Merchant and Magic Page 3

  After a few more words about keeping the peace and a reminder to pay their temple fee, Lord Valrep left, stalking off like the white wading birds that visited Rhonari in high summer. His guards glowered at the men and women again, then followed Valrep. When no one spoke, Meester Loraam thumped the hilt of the dagger twice on a sounding board built into the table, the signal that the meeting had closed. Everyone scattered, walking to their booths and shops to finish preparations for the next day, or heading for the plain, two-level building wedged in between the cloth-sellers’ hall and the town-priestess’s house. That was the place of exchange, where those with letters of trade and credit could have them registered, coin conversions certified, and other business done that did not involve the market directly. Tycho considered going by to look at the exchange weights and prices, but decided that he had time later. For now he needed to see about arranging his booth, since he had not brought journeymen to do the work for him this time.

  The hired porters had left his goods stacked by bundle as requested. Tycho considered checking the seals, then shrugged to himself. The wares-house mage’s counter-seal seemed clear on the top bundle, the fine leathers, and Tycho decided that he’d only check every other stack this time. He broke the seal on the first bundle of whole-tanned hides, grunting as he lifted five and stacked them on the sturdy rack. They looked and smelled as they should, and he nodded. His wife had paid premium for the preservation and water-away spells, and it seemed that they had worked properly. He folded the rough wrapping cloth away, saving it for future use or trade. As he did, his shoulders and back reminded him that he’d be wise not to take any more wagers about carrying fish-barrels. Yes, well, but he’d been young, and that money had served him well. And it was not every man who could carry a half-full fish barrel the length of the great pier in Marshburt.

  The cheapest hides went in the front of the large booth. Tycho had looked at the just-price list in Maarsdam’s temple before the market meeting and while he was not delighted, he’d seen worse. Man could live without fine-tanned calfskin and fish-leather. And those he’d priced per the market this year, with a little room for bargaining. He did not have many fine-tanned hides left, since the trafeld had been so good, but hides with fleeces were in demand. He put a few out to show but kept most of them back, still wrapped. He had four small ones that his wife had managed to dye a pleasing blue. She’d turned a fifth into a vest for herself. He thought she’d looked rather strange, but kept such thoughts to himself. A wise husband selected his fights with care.

  Speaking of which… he drank from his water skin and looked at the booth to his left. A woman of middle years wearing widow’s brown was directing two apprentices. “No, black goes there, brown in the center beside dark blue, then white. I’m keeping back the crimson for now.” She sold fine leather goods, gloves for herself and belts and caps for a second merchant, or so he’d heard. The embroidery on the gloves caught the morning light and Tycho calculated the price. He was glad his wife could not see them. The woman also had work-gloves and winter mitts like those used in the far north, and he wondered if they had come via trade or if her workshop had made them.

  “And stay out!” A boy raced past, crouching as low as he could and still run, chased by an older boy wearing an apprentice’s apron. “This isn’t the temple pantry. ‘Sides, trade doesn’t begin until tomorrow, ye’ dung-heap reject.”

  The glover’s widow shook her fist at the passing boys. “Yoorst hear me, that boy’s going to be gallows-bait if someone doesn’t see to him. His parents…” Her words faded into a grumbling mutter as she returned to work. Tycho could imagine what she’d said, since he’d growled the like more than once. Boys needed masters, needed to learn a skill even if they’d been given to the Scavenger. The gods were patient, but even their patience had an end. Men’s patience ended far sooner.

  By the third bell Tycho had the booth arranged as much as he could. He would not set out anything more, lest he tempt the weak or greedy. Or Lord Valrep. A baker’s journeyman came by selling still-warm bread pockets with meat, and Tycho bought two. They had Gember’s sheaf on their soft brown top, but even so he bit carefully. Nothing bit back, and he recognized the meat, so he added that baker to his private approved list. He did not care to join the ranks of travelers felled by meat pies. Or bad wine, or unripe fruit, although that wasn’t as bad as some things. Like meat pies of uncertain age and content.

  Market guards, paid very well by the temples of Guilldun and Maarsdam, would keep the unwise out until the gates opened tomorrow, relieving the merchants of that duty. Tycho confirmed that the sealed bundles remained sealed, slid the rain-shields on the front of the booth closed, and left.

  The next evening he wondered what evil spirit had inspired the Confraternity of Maarsrodi to agree to an apprentice elevation on the first night of the market. The soon-to-be journeyman appeared to have the same thought. He looked tired already, as he should, given how Meester Johnlo had been running his boys left and right all day. The last of his goods had arrived after the market began, so he had to find the weigh mage and witnesses, then move the goods to his booth without disrupting the market. Wine barrels, even the smaller casks for sweet and frost wines, could not be rough-rolled to their destination once the market opened. Johnlo glowered at his cup, no doubt unhappy with the quality of the wine. It was one of the southern whites, sharper than it should be for the purported age and origin. It went tolerably well with the roasted haunch of hauler-bird and the casserole of late-season schaef-kid. Tycho had made a mental note that if they had a few spare kids next spring, he would ask his wife to make the casserole or something similar, if she could.

  “Ah, Tycho. I found one of these today.” Talman poured bits of meatal out of his pouch, poked them with a fat finger missing the nail, and then slid one across the table. “It was left on the counter, not used to pay.”

  “Huh.” Tycho picked it up, rubbed it a little, and sniffed. Ugh. Another of the false coins, although… He squinted at the design on the reverse. “I can see why you didn’t trust it.” Coins from Chin’mai never, ever appeared at minor markets like this one. He’d seen exactly three in his life thus far, and he owned two of them.

  The man of Bushmakk seated beside Talman scowled. “I don’t like this, these false coins. Makes everyone look bad.”

  “Agreed.” Talman made the horns, warding off trouble, then flicked the coin back toward Tycho. “You can keep that piece of trash.”

  Before they could say more, the senior merchant from the confraternity stood, tapping a small bell at the head of the table. Silence settled on the large room, filled to capacity by the twenty or so men of Rhonari and Bushmakk and their journeymen. “Well met and welcome in the name of Maarsrodi.” They company stood and bowed as one to the small statue in the corner of the room. After the men sat, Meester Gerrt said, “Johnlo Nahartha petitions us to accept the elevation of his apprentice Rimundo.”

  Johnlo stood, wiping his mouth with a bit of bread as he did. “Rimundo has served seven years with minimal fault and has learned the foundation of the wine and drinks trade. He has traveled to Sinmartin and Harnmont, has assisted with wine making as well as with the trade, and I have found no more fault than usual with his conduct.”

  Rimundo ducked at the last comment and everyone else chuckled, earning glowers from Johnlo and Gerrt both. Well, given what everyone in the market had overheard that afternoon, and what those who had travelled with Johnlo remembered, he’d find fault in Maarsdam’s paradise if given enough time or a hard enough arrival.

  “Has he a journeyman’s place?”

  Everyone looked to Rimundo. The lean boy gulped, wiped his hands on his trousers, and said, “Yes, sir. I have a place with Harmann in Vlaaterbe for the next year before returning to finish with Meester Johnlo.”

  Grunts, a few murmurs of surprise, and nods met his words. Tycho wondered why the away year came first, but he didn’t deal in wine and perhaps that was a wine-trader tradition. Si
nce the boy had already traveled outside the usual market and trafeld routes, starting with an away-year wouldn’t be as much of a shock. Yes, that was probably it.

  “Does anyone have just cause that Rimundo should not be elevated to journeyman?” Gerrt and Johnlo both glowered as more whispers and mutters flowed around the long tables. “Well?”

  Silence returned. Rimundo gulped again and his shoulders in their sturdy white cloth shirt and leather vest sagged a little.

  Gerrt nodded once. “Then I call on Andrade as senior member of the company.” The lean old stock-fish merchant creaked to his feet and carefully stepped over the bench. He walked to the head of the table. Gerrt bowed and yielded his place to Andrade. The senior journeyman present also stood and walked over to stand four paces behind the senior merchant. Gerrt took a casket off the seat beside him and opened it. Andrade removed a chain from the casket and hung it around Rimundo’s neck. Everyone but Tycho could see the chain glow, so long as the boy spoke true.

  Andrade glowered at the boy. “So. You stand for elevation to journeyman.”

  Rimundo glanced down, and Tycho wondered if he was confirming that, yes, he was indeed standing. “Ah, yes, sir.”

  “You know what that means?”

  “Um, ah, it means that I will work with customers, and be responsible for moving wine on my own, and for confirming quality, um, and for um, ah, for keeping the secrets of the trade?” The boy had already fear-sweated through his shirt.

  Why wasn’t Andrade following the usual ritual? Tycho glanced at the other traders and saw impatience, puzzlement, and two men who had folded their arms and looked smug, as if they had won private or public wagers. Ventris shook his head a little, as if he’d expected this. Well, Ventris was Andrade’s junior business partner, so if he was not surprised, Tycho decided that there had to be a reason for Andrade’s choice. Maybe he just wanted to throw the boy off balance, to see how he handled the pressure. That would be Andrade.

  “So. Who is your patron?”

  “Maarsrodi, sir.”

  “Trade patron?”

  “Yoorst of the Fields, sir.”

  “Parentage?”

  The boy turned red. “Ah, ahem, that is, er—”

  Johnlo interrupted the hemming and scuffing. “He was a foundling fostered to Ventris, then apprenticed to me through the temple. Year of the spotted cough.”

  More murmurs flowed up and down the trestle tables, but no one raised a protest. Ventris stood, adding, “No non-citizens were listed on the death rolls at the time of his deposition in the foundling box, brothers.” Grunts of satisfaction met his words and Ventris sat again.

  Andrade frowned at the gathering, not pleased with the interruption, or so Tycho guessed. “As I was saying, you are a citizen’s child, raised by citizens, and trained in the trade. Do you swear to abide by the laws of the city, should you be allowed to join our ranks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will you do your duty to your brothers in Maarsrodi, faithful to the god’s commands and ways, and honor your elders and superiors?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. What do you bring as proof of this?”

  Rimundo gulped yet again, turned to look at the side door into the great chamber, and clapped his hands three times. More apprentices swarmed in, carrying flasks of red and gold wines, and trays of meats and pastries. The spicy scent tickled Tycho’s nose and he wondered if any were that sweet-hot spicy thing from farther south. His physician had told him to avoid it lest it curdle in his bowels, since he was cold and moist by nature, but it tasted so good…

  “I bring wines and food of the season, sir, selected for the occasion and the meal.”

  Tycho’s neighbor leaned over, whispered, “I hope he has better taste than the steward,” and flicked thick, scarred fingers at the bottles on the table. Tycho nodded his agreement.

  “What say you, brothers? Do we accept Rimundo of the house of Ventris as journeyman?”

  The traders all shifted so they could see the journeymen. The journeymen muttered among themselves. After some discussion, one thick-set young man stood and announced, “Honorable masters, we find Rimundo suitable to join our ranks by repute, training, and conduct.”

  The man closest to the head of the table also stood. “We brothers in trade find Rimundo suitable to join the ranks of journeymen.” He sat firmly, making the bench below him creak.

  “So be it,” Andrade called. He removed the truth chain and took two paces backwards, allowing the watching journeyman to shake out a white leather apron. Rimundo walked to where the journeyman stood, accepted the apron, and put it on. Andrade tied the strings in the back, then thumped the boy lightly on one ear. “Join the ranks of entered journeymen, and do honor to your master and your trade.”

  Five rounds of wine and two of fortified wine followed the elevation, all provided by Rimundo the Journeyman. By the time the feast ended, Tycho had begun to wonder of Maarsrodi had inspired the sister-lady to give him an upper-floor room out of spite for some forgotten failing. When the land-birds began shrieking before dawn the next morning, Tycho decided that indeed, he had erred and given his deity offense. And that he was no longer so young as he had once been, alas. Thanks be for cool air and water. He rinsed his face and hands, then his mouth, and decided for a small breakfast with mint tea.

  Still, Tycho mused later, he was better off than some of the people making their way to the market as the morning stars faded. At least his headache didn’t blind him, unlike a man from Griklant, a fur trader who staggered. The man’s color reminded Tycho of unripe grain. There was something to be said for drinking boiled water before drinking wine and spirits, if only because it lined the stomach and allowed the wine to pass more quickly so it could not sit and ferment in the gut. Or so his wife’s physic book claimed.

  If a wine headache were the worst the day brought, the market would have started auspiciously, Tycho decided.

  3

  The Water Road Home

  “Easy.” The lead great-hauler tossed her head, smelling the sea and hearing seabird cries. “Yes, you will go to the brooding pens after this,” Tycho agreed. Perhaps it was a sign that he truly needed to return home, his talking to the birds. But the birds seemed rather wise and thoughtful compared to some of the people in the caravan. The prospect of a Free Cities’ ship and home seemed even better than it had when he left Guill, even allowing for the risk of autumn storms.

  The white seabirds circled overhead, then turned and swept downstream to Platport proper. The caravan leader waved a blue and white flag, and the wagons and carts—and men’s knees—creaked into motion. He’d sold well, and Tycho carried his own goods, spices and aromatic wood, and four hundredweight of the fine southern fiber that sold so easily farther east. It came from the stems of the plant, that much he knew, and he wondered if it would grow north of Liambruu. If not, it was one of only three useful things the kingdom had produced this season. The great-haulers leaned against their harnesses as the wagon slurped through a muddy stretch of road. Autumn brought rain, and rain ruined the summer roads. The birds’ wide feet left holes in the muddy track that water and mire seeped into. Tycho’d put his staff in the wagon. It slid more than it helped in the mud, and no one would dare attack a caravan this close to Platport.

  At least he was not at the end of the line today. He’d moved up to third position. Tomorrow he’d be back at the tail but the sky looked dry, and they had one more day until they reached Platport, Maarsdam be praised. The great-hauler tossed her head and he gave her some more rope. She shook but did not stop pulling. The birds knew where they’d been born and wanted to return there. So did their handler. He could see the dark line poking up from the horizon that marked the tower of the temple of Donwah at the edge of the port. Had the gods planed the land flat for a reason? Or had they simply grown tired of making hills and mountains and seas and opted to smooth the land and call it good? Because it was good, and the grain in the fields around
the road had ripened well. A few grazing beasts glanced up as the caravan passed, and Tycho eyed their fat flanks and sleek hides. The ruddy and white brindled one had promise, but white meant an uneven hide, and he sighed a little. White skin thin skin, red skin good skin he repeated for the thousandth time at least.

  “Ho, Tycho,” Talman called, slowing his pace to walk beside Tycho. His senior journeyman, Lont, slowed as well. “Anything more on the stinking coins?”

  “Nay. The market meester found three more, low value, all Platport. No one would claim them, but a fine-baker found two of them.”

  Lont made the horns with his left hand and spat. “The council of Platport will not be pleased.”

  Tycho snorted a little. “No. They might even be a little upset.”

  Talman grimaced and shook his head. “A little. Have the smiths named the metal?”

  “Not that I heard, although there is talk that it is lead with something added, plus silver, but that is market talk.”

  The taller man grunted. “Give the mint mages something to do this winter.”

  “Aye.” But if the mages could not “see” the false metal, then how could they name it? Tycho had turned that worry over and over since the trafeld, and still could not thing of an answer. But he was not a mage, as he well knew, and perhaps they had ways they preferred not to discuss outside their trade halls. They likely did. All crafts did, except sailors. No one could keep sailors quiet, or so it seemed to him.