by DAVID B. COE
But Torgan could afford to take the time to go all the way to the Nahraidan Peninsula or to cross the A'Vahl into D'Krad land. He was willing to venture north into Y'Qatt territory in search of somethinganything-that another merchant might miss. He had the time and the gold, and he enjoyed seeing so much of the land. He knew that most other merchants hated him. They resented his wealth. They thought him unreasonable and hard and arrogant, and he was all those things. Again, he could afford to be. No deal was so important to him that he had to make it, which meant that he could walk away from any sale if the terms weren't to his liking. The willingness to walk away: a merchant had no greater weapon. But though few traders liked him, all knew that he sold the finest products. If a lesser merchant needed fine wine for a wealthy client, or the best blade for a discriminating swordsman, they always came to Torgan Plye. Put quite simply, he had the best goods.
Perhaps this was why the baskets of the Mettai woman caught his eye. Torgan knew quality when he saw it. He also knew a skilled trader when he watched one at work. And however well Y'Farl thought he had done in buying the woman's remaining wares-and from the smug look on the Y'Qatt's face as he watched the woman leave the marketplace, it seemed clear that he thought he had done very well indeed-Torgan knew better.
He liked the clarity of the marketplace, the simplicity of the game. Everyone there was interested in the same thing: gaining the most from the exchange of goods and gold. Whether buying or selling, a person wanted to feel that they had done well. A buyer wanted to get the best product for the least amount of money; the seller wanted to turn the greatest profit possible. So simple. And yet, there were so many ways to achieve those ends. That was what fascinated him, what made the marketplace more than just his place of business. It was also his source of entertainment. He had been known to spend an entire day just watching others buy and sell. For Torgan it was much like watching a battle tournament, a contest between combatants of various skill levels. Actually it was better than a battle tournament, since he found watching swordplay dreadfully boring.
Y'Farl had always struck him as a competent merchant. Not the best by any means, but skilled enough to have made a living at it for several years. On this day, however, he'd met his match, and then some, in the old woman. Whatever terms they had come to had pleased Y'Farl. That much was clear. Yet, the woman had been delighted as well. Torgan was sure of it. He'd watched too many merchants and peddlers at work for too many years to be mistaken about such a thing. She'd gotten what she wanted and had managed to convince Y'Farl that he had done well. Only a skilled trader could do that. Yet, with all the different places he had visited in the Southlands, he couldn't recall ever seeing this woman before. Nor had he seen baskets of this quality, at least not for many years. It was all too curious for him to ignore.
He sauntered over to Y'Farl's table. The Y'Qatt was moving his new baskets around, trying to arrange them to best effect. Hearing Torgan's approach, he looked up. His expression darkened.
"Torgan Plye."
"Good day, Y'Farl. Feeling pleased with yourself?"
"If you must know, I am." He gestured at the baskets. "I got all these for twelve sovereigns-I'll sell them for at least twice that much."
"You seem quite sure of yourself."
"Look at them. Finest baskets I've seen here in the Neck. Ever. Even you'd be proud to sell them."
Torgan picked one up and turned it over in his hands. He'd looked at them earlier, during the morning, when so many had pressed around her blankets, eager for a look at the wares of this newcomer to the C'Bijor's Neck marketplace. He'd been struck then by how fine they were- the coloring was even and vivid, but clearly done with dyes rather than magic. The weaving was meticulous and neat, the osiers and grasses strong and free from any fraying. But now that he knew how little the woman had gotten for them he wanted to see them again. Perhaps he'd missed something before.
Even on second examination, though, they looked to be as finely made as any baskets he'd found in this part of the Southlands. The Qirsi of B'Qahr were excellent weavers as well, and their work might have been somewhat better than this. But not much.
"Well?" Y'Farl asked, sounding just a bit too smug.
Torgan returned the basket to the Y'Qatt's table. "You're right. She makes lovely baskets."
"Perhaps you'd like to buy them."
"Perhaps I would."
"Thirty sovereigns."
Torgan laughed. "Thirty? Just a moment ago you were talking about doubling your money. Now you want to nearly triple it."
"That's not nearly triple."
"It's too much."
Y'Farl sniffed. "I don't think so."
"She sold them for two each."
"She didn't know what she was doing."
Again Torgan laughed. "She knew better than you did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind, Y'Farl." He started to walk away. "Good luck selling your baskets."
"Wait a moment, Torgan," the Y'Qatt said, hurrying after him and grabbing his arm. "I want to know what you meant."
Torgan looked down at the man's hand and then at his face.
Y'Farl colored and let go of him. Torgan was a big man. At this point in his life some might have called him fat, though not to his face. And they might have been right. But he was broad as well, and still strong. Strong enough, certainly, to take on a Qirsi, particularly one who didn't use magic.
"Please," the Y'Qatt added, rather meekly. "You seem to think that she got the better of me. I'd like to know how. You see these baskets. You know their worth, and what I paid. How can she have bested me?"
"To be honest, Y'Farl, I don't know. I'm wondering that myself. Maybe she was more foolish than I believed, and didn't know what her baskets were worth. Maybe she's mad-an old woman like that, anything is possible. But she walked away from here feeling pleased with herself, every bit as pleased as you were."
"How can you know that?"
He opened his hands and smiled. "It's my business to know. It's why I've done so well over the years."
"Then she must have been mad. I know quality when I see it, and those baskets are worth every sovereign I paid for them, and then some."
Torgan said nothing. He didn't have to. Y'Farl was doing his work for him. Worth every sovereign I paid for them… A moment before he'd been asking for thirty. Now he was trying to justify the twelve he'd spent.
The Y'Qatt wandered back to his table and picked up one of the baskets, no doubt seeking reassurance.
"Look at this weaving," he said. "Look at these colors. Of course she was "You're probably right," Torgan said with an easy smile. He returned to his cart and began to neaten his piles of cloth, and straighten the rows of M'Saaren wood planes and Naqbae leather.
Y'Farl managed to wait at least a few minutes before strolling over. He tried to look unconcerned as he stood there glancing at the cloth, but Torgan wasn't fooled.
"So, are you interested?" the man finally asked.
"In what?" Torgan asked. He knew he was being cruel, but he couldn't help himself.
"In the baskets, of course!"
"Oh, right." He frowned and shook his head. "Not really. Not at thirty."
"I was kidding about that. They're not worth thirty."
Torgan eyed him. "Oh? What are they worth?"
Y'Farl's face fell. Clearly, he knew that he had placed himself in a weak position. Now he had to name a price that was high enough to leave some room for negotiation. But he'd already admitted that thirty was too high.
"I… I don't know," he said. "What do you think they're worth?" "You paid twelve."
The Y'Qatt scowled at him. "You can't expect me to let them go for the same price. I'll do far better than that selling them here."
"You're still sure of that."
"Yes, of course. Twenty-five. They're worth twenty-five." "Fifteen."
"You want them for twenty," Y'Farl said.
"I want them for fifteen."
> "Yes, yes. That's what you say. But you want me to split the difference. I won't. Twenty-two. That's final."
Torgan shrugged. "That's too high." He turned his back, pulled a few more bolts of cloth from the back of his cart, and laid them out for display. Y'Farl hadn't moved. "Was there something else you wanted?"
Y'Farl blinked. "Aren't you going to make another offer?"
"I offered fifteen."
"But surely that's not-"
"You think they're worth twenty-two, Y'Farl. At least you do now. But the woman couldn't sell them at two apiece, though she tried for the entire morning. I think that's why she was so pleased. Because she knew she couldn't sell any more of them here, but you didn't. Now you're stuck with ten of them. You want me to save you from your own misjudgment, but I won't do it. You bought them. You sell them." He walked around to the other side of the cart, ostensibly to check on his horse. Mostly, he wanted Y'Farl to think that he was done with their bargaining.
It worked.
"All right, twenty then," the Y'Qatt said, coming around from the other side.
"I thought twenty-two was your final offer."
Y'Farl opened his mouth, closed it again.
Torgan laughed and shook his head. "You're not very good at this, are you, Y'Farl?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"This. Trading. I never thought you were great at it, but I always assumed you were better than this."
"I've been doing this for more than half my life!"
"Well, all that experience hasn't imparted any real wisdom, has it? You were right about one thing-I'll give you credit for that. I did want them for twenty. But now I want them for eighteen. And I know I'll get them for that, because I know now how weak you are."
"You arrogant son of a bitch! What if I won't sell them for eighteen?"
"But you will. Because you're no longer certain that you can get rid of them. You're starting to wonder if maybe you'll be stuck with these baskets for a turn or two. Maybe longer. But mostly you'll let me have them for eighteen because you're just not brave enough not to. You don't have the stones for it."
There was hatred in the man's pale eyes. But there was frustration as well, and a certain amount of resignation. Because he knew Torgan was right.
At that moment, a woman, another Y'Qatt, stopped in front of Y'Farl's table and picked up one of the baskets.
"Those are fine baskets, madame," the peddler called to her, eyeing Torgan as he did. "I just found those today, and they won't last long. Only two sovereigns."
She smiled at him and nodded. But a moment later she put the basket back down and wandered off.
"Fine then, you bastard," Y'Farl said. "Eighteen. Take them and get away from me."
"There's no need to be nasty about it, Y'Farl. You've turned a profit today, and I've got baskets to sell in other towns, places that haven't seen the old woman's work yet. We've both done well."
"Then why do I feel like I've just come through an encounter with road brigands?"
Torgan smiled. "I really couldn't say."
"This is why no one likes you, Torgan. This is why you have no friends."
"Perhaps. But this is also why every peddler in this marketplace- including you, Y'Farl-would gladly trade places with me."
Torgan pulled out eighteen sovereigns and gave them to the man, and together they returned to Y'Farl's table to gather the baskets. It took Torgan two trips to get all of them to his cart, and the Y'Qatt refused to help him.
As he started away with his second load, he noticed that Y'Farl's cheeks had turned red.
"You look a bit flushed, my friend," Torgan said. "Are you all right?" Y'Farl barely even looked at him. "I'm well enough. At least I will be once you've gone."
"You may be right. It's a fair distance between here and the nearest settlement. Maybe I should set out now."
"Good riddance, then. I hope this is the last I see of you."
Torgan grinned. "Come now, Y'Farl. You're taking this far too hard."
Y'Farl glared at him. "Am I? You call me weak and a coward, and then you pretend to be my friend, as if I should just forget all that."
"We're merchants. This is what we do. We both wanted the same thing. I just happened to win this time around."
"Well, it may all be a game to you," the Y'Qatt said, smiling thinly, his cheeks ruddy, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, "but it's my livelihood. Now go. And next time you're in the Neck, stay away from me."
Torgan eyed him a moment longer, then shrugged and walked away. He thought the man was overreacting, but he also thought it best simply to pack up these baskets and be on his way. That was something else he'd learned over his many years of travel and trade: Part of being a successful merchant was knowing when to move on.
Chapter 14
FAL'BORNA LAND, WEST OF THE COMPANIONLAKES
Torgan saw it as a measure of his success and comfort that he no longer raced across the land from town to town as he once had, as other merchants still did. He could afford to move at a more leisurely pace, to enjoy the journey as well as each arrival. So though he set out from C'Bijor's Neck not long after midday, he was barely two leagues west of the city by the time he stopped for the night.
The skies had begun to clear near dusk, after so many days of rain and cloud, and as he sat near his small fire, eating a modest meal of salted meat, fruit, and nuts, and sipping Qosantian wine, he could even see a few stars overhead. He was surprised, then, to see flickers of lightning to the east, back toward the Neck. Even earlier in the day, it hadn't rained on him; it certainly hadn't stormed. He heard no thunder in response to the flashes, and at last he walked a short distance from his blaze and peered into the darkness, trying to see if something else might be causing the night sky to glimmer so.
To the merchant's surprise, he soon realized that the flashes were being caused by narrow beams of fire that darted up from the plain, licking at the sky, as fine and quick as lizard tongues. It had to be Qirsi fire- what else could it be?-but the bolts of flame seemed to be coming from C'Bijor's Neck itself. It made no sense. Why would the Y'Qatt suddenly resort to using fire magic?
Unless they were under attack.
Torgan had never frightened easily. He'd heard talk of the pestilence up here in the north, but he hadn't let that keep him from coming. And he had been rewarded with the fine baskets he'd bought from Y'Farl. Even as a younger man, when he had known that the coinmonger in Medqasse had his cutthroats out looking for him, he hadn't allowed himself to be driven from the city by fear. Like so many young men, he'd confused foolishness for bravery and so had lost an eye.
But seeing that Qirsi fire rise from the city, Torgan was afraid. Was he watching the start of a new clan war? And if so, who would bother attacking the Y'Qatt, and why? Were there Qirsi raiders abroad in the land again, as there had been centuries before? He'd heard tales of their attacks on small settlements throughout the land, Eandi and Qirsi alike. But even back then, the white-hair brigands had confined themselves to the southern lands, not daring to pit themselves against the Fal'Borna or J'Balanar.
After watching for several moments, Torgan laughed at himself for allowing his fears to overmaster his judgment. Those bolts of fire were flying into the sky. Either the brigands had terrible aim, or he'd imagined a threat where none existed. It had to be a ritual of sorts, something the Y'Qatt did, something of which he'd never heard. What else could it be, really? No one had cause to attack an Y'Qatt city. And even if someone did, they wouldn't send their fire magic into the sky like that. It made no sense. And yet, as he continued to gaze eastward, he thought he could make out the glow of flames consuming the city, and great billows of smoke rising from the earth.
As the night went on, the bursts of fire didn't abate. If anything, they grew more frequent. Torgan stood transfixed, unable to look away. Dark thoughts chased one another through his mind, but none of them made any sense; none of them truly explained what he was seeing, for in truth, Torgan didn't even k
now what that was. A ritual? An attack? A battle? Or something worse? A civil war among the Y'Qatt? The collective madness of a city? Every option horrified him. None made any sense.
At last, seeing no change, no end to the flame and smoke, he returned to his cart and the small fire he had built. It was little more than embers now, baleful orange, a thin line of smoke drifting into the cool air. He climbed into his cart and lay down, hoping to sleep. For a long time, though, sleep wouldn't come. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames again, the bursts of light, the smoke. And when at last he did drift into a fitful slumber, he was plagued by strange, dark dreams. In one, from which he awoke to darkness and the distant, mournful howls of wolves, he was in the C'Bijor's Neck marketplace, surrounded by dead and dying white-hairs. His cart was burning, and with it all his wares, including the baskets he had purchased that day from Y'Farl. The flames were as brilliantly colored as the baskets themselves, and in his dream Torgan was so captivated by the dancing fire, that he reached his hand into it, searing his flesh.
He lay awake for hours after that, and when he finally closed his eyes again, odd, disturbing visions continued to haunt his sleep. Upon awaking to a cold clear dawn, Torgan scrambled out of his cart and stared back toward the city, hoping that he'd see nothing unusual. Better to wonder if he had been deceived by his eyes, and made fearful by imagined horrors, than to see that any of it had been real. But there could be no mistaking the columns of black smoke that rose from the eastern horizon. C'Bijor's Neck had burned.