .”
Arduwyn broke in. “You’re not risking anything. If I don’t sell, you needn’t pay me. I’ll even start now.” He stepped behind the stand before the merchant could protest.
“Wait!” The silk-clad merchant made a grab with a clawed hand that fell short of Arduwyn’s shoulder. He shuffled forward, then halted in consideration. Recognition of talent or curiosity held him in quiet suspension. Folding his arms across his chest, he studied Arduwyn at work.
Mitrian watched with the same anticipation
Arduwyn’s face broke into a friendly grin as he approached a man who was fondling a small bag of spice. “Good day, sir,” the hunter called.
The man nodded stiffly. “Price?”
“Six copper chroams.”
A skeptical look crossed the merchant’s features. He seemed on the verge of laughter.
The patron looked startled. “That’s expensive.”
Arduwyn shrugged. “Fine ginger. I can’t take less.”
The man set down the pouch. He started to turn.
Arduwyn drummed his fingers on the wooden table. “Hold on. You seem like a good man, and one I could easily grow to like.” Arduwyn leaned forward and cast a sideways glance at the merchant, silently begging forbearance. He finished in a loud whisper. “I could trade the spice for your dagger.”
The man twisted his lips into a thoughtful grimace. He drew the dagger from its battered leather sheath, examining its worn, nicked blade. His gaze fell to the spice. “Fine.” He passed it to Arduwyn.
The merchant made an angry noise deep in his throat. He stepped forward to intercede, then stopped again, apparently willing to give Arduwyn the benefit of his doubts. Certainly, the hunter had not yet closed the deal.
Arduwyn clucked excitedly over the knife. “Exceptional workmanship. The craftsmen here don’t have the pride and skill that went into this blade.” Arduwyn let his eyes linger over the steel before looking up at his customer again. “It served you long and well, didn’t it?”
“It was a good dagger.” The man pocketed the spice but, as Arduwyn grew more enamored with the knife, the customer remained.
“Yes.” Arduwyn’s voice went pensive. “I owned one just like this when I killed my first deer. Why, as old and well-cared for as this appears, I’d guess you had it when you killed your first deer.”
The customer flushed. “Why, I did in fact. Fifteen years ago, I dressed and skinned my first buck with that very knife.”
“After my first deer, I felt so proud I didn’t clean the blood from the blade for a week.”
The patron reached for the dagger. “In the etching on the blade, I saw a little blood yet.”
“Yes, sir.” Arduwyn tapped the blade on his wrist. “Priceless memories keep in a knife like this. My first resides on the mantle, a trophy I stare at every night. A good place for memories, don’t you think?”
It was blatant lie. Mitrian knew Arduwyn did not even own a mantle, and she suspected his story about cheating the high king was equally dishonest. The merchant tipped his head, fascinated by Arduwyn’s style.
“Friend,” the patron said softly. “Could I have my dagger back?”
Arduwyn looked shocked. He held the dagger far beyond the man’s reach. “Sorry. You agreed to the trade. It’s done.”
The patron breathed a sigh and looked longingly at the knife in Arduwyn’s fist. “A man values few enough things without giving those away.”
“I know what you mean. You can’t buy memories in the market.” Arduwyn shook his head. “I’m sorry, I. . . . Wait!” Sudden inspiration showed clearly on Arduwyn’s face, the expression an exact duplicate to the one he had formed when he decided how to manipulate the merchant. “A dagger like this couldn’t cost more than fifteen or twenty chroams new. I can’t give it to you, but my boss can’t get angry if I sell it. As a friend, I’ll let you have it for ten.”
“Thank you.” The man reached for his purse, paid, and headed back into the crowd.
Mitrian had never seen a man pass money so eagerly.
Turning, Arduwyn dumped eight gold coins into the merchant’s hand. He pocketed the other two.
For several seconds, the two men stood in silence. Mitrian held her breath.
Finally, the merchant pocketed the money. “It was cinnamon,” he said gruffly. “Now get back to work.”
“Not so quick.”
The merchant met Arduwyn’s sparkling brown eyes with incredulity. “You’ve got your two for ten and a job. What more do you want?”
“I’ve got two friends as good at what they do as I am at what I do.” Arduwyn gestured.
Mitrian followed the movement, noticing for the first time that Sterrane and Garn were headed toward them.
The merchant studied the pair doubtfully. “Uh, exactly what do they do?”
“They lift things.”
“What?”
“They’re strong,” Arduwyn clarified. “They load and haul merchandise.”
The merchant returned his attention to Arduwyn. “Is this the last thing you’re going to ask from me?”
“Probably not,” Arduwyn admitted. “But it’s the last I can think of just now.”
“Ruaidhri’s mercy.” The merchant rolled his eyes heavenward. “I should just throw you out of here. But you are good.” He sighed. “Fine. Send your friends to the docks. Have them report to the foreman, Kruger, at dawn, and tell him Brugon suggested he hire them.”
Arduwyn glided to Mitrian’s side to give her the news she had already heard. “I know,” she said before he could speak. “Where did you learn to sell like that?”
“Practice, observation, experience, trial and error. I discovered that memories can’t be bought, but they can be sold.”
“But,” Mitrian pressed, “how could you possibly know that man would have such an attachment to his knife?”
Arduwyn smiled. Obviously, the explanation went far beyond what he was about to reveal to Mitrian. “I looked at the age of the man and the age of the sheath. A man grows fond of anything that becomes a part of his life for long, whether or not he knows, wants, or likes the attachment. Had it turned out that he never skinned a deer, I would have found some other sentimental remembrance.”
Mitrian frowned, still skeptical.
“Besides, when we were wandering around, I overheard that same man talking about an upcoming hunt with his friends. He said it had been years since he’d gone traipsing after hoofprints with his father. He hadn’t hunted since his father’s death.”
Mitrian stared, incredulous. “But how could you possibly know to listen to that particular man?” She made a stabbing motion with her hand in the direction the buyer had gone. “How did you know that man would just happen to go to the stand where you wanted to work?”
“I saw him headed for the table. Why do you think I chose this stand?”
Mitrian laughed. “But how did you know he’d go to any stand at all?”
“I didn’t have to.” Arduwyn glanced into the crowd, picking out a portly pair of woman. “The one on the left just had a fight with her husband. The one with her is her cousin, Zelrina.” He indicated a trio of men. “The one in the lead tends to spend beyond his means, so his wife allowed him to carry only enough copper to buy fruit and bread. The one closest to us wants a birthday present for his niece.”
“Amazing,” Mitrian said, though she had no proof any of his observations were true. “You can tell that
just by looking?”
“I can tell that because I listened.” Arduwyn kept his gaze on the masses. “I call it crowd scanning. Whenever I get a free moment, I slip out among the patrons ‘upstream’ from the selling table. I watch to see which people seem interested in certain items, what approaches are working or failing for other salesmen, and overhear what I can from passing conversations. The more you know about a person, the easier he becomes to manipulate. If I happen to find out a woman’s name, I can sell her almost anything.”
Mitrian crinkled her nose, finding the method offensive. “That’s ugly.”
“That’s sales.” Arduwyn shrugged. “People expect it. Just see to it you don’t fall prey to the same tactics.”
“Hey, Red.” The merchant’s voice wafted over the densely mingled hubbub. “A wise man once reminded me that if you don’t sell anything, I don’t have to pay you.”
Arduwyn laughed. “I’ll see you at home.” He waved a quick good-bye to Mitrian, then returned to the selling table.
CHAPTER 18
Wizard’s Work
In the ruins of Myrcidë, the Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, stared at the red falcon perched on his rickety plank and boulder table. Fire from the hearth bathed the room in ruddy light, striking highlights of yellow and silver through the bird’s plumage and outlining its crest like a halo. Conjured rain drummed on the rooftops and surrounding meadows, though the courtyards remained dry, safe from his magical downpour. Secodon sat beside the Wizard’s chair, his muzzle warm on his master’s thigh; but the wolf’s loyal presence could not keep Shadimar’s thoughts from a Cardinal Wizards’ call to war.
It was not within the Eastern Wizard’s right to enter Carcophan’s Eastland dominion, except while tracking a champion of his own. But Shadimar had not needed to cross the border; his glimpse from the peaks of the Great Frenum Mountains had shown him enough. Carcophan’s general, Siderin, had mustered his forces and would reach the Westlands within two months. The time had come for Shadimar to complete his portion of the prophecy by mobilizing Santagithi’s army and attending the West’s master strategist. As if Santagithi might need my encouragement to lead men to war. Through a fold in his slate gray robe, Shadimar clutched at the Pica Stone, the clairsentient sapphire he had collected in payment from Mitrian. Why would the prophecy waste a Wizard’s attention on a general so eager when so much else needs doing ?
After his duty to Santagithi was dispatched, any action by Shadimar paced a delicate line of principle. Winning the Great War hinged upon completing the tasks of the missing Western Wizard, but, as of yet, Shadimar had seen no sign that Tokar had performed any of his prophesied duties. Already, the Eastern Wizard had encroached upon his colleague’s province by thrusting the Renshai heritage upon Mitrian. To press further by rallying Pudar or any of the other cities in Tokar’s territory would risk Shadimar’s Wizards’ vows. Yet if the Western Wizard had been destroyed, Shadimar would have to assume his counterpart’s duties or risk oblivion for the followers of neutrality as well as destruction of the balance it was his god-meted objective to maintain.
Shadimar balled his left hand into a fist, resting the other palm on Secodon’s head. I have to find out if Tokar lives. The Eastern Wizard shook his head, knowing the need but not the means. To intrude upon the Western Wizard by sorcery would be a certain violation of his vows, and he had already tried repeatedly to contact his colleague by messenger. I have to try one more time. What choice do I have? Gently inching his leg free of Secodon’s chin, Shadimar rose and paced to the hearth. From a cubby above the mantle, he retrieved a strip of parchment, a quill, and a short length of twine. Returning to the table, he wrote in the Common trading runes:
“The War is started. Warn the West.”
Shadimar scribbled his signature at the bottom. He stared at the note, unsatisfied. He wanted to question Tokar’s intentions, to demand a reply if the Western Wizard could give one, and to convey his urgency and concern. But Shadimar knew a long note would be folly. To say too much would risk offending Tokar or allowing information to fall into the enemy’s hands. How much bolder would Carcophan become if he believed only the weakest of the Wizards could oppose his champion ? Tokar understood his duties and their significance. To know the Great War had begun should be enough. “Swiftwing.”
The falcon twisted its head, regarding Shadimar through one burning, golden eye. Docilely, it waited. The bird had served as the Wizards’ messenger for longer than Shadimar had trained, and the generations of Eastern Wizards’ memories passed to him by his mentor’s ceremony of passage could not reveal a time when Swiftwing had not attended the Cardinal Wizards. Shadimar did not know whether the falcon was eternal or whether the gods replaced it at intervals with a younger specimen. In any case, it was the only bird the Western Wizard could not communicate with any better than his colleagues.
Shadimar rolled the parchment into a packet. Grasping the twine, he bound the message to Swiftwing’s scaly leg. “Take it to the Western Wizard.” He held out an arm, the gray sleeve sagging from his withered flesh. Obediently, the falcon flapped to the Wizard’s forearm, and its weight on his limb scarcely disturbed him. The talons dug through fabric but, like all beings and creations of law, they could not pierce the Wizard’s skin.
Shadimar entered the long, gray hallway, following it to a statue-filled courtyard. Vines swarmed the walls and monuments. As Secodon padded in behind him, flocks of berry-smeared songbirds exploded from the vines, their wingbeats slapping echoes between the crumbling walls. Shadimar kept his attention trained on Swiftwing. “If you don’t find the Western Wizard, deliver the message to another. Choose a man or woman of consequence.” Shadimar paused, uncertain whether the bird could understand his final command. He knew Swiftwing’s comprehension was limited, but he was uncertain of the extent of that limitation. He ended with the traditional send-off, “Fly, Swiftwing. And beware the arrows of hunters.”
The falcon unfurled wings the color of embers and launched into the sky. Shadimar watched it rise like fire against a darkened sky wound through with lightning from the magical tempest that guarded his ruins. Gradually, the bird faded to black outline and disappeared.
Shadimar dropped his hand to Secodon’s head, the thick undercoat dense and soft beneath his touch. No prophecy had divined as many details of Wizards’ behavior as the one about the Great War. The Eastern Wizard knew his lot was to mobilize and advise the West’s finest strategist as well as to accompany his army to the battleground. To abandon that duty might undo his efforts to date as well as any gains the Western Wizard might have made. It’s out of my hands now. The balance of mankind’s world now rests on a falcon.
Responsive to his master’s mood, Secodon tucked his plumed tail between his legs and loosed a single, short whine.
* * *
Seated before the opened gates to Santagithi’s citadel, Acting-Captain Jakot spotted the stylus-thin Wizard and his shaggy pet when they were halfway through the village. The guard followed their passage with narrowed eyes, tracking Shadimar’s direct route along the cobbled streets and toward his post on the hilltop. Once certain of the elder’s destination, Jakot rose, unfolding a tall, intimidatingly strapping frame. He shook sandy bangs from his forehead, rested a hand on his sword hilt, and waited.
As Shadimar started up the hill toward Santagithi’s citadel, Jakot discerned the Wizard’s fine, white hair and beard, the near-transparent skin that revealed a network of veins, and the wrinkled features that accompanied great age. Still, the old man walked with a steady tread that belied his age, and the creature at his side looked more like a wolf than any dog Jakot had ever seen. The acting-captain did not relax his stance.
At length, Shadimar reached the crest. Man and Wizard stared at one another for several moments until the elder broke the silence. “Greetings, Jakot. I have important business with Santagithi.”
The personal address caught Jakot by surprise. Barely thirty, he had not yet joined Santagithi’s guard force
at the time of the Eastern Wizard’s other visit, now fourteen years past. Jakot’s gaze dropped to the wolf. Without taking his eyes from the newcomers, he called for his backup. “Donnerval!”
Several seconds passed.
As the delay lengthened, Jakot’s mood slipped from caution to annoyance. Without Rache and Nantel to whip the soldiers and archers into shape, the guards had begun to lapse into an unruly mob. Since Mitrian’s kidnapping and Rache’s dispatch, Santagithi seemed to have aged a decade. He sank into interminable silences that, if pressed too far, erupted into deadly rages. It had fallen to Jakot to maintain discipline and to hide the depth of his general’s depression from his followers. Jakot’s dedication to this task had lost him a lover and a number of friends, but he had managed to keep the guards keenly honed. Still, his control always teetered on the brink. Anything but a brisk response to his command could not be tolerated.
“Donnerval, front and center! Now!” Jakot’s command left no room for question or delay. Though he lacked Rache’s mastery, Jakot’s sword skills exceeded that of most of his followers, and his size gave him other advantages when the need for threat arose.
Donnerval skidded to attention beside Jakot. His breeks sagged, tied haphazardly. The skirt of his mail shirt lay half-tucked into the waist. Apparently, he had been relieving himself when his captain summoned him.
Jakot bit his lip to keep from smiling. He felt bad for blaming Donnerval’s delay on lack of vigilance, yet it pleased him to see how seriously his underling took his command. Jakot softened his tone. “Take my post. I need to ask Santagithi if he’ll see . . .” He trailed off, having never obtained the information, and looked at Shadimar expectantly.
“The Eastern Wizard, Shadimar,” the old man supplied.
Jakot stared, not quite ready to believe a being out of fairy tale had entered the Town of Santagithi, no matter how well Shadimar suited his mental image of the character in the stories his mother used to tell. “. . . The Eastern Wizard, Shadimar,” Jakot finished, holding his incredulity at bay. He turned on his heel, without making judgment, and headed toward the barracks.
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