by Ru Emerson
“Look at that.” Brelian broke her thought. She gazed along the line of his arm. He cleared his throat. “Marhan, there. How can he stand it?” The Swordmaster had moved his group of boys farther down-river, but they could hear him as he bellowed out the changes or corrected someone's poor work. Twenty young men were valiantly trying to follow the first pattern of change that was every armsman's preliminary chore. Most of them were failing lamentably. Ylia laughed.
“I'm not saying a thing. It will come against me with my women. Though I don't think they're as bad as that!” Brelian grinned briefly, shook his head. “Well, luck with your own class, I've got lists to study, and a map to rough out so Grewl can copy it properly.” She waved encouragement at the herders and went back up the ledge.
It was an hour past noon-meal when a shout came from the Outer Guard, and Merreven burst into the chamber to convey the news. A boat had come up the Aresada: Nar had sent aid.
Ylia sprinted for the outer ledges, waded through a press of excited Nedaoans to reach the guard platform. A shallow-drafted, flat-decked boat was drawn up against the bank. Poles floated back down the current and men were loosing long tow-ropes from five sturdy ponies. The captain was on his way up, though he was going to be a time at it, through so many cheering people. Ylia reluctantly allowed Malaeth and Lisabetha to drag her back inside so the Narran could be formally presented.
“Malaeth, don't fuss, please!" she implored as the old woman shoved her into her place at the council table and brought out a comb. “He's not expecting Koderran splendor!”
“He is expecting Nedao's Lady and Queen. Sit still!” Malaeth pulled the leather ties from all four plaits, slapped Ylia's hands away as one caught on a snag. “Leave be. I'll be done all the more quickly if you hold still. ‘Betha, undo those, please, and quickly!” Ylia closed her eyes, bit her lip and gave in. Malaeth got the ends combed down a scant moment before Merreven came into sight.
“M'Lady. Tr'Harsen, captain of the Narran Merman, seeks audience with you.”
Ylia swallowed a smile that was half amusement, half embarrassment. Such formality—M'Lady, yet!—and all directed at her! It felt like a child's game, it felt so out of place in this rough stone chamber. But Merreven clearly considered it no game, nor did Marhan and Brelian, who were at his back. Your job, M'Lady, she urged herself dryly. “Let him enter.”
She'd met Tr'Harsen before. The Merman had called twice a year in Koderra. He was in Koderra when word came of the Tehlatt attack, and had taken a load of refugees to Yslar. Ylia was, to have been among them; she wondered what he had thought when he realized she was not. “Lady.” His bow was a neat, economical inclination of his upper body. Very Narran. “We came as soon as we could, after your men reached us. We've goods for you. My men are unloading now. And I have written messages here from the Lord Mayor and from various Narran trading companies, my own among them.”
“If we need to deal with those now, I'll take them.” Ylia stifled a sigh: Paperwork, and more paperwork. Tr'Harsen pulled a thick, waxed packet from his belt and handed it to Marhan, who frowned at it. Lisabetha ushered Grewl in and got him settled in his place at Ylia's left hand. Marhan passed the messages across the table; the old man began breaking seals and unfolding a sea of heavy paper. Tiny bits of hard wax colored his sleeves, his fingers.
Tr'Harsen shook his head. “Let your man sort them out. We can talk about them later. They all say the same thing, more or less. Nar's folk have sent aid. I've brought flour and grain, dried corn, what I could gather together at once and would fit in a riverboat. Food as would not spoil. Your man said you'd a desperate need for iron for swords and arrows. We've a very little with us, but there's more coming. Two other boats were loading when I left. They'll be about a 5-day behind us. Perhaps less.”
“For your aid, our thanks,” Ylia replied formally. She hoped she didn't look as uncomfortable as she felt. She'd never done this before, only stood at her father's shoulder while he did. “But we ask no charity. We'll pay as soon as we can for what you've brought.”
Tr'Harsen waved that aside. “You'd do as much for us, if we had need. And there may yet be need, if the Sea-Raiders continue to harry us.” He ran a dark, rough hand through close-cropped dark red hair. “However. Your man said as much, that you'd pay. And so, we can make it a trade, goods you need now and later, in exchange for something of yours. The Lord Mayor asks the same thing in one of those messages.”
“Something of ours?” What, possibly, could Nedao have that the Narrans would want? Nar traded with Osnera and other, highly sophisticated lands across the sea, What Nedaoan goods would they want?
“Something indeed,” Tr'Harsen replied warmly. “Your wool. Many of us wear Nedaoan cloaks we've traded for in the Koderran and Teshmoran markets. Or in the villages between, where prices were better. But we've never been able to work a deal for the cloth in quantity. Frankly, until recently we hadn't created a market for it, not a decent enough one to let us meet the price your father wanted for the cloth. Now we have one. And we no longer have to round the Ylsan peninsula to get it, which makes the deal all the better for us.”
“Our wool. Ylia stared at him blankly. Heavy, rough Nedaoan wool?
Tr'Harsen smiled, pressed what he saw as an advantage. “Now, your man said you intend to remain within the mountains, Lady. The Aresada is a hard river to travel, but it could be made navigable, and it's safer even as it is than the sea route.”
“Closer, too,” Marhan said. He nudged Ylia's foot with his, under cover of the table, cast her a warning look and sent a brief one in the Narran's direction. She brought her face under control.
“We've found a place for ourselves, near the River, about fifteen leagues downstream. We'll be nearer yet,” she said.
Tr'Harsen smiled. “That's good. The most treacherous water is here and just downstream. Some ugly rapids. However. Pleasure before other business. There's wine aboard my boat; if I may, I'll have it brought up.”
He took Merreven with him. “Gods,” Ylia breathed, “if Nar wants our wool!”
“If we've any to spare this year,” Marhan reminded her sourly. “And don't look so eager, this is a Narran, remember? He'll have an eye to an edge in his trade, however much he wants to aid us. Mind that!”
“I'll try,” she said. “We probably won't have any to spare, anyway. Or women enough to weave it. But if they want wool, it's something we can provide, eventually. If they'd wanted coin or the sheep themselves, we couldn't possibly have provided either.”
Tr'Harsen returned with two of his crewmen, one carrying a small wooden cask, the other bearing a box of heavy-bottomed wooden cups.
“I took the liberty of asking your boy to have water brought. It wasn't sense to transport the best wine on such a rough journey; this is good stuff, but it's strong.” He adroitly parceled out cups, wine and—when it arrived—a generous dipper of water to each. “To the beginnings of a new and prosperous trading union between our countries.”
“I'll drink to that,” Ylia replied. Tr'Harsen was right: Even mixed, the stuff was strong, still a dark red, and much sweeter than her taste. It was her first wine in over a month, and it was absolutely wonderful.
“Now!” The trader set his cup down, dropped into the seat at Ylia's right, and crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward. “Could we arrange a trade for your wool—well! The Osnerans in two port cities have taken a liking to it. Someone apparently got hold of a Nedaoan cloak—traded it off a Narran, probably—and set a local fashion. The embroidery has taken their fancy, too: Osnerans take whims, and they have more money than sense, some of them.” He considered this last statement gravely, shrugged. “Though in this case, and knowing what their winters can be like, it's more likely someone was showing sense for a change.”
“If it profits us, we can't condemn them,” Brelian put in. Tr'Harsen laughed.
“That's good! I like that!”
“The trade sounds proper: aid from you now for wool when Nedao ca
n provide it,” Grewl said diffidently. “But if it's merely fad, you won't have a long-lived market for the cloth, sir.”
The trader shook his head. “Not ‘sir,’ I'm Tr'Harsen, don't know how to answer to anything else. But the market will hold. At least for the wool, for the cloaks. The embroidery—well, they want it, and not just on the heavy wool, that might not be wanted a year hence. But even if Osnera loses interest in the wool, there are folk farther north who won't. The winters in Geheran are terrible. Why, we've even traded Ragnolan wool to them, and inferior as it is to yours, they snap it up.”
Ylia set her cup aside. “Unfortunately, our wool harvest this spring may not be sufficient to provide anything beyond our own needs. We lost too great a portion of our herds, and few of us have even a change of clothing at present.”
“We can supply you with raw wool as much as you need. For your own needs, as well as for trade. Geheran wool, wonderful stuff. Poorly woven when Geherans do it, unfortunately. But take your time over a decision,” he added. “Study the Lord Mayor's offers, consider my own. There will be others in that packet, I'm certain you'll want to at least think on them. And let me know on my next journey up-river.”
“We'll do that.” She smiled, raised the cup to him. “Thank you for this. It's the first wine I've tasted in much too long.”
Tr'Harsen grinned. “It was forethought, you know. Any trader's act is. But I have a special reason: Nedao likes its wine and we Narrans love a good malty ale. We've a few beermakers in Nar, but no one who can copy your dark, heavy brown. Now, if we could arrange another trade, wine for ale? This one, though, is strictly my idea, and if anyone else brings it up I'd ask you to remember who made first mention of it. We could of course supply whatever grains and such you needed, down to the very casks.”
“I'll do that—my council will. I doubt many Nedaoans would take such a trade amiss. Certainly we'll have no grape harvest this season, whatever else we have, and I personally don't care for wild berry wines. Too sweet.”
“Well, then.” Tr'Harsen drained his cup at a swallow and stood. “I should get back to my boat, to oversee the unloading. I'll have invoices for your stewards, Lady.”
Stewards? “Marhan, go with him, would you? Foodstuffs should be sent to the kitchens, anything metal to Bos, and the rest—you'll know.” The Swordmaster rose and followed the trader out. “Gods, real wine. Grewl, your cup's empty, would you like a little more?”
The Chosen nodded absently; he was deeply engrossed in a multi-paged document. Tiny flecks of red, green and gold wax were in his beard, where he'd tugged on it with chip-covered hands. He broke yet another seal, dropped the waterproofed outer wrapping to the floor, began comparing the two. Ylia watched him. Grewl was useful: more useful than she'd have thought when she'd pitied a desperately burned old man and restored him to health with the AEldran healing. Nor had he reproached her for using what most Chosen saw as black sorcery on him; that was not Grewl's way, and not only because it had been his life. An intellectual, this Grewl; unlike certain others of his kind she could name, a man who applied common sense, logic, and an active brain to the Chosen teachings.
It was too bad he wouldn't accept the leadership of them all: but that Grewl refused to do, despite urgings from many of his people, despite Ylia's own urgings. He wanted nothing beyond his books, the scholar's life he'd sought in the first place when he'd taken the grey cloth. And only evil chance and the Tehlatt had made him part of the Nedaoan Chosen, for he'd only been visiting from some house oversea when they'd attacked.
She supposed there was good sense to his attitude. Jers still remained at the Caves—fanatic Jers narrow-minded Jers, ambitious Jers. And he had followers among the Chosen, if not so many as he'd originally counted upon. Grewl was technically still a guest of the Nedaoan Chosen. The Heirocracy would have to confirm the transfer before he would be properly Nedaoan. And Jers looked to be named Father by Osnera. For Grewl to merely assume leadership would foment problems, notwithstanding that more of the Chosen wanted Grewl than Jer's.
If we could simply send Jers down-river after his friend Tevvro! Unfortunate he hadn't left with his close colleague and her beloved cousin. Oh, he had reasons, she never doubted that! And she was not certain that all of them had to do with his personal ambitions. She was keenly aware of his black gaze on her at odd times. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about Jers unless he actively threatened her and that he most carefully did not do.
Grewl looked up, blinked himself back to the present. “If there is enough to spare, I indeed wouldn't mind just a little. More water this time, please. Thank you, sir,” he added as Brelian handed him the cup. Brelian mumbled something and went back to his place at Lisabetha's side, his color high. He was having a hard time indeed adapting to being addressed as noble, and since he was Ylia's Champion and the vanquisher of the traitorous Vess, folk did. Grewl set the cup aside after a bare taste, buried himself in the first of the messages once again.
“What do you think, Brel?” Ylia asked finally. She gazed her palm in annoyance: it was black from the charcoaled map she'd drawn on the table. Someone had wiped it off just before Tr'Harsen's entrance, but there was still plenty of soot smeared across the wood. She rubbed the hand down her trousers: They were so awful, a little more black wouldn't even show.
Brelian shrugged. “I think we have more fortune than anyone could hope for. Not that I question it!”
Lisabetha gripped his near hand. “I can't believe they want our wool. Who'd have thought?”
“Not I,” Ylia said. It's not pattern-woven. It's plain-colored, not even dyed to fine patterns. The embroidery—well, that's fine-work and elaborate, but I'd think folk like the Osnerans would call it primitive, from all I've heard of them. Grewl? You know Osnerans better than we do.”
The Chosen looked up. “Nedaoan wool? There's nothing warmer, or better wearing. I've a Nedaoan cloak I'd not trade for any pretty Osneran bit of fashion, and my robes are that same wool. Most of our women are Nedaoan, you know,” he added. “I will speak with them, if you like. Certainly we will want to be of use in this trade.”
“I am sure you will be.” They were a useful people, she couldn't deny that. They certainly had been at the Caves. The women were among the most ardent of gatherers, many of the men good fishers, though none hunted. If they were not so narrow-minded! She didn't demand belief in what she had, no AEldran did. “All weavers we have will be kept busy, if this trade works out. Now, what of those messages? Should we send replies back with Tr'Harsen? Because the framing of them may take awhile.”
It did, though considerably less time than it had taken her to prepare the letters that had gone to the Sirdar and the Narran Lord Mayor. There were various offers of assistance, and requests for trade of astonishing variety, plus many offers for Nedaoan wool.
A number of the proposed trades would need to be discussed with the crafters from Koderra, when they came north, for they concerned Koderran fine-work. Silverwork, finework pieced fur, blown glass, carved bone and horn buttons: such craft the Narrans assured her had ready markets, and could be exchanged for coin, for Oversea cloth, for fish and shellfish, and for seed and grain.
The Narrans ate with Ylia and her ladies—Malaeth insisted that Nedao's Lady be properly attended this once, if only by herself, Lisabetha, and Lisabetha's friend Annes—in the main chamber. There was a thick stew, a light sour-rise bread and a bit of tart berry spread to go on it. And for everyone, a little wine. That last brought such clear pleasure, it was no sacrifice at all, though it reduced Tr'Harsen's gift to one very small cask.
“You were speaking of the Sea-Raiders earlier,” Ylia prompted Tr'Harsen as the meal neared an end. The trader wiped his mouth on a dark, rough-woven handkerchief, tucked it back in his belt, nodded.
“We had a breather of sorts, two years ago. Your Lord Corry, rest him, was part responsible for that. He got one of their captains and sent his boat to the bottom.”
“Dros Bri Hadran,�
� Ylia nodded. “I remember that! They must have been sorry they set on that particular Nedaoan ship! And I remember him: red-haired as a Narran but wild.”
“Even so. There are those who hold we may be kin at a distance. Myself, I doubt that, but nevermind. We sank two of their ships ourselves, not long after, and the Osnerans had another that came too far west: blown off course by a winter storm, perhaps, but they wound up in the wrong shipping lanes when it blew itself out. It was a tiny portion of their might, of course: three, four ships. They can fill that harbor of theirs, it's said, and that takes a hundred or more ships. But you'll know that.”
“Aye.” Not from having seen it, but Nedaoan histories described. Nedao that was. The huge crescent of a harbor that lay jewel-like between outspread arms of rock. She could have drawn it. “They stopped harassing you, then,” she prompted.
“Awhile. We cost them too much, and there's other game, farther south. I hear the Ragnolers and their neighbors in Holth had a bad year of it. It's said they used land routes for a time, they lost so many ships. They're secretive folk, both, they haven't said much to us. But we've seen precious few of their ships on that stretch of water, of late.” He set his empty cup aside; people were wandering out and women from the kitchens were beginning to collect Nedao's odd assortment of trays, bowls, wooden rough-turned cups, fine china and glassware, and flat, sanded slices of hardwood that served to hold their rough meals.
“We've lived with the sea for many lives,” he went on finally. “My grandsire's grandsire had a house near the sea in Southern Osnera. We Narrans were not happy living amongst such soft and settled folk, and we were traders even then. The rougher life of the Great Isles, with the mouth of the Aresada on our one side and the sea upon the other, and ourselves our own masters suits us. No man owns a trader, not even another Narran. And we sail back and forth between the Peopled Lands and the Western ones, bringing silk and velvet and filigree-set stones, spice and rare liquors from Osnera to Yls and the southern lands, returning with clove and pepper from Ragnol, coffee and oranges from Holth, sen-fruit from Yls and what crafts we could coax from Nedao. It is a dangerous life, and hard, often cut short by the sea. But we love it.
