Karalith looked nervously over at her parents. Her father was busy with a customer, but her mother shot as disapproving a look as Karalith ever saw at her.
Belrik followed Karalith’s gaze over to the elderly human woman, and Karalith saw his crestfallen expression. “I suppose,” he said after a second, “that I have my answer. A mother’s silent disapproval is the loudest statement in the world, I’ve found.”
Karalith looked away. “Thank you for understanding, Vizier Belrik.”
“Since I cannot ask this over the meal as I’d hoped, let me ask you here. I will be mounting an expedition to find Sebic’s treasure—”
“Sebowkan,” Tricht’tha said testily.
Sparing a glower at the thri-kreen, Belrik said, “Whatever his name, it’ll be my treasure soon enough.” He stared right at Karalith. “Come with me. Help me find the treasure; it will be an amazing adventure.” Looking briefly behind him at the Raam city walls, he added: “And it will take me away for a time.”
At first, Karalith stared back at his dark brown eyes, which were confused. Karalith suspected that he was not a man who had to ask for things—he simply demanded them, and they occurred.
“I’m sure the adventure will be amazing,” she said after finally breaking eye contact. “But I cannot. I have obligations to the emporium that I cannot shirk, even for so tempting an offer as this.”
Belrik sighed long and hard. “I cannot convince you otherwise?”
“Convince me? Almost definitely.” She glanced over at Shira, who was back to the elf couple with Torthal. “Convince her? No chance.”
“What about your father? He and I spoke for a bit yesterday, and I believe I could—”
But Karalith was shaking her head. “It is not my father who makes those decisions, I’m afraid.”
That prompted a frown. “What a pity. So rare anymore to find a man who can stand up to his wife.” Belrik sounded wistful when he said that.
The conversation continued for a few more minutes, but eventually Belrik came to realize that Karalith was never going to be able to go with him on his treasure hunt.
Karalith did her best to convey disappointment in her inability to do so until he finally got back on his crodlu and left the bazaar.
The moment he was out of sight, Karalith turned to Tricht’tha and grinned broadly. “Well done.”
The thri-kreen laughed, a lovely chittering noise. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Luckily, we heard about his shrew of a wife,” Karalith said. “Made it easier to convince him that Mother would never let me leave and Father couldn’t do anything about that.”
“I’m just glad we were able to fleece that dungeater for Lyd’s sake.”
Just then, Zabaj and Feena finally came back to the emporium, holding hands. They made an entertaining contrast, the towering, dark mul and the petite, blond human. Torthal hadn’t been thrilled when they started their relationship. “You don’t dip into your own sand,” he always said. Karalith wasn’t even sure what that meant, but Feena and Zabaj seemed happy, so she didn’t see what the problem was. Occasionally, someone would look askance, but most people didn’t care. It was a hard world—most people figured that if you found love, you should hang onto it. There wasn’t much chance of long-term happiness there—muls were generally sterile and Zabaj was no exception—but when you lived your life wandering through the desert from place to place, you didn’t have the luxury of thinking long term.
Komir gave Zabaj a pleading look, and the latter came over to help Karalith’s brother deal with his customer in a language he would understand. Feena gave him a quick kiss on his meaty hand before letting go of it and joining Karalith and Tricht’tha behind the table.
Having finished with the elf couple, Torthal and Shira also came over. “Well done on the stern-mother expression, my love,” Torthal said.
“Flatterer,” Shira replied with a mock-demure look.
“Oh, and well done you,” Torthal said to Karalith. “Good enough that we took that pampered idiot for a thousand gold, but getting him to pay two coppers a foot for the linens without him even blinking was genius.”
Feena pouted. “I missed all of it?”
“Afraid so,” Karalith said. “He just left, having received a gentle turn-down to my accompanying him on his ‘adventure.’ ”
Tricht’tha made several appreciative clicks. “She was brilliant.”
“So were you,” Karalith said. “You play the frantic customer quite well.”
“What’s this about the linens?” Feena asked.
“He was fondling the silk so eagerly,” Karalith said, “that he barely registered when I said the linens were two coppers a foot instead of one, especially since the silk was so much more expensive. I was worried that that old tutor of his would say something.”
“Perhaps Cristophe didn’t know any better,” Tricht’tha said. “Or perhaps he deliberately kept quiet as to their worth to annoy him for making him carry his ancient carapace to the bazaar all day. Probably that, honestly. He spoke Chachik better than any non-thri-kreen I’ve ever heard.”
Karalith regarded Tricht’tha. “He must’ve created an impression—I didn’t even remember his name.”
In Chachik, Tricht’tha said, “He speaks my language a lot better than you.”
Feena laughed. “I’m glad you managed to finish it. Wish I’d seen—how much linen did the idiot buy?”
With a grin, Karalith said, “A hundred feet.”
Shira smiled. “I never object to a one-hundred-copper profit.”
Tricht’tha started rummaging through the pouch Belrik had handed over. “Now, we take out three hundred for Gash for forging the map—”
“No,” Karalith said quickly, “only two hundred. He screwed up the first forgery, remember?”
“Huh?” Feena asked.
“Because Belrik drags Tricht’tha’s dear friend Cristophe with him to the bazaar, we had to make sure that there was a particular impurity in the parchment. That was the only way we’d sell it to him. Gash forgot that on the first treasure map he made for us, so he had to make another one and take a hundred off the price.”
“Or,” Tricht’tha added, “have his reputation permanently soiled. If word got out that he forgot so simple a characteristic, he’d never get any forgery work again.”
“Certainly not from us,” Torthal said, “and we’re his best customer.”
Feena nodded. “So we can still give Lyd five hundred?”
“Of course,” Karalith said. “That was what we promised her to get back at dear, sweet Vizier Belrik for blacklisting her.”
Turning to Tricht’tha, Feena asked, “May I please go with you to give Lyd the five hundred? I couldn’t participate in the game, the least I can do is present her prize.”
Tricht’tha turned her large red eyes onto Torthal and Shira. “I have no objection, if you don’t.”
“Why couldn’t you participate in the game?” Shira asked. “The delivery was at sunup.”
Torthal added, “You didn’t stop to fornicate along the way, did you?”
Punching Torthal in the arm, Shira said, “Torthal, stop that.”
“It’s a reasonable question.”
Feena glared at Shira. “No, it isn’t. Zabaj and I wouldn’t do that.” She sighed. “No, when we arrived, we discovered that the boy who bought the merchandise did so without the consent of his parents. It took a great deal of arguing before they were finally convinced to actually accept delivery.” She smiled. “I used a bit of persuasion. But it still took some time.”
Karalith chuckled. Feena had mind-magic—what those who were trained in it called “the Way”—which was often helpful when they played the game on someone. It was particularly useful for the tougher players, but Belrik was sufficiently predictable—thanks to what Lyd told them—that Feena’s extra help wasn’t needed.
Sometimes Karalith wondered how Feena’s life might have differed had she been born to a
class that would have enabled her to study at a school teaching the Way. Such schools were all over Athas, and they trained people who went on to advise businesses, merchants, nobles, and monarchs.
They’d never know, of course, but Feena was already fairly skilled with her abilities just from what she taught herself. Had she been properly trained in the Way, she probably would have blossomed into a force to be reckoned with.
Of course, had circumstances permitted that, Karalith probably never would have met Feena or her brother.
“Fine, go on,” Torthal said to Feena and Tricht’tha, “but try to get back before the lunch crowd arrives.”
“Of course,” Feena said.
“And,” Torthal added, “you’ve still got to take those spices to that family at midday.”
“Yes, of course.” Feena and Tricht’tha had already started walking toward the gate in the Raam city wall that would lead them to the Coins Quarter and the small house that Lyd could no longer afford to rent since Belrik blacklisted her. With the five hundred gold, though, she’d be able to start over somewhere beyond Belrik’s reach.
Karalith, meanwhile, went back to the carriage, having extracted the remaining five hundred gold in ceramic coins from the pouch, letting Tricht’tha and Feena take Belrik’s pouch to Lyd.
The thing was a mess, as usual. It drove Karalith mad, it really did, to see clothing and bedclothes tossed about all over the place, parchments piled haphazardly, and spare merchandise unsorted. The bazaars tended to be frantic affairs, and the off-hours were usually spent recovering from being at the table all day. Karalith understood that Shira and Torthal weren’t as young as they used to be, but that excuse didn’t hold for Feena, Zabaj, or Karalith’s brother.
Tricht’tha had her own excuse, of course—thri-kreens’ sense of neatness differed widely from that of most other people.
But when the bazaar ended in three days, they were going to waste hours cleaning up the carriage in order to secure everything for travel.
Finally, after tossing aside several piles of clothing—which made the mess worse, a bit of hypocrisy that Karalith chose to ignore—she finally liberated the strongbox. Shira and Karalith had the only keys to the box. For years, Shira had insisted on having the only key, but these days, Shira and Torthal usually only worked for about half the day at the table. When they were gone, Karalith and Komir were in charge, and one of them had to have access to the strongbox.
There were moments when Karalith was worried about what would happen when her parents finally died. It was going to happen sooner or later—particularly Shira. Elves lived longer, but Torthal was also still proportionally as old for an elf as Shira was for a human. Even though he had fifty years on her, they were in many ways the same age.
The strongbox was probably more valuable than its contents. Made from iron and oak, materials that were virtually impossible to find anymore, the ornately designed box was large enough to hold all of their coins. And if the emporium ever was in trouble, they could always sell the box …
Inside the box were several compartments, and Karalith counted out two hundred in gold-stamped coins to put in the small corner compartment for coins owed, with the remaining three hundred going into the center compartment for the emporium’s own profits.
Karalith smiled as she saw how much was in that center compartment. After what they did to Belrik, it was possible that they wouldn’t be able to come back to Raam for at least another couple of years. Prior to running the game on him, she would have considered that an acceptable loss, especially given the declining state of Raam these days, but this season they were actually doing decently here, for once.
But she was willing to live with it—and so were the rest of them. Lyd was a friend, and you didn’t do what Belrik did to the Serthlara Emporium’s friends. Not without retribution, anyway.
“All put away?”
Karalith turned around to see her twin brother Komir. Like her, Komir had the slight points to his ears that indicated their mixed heritage, but that was the only similarity. He had the ordinary sunken cheekbones and thin shoulders of a human, and the wide eyes of an elf. The best indicator, though, that he was Torthal Serthlara’s son was the same as Karalith’s: the sea green eyes.
Another non-elf trait was that Komir had shaved his head. The sweat got to him, he said, and he found it easier to survive under Athas’s crimson sun without any hair in the way. It was a pity, as his hair was thick, lustrous, and shining—but Karalith knew the value of practicality. And the round, bald head gave her brother a rugged look that sometimes aided in the game.
“Yes,” she said in response to her brother’s query. “I set aside the two hundred for Gash, and Tricht’tha and Feena are taking the five hundred to Lyd now.”
“Excellent. Lyd doesn’t deserve to have that sandscraper blacklisting her.”
Karalith nodded. Lyd hadn’t even been able to get a table at this season’s bazaar because Belrik had soiled her reputation. Nobody in Raam would buy her wares anymore, all because he misunderstood the description of her burlap, confusing it with her raw silk supply.
“That five hundred,” Komir continued, “should be enough to get her to some other city where Belrik’s good name won’t sully hers.”
Grinning, Karalith said, “I don’t think Belrik’s name will be all that good after he digs around the wastes for months looking for a treasure that isn’t there.”
“You don’t feel sorry for the little bastard, do you, Lith?”
Karalith glared at her brother. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Ko. You said it best—he’s a sandscraper. I wouldn’t let him clean my sandals.”
Komir snorted. “He wouldn’t know how. Still, I hope that Feena’s brother doesn’t take too long to get here. I’d just as soon be away from Raam as fast as possible.”
“Agreed.” She wrapped one arm around her brother’s shoulder. “So let us go sell as much as possible so we won’t ever have to come back …”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Rol really, really had to pee.
There were a lot of reasons he was sorry that Fehrd was dead, but right now the one foremost in his mind—and in his bladder—was the fact that, with only two of them, the overnight shifts on guard duty were longer. This had happened on other occasions where only two of them worked a job, or one of them was injured and couldn’t pull guard duty. In fact, it happened every time: the final hour of Rol’s shift involved a lot of jumping up and down waiting for Fehrd or Gan to relieve him so he could relieve himself.
The night had been fairly quiet. The caravan had torches that were placed at the perimeter to keep some of the nocturnal creatures away. It didn’t always work if they were hungry enough, but generally they stuck with prey that wouldn’t require them to blind themselves in order to capture it.
Rol tried to distract himself by thinking about Tirana. At least, he was pretty sure that was her name. He had always had trouble remembering women’s names. Gan had expressed opinions as to what that meant, but Rol mostly ignored them. Ignoring Gan was the only way to properly tolerate being in his presence half the time.
Tirana was the daughter of the slave trader, whose charm was in inverse proportion to that of her father. Generally, people assumed slavers to be utter bastards with no redeeming social value, but in Rol’s experience, they were generally quite calm and sensible. They were businessmen, mostly, and treated their slaves precisely the way they would any other merchandise. Often that meant they were well cared for.
However, Tirana’s father, Calbit, fell into the utter-bastard stereotype. In fact, he was the first one Rol had met who did. He had—according to his daughter—a collection of fighters from all over who he’d purchased on behalf of his partner back in Urik.
Rol had always been grateful that he’d managed to avoid having to fight in the arenas. Gladiatorial fights were the most popular sport going, and Rol had seen a few from the cheap seats in arenas all over Ath
as. Mostly he came away from them thanking powers greater than him that he wasn’t down on the combat stage. He preferred to fight for fun or for profit. Doing it by force just took all the fun out of it.
He contemplated whether or not it was worth tempting Calbit’s wrath by waking his daughter and having some fun with her before going to sleep. Of greater concern was tempting Tirana’s wrath, as annoying her would not lead to the result he was hoping for.
At least, not that night.
Then again, he didn’t have much longer to go. They’d reach the Dragon’s Bowl fork some time the next day, and then the slavers would continue on the Great Road to Urik while the rest of them veered off to Raam. So it might well have been his only chance, if he thought about it.
Not that he was truly thinking straight, as he hopped back and forth on the shifting sands.
The best part was that she’d come to him, initially. She expressed sorrow over Fehrd’s death, for which Rol thanked her and then quickly changed the subject. Death, he felt, never really suited the mood of a conversation with a woman. So every time she tried to bring Fehrd up, he changed the subject to something that was more conducive to his endgame.
“Finally,” he bellowed when he saw Gan approach his position on the perimeter of the caravan, the torchlight combining with his eye patch to cast odd blacks onto his face. “What took you so long? My back teeth are floating.”
“You know, seriously, you can just relieve yourself while you’re on duty.”
“That’s not what I do.” Rol had a work ethic, after all, and Gan knew that. “The last thing I want is to have to take on bandits with the family jewels hanging out.”
Gan rolled his eye, which looked ridiculous with the patch. “You don’t even know your family.”
“Hardly the point, and you know it.” Rol shook his head. “Anyway, it’s been quiet. A few lizards here and there, but nothing big enough to eat, much less be a danger.”
Nodding, Gan pulled out Fehrd’s staff. Or, rather, Fehrd’s father’s staff.
Rol asked Gan the same question he’d asked when Gan had removed it from Fehrd’s corpse. “You do know how to use that thing, right?”
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