The Free Trader of Warren Deep (Free Trader Series Book 1)

by Craig Martelle

  “Free Trader Braden. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, …?” Braden held out a hand for a shake and a name, but the Stable Master spit on it.

  “That’s what I think of your Free Trader, boy. Crap off you crapping pile of crap!”

  “I will leave you to your thoughts, then, good sir. Please to have a fair turn of joy.” Braden knew there would be no deal here this daylight. The Stable Master turned and lifted one leg, forcing a heinous fart in Braden’s direction. Too late as he was already rapidly exiting the stables. Using his newly discovered ability to talk with the ‘cat without talking aloud, he exercised his thought speech, ‘G, did you get any of that? Are we in danger here?’

  ‘Yes. No. He is simply a foul creature.’

  Braden laughed fully at that. A lady pulled her young daughter close as they hustled past, their eyes averted. “Sorry,” Braden mumbled, still smiling. Next stop, the Blacksmith.

  The Blacksmith was far more congenial. He welcomed Braden to his hot and stuffy workshop. The heavily muscled man was covered in dirt mixed with sweat, forming channels running down his chest and back. He had a warm smile and readily offered his oversized paw. They shook heartily, Braden pleased the man did not crush his hand.

  “Good sir, I’m looking for two casks to hold water and a two-wheeled cart to carry them. After a most unpleasant conversation with the Stable Master, I am no further in my quest. Would you be so kind as to point me in a direction where I may find what I seek?”

  “The Stable Master! Ha!” He started to laugh and slapped Braden’s back with a massive man paw. “He’s in a right foul mood this daylight, isn’t he?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because he’s that way every turn. Ha!” The Blacksmith’s voice boomed. The Stable Master could probably hear him as he was only two buildings away. “You’ve come to the right place. My partner next door is the Woodworker. We make casks together. And I’m working on a cart in the back. It’s older, but the owner might consider a trade. See? Everything you want.” Braden nodded indifferently. Now that he knew what goods were available, the delicate dance of give and take began. If one seemed too needy, he would pay a higher price.

  “Let me see the cart and then we’ll talk about casks.” They went behind the Blacksmith’s shop, back into the fresh air that was only a little less warm. A rickety old cart stood there, its axle broken. Braden looked at the Blacksmith through narrowed eyes, instantly wary. He looked around to see if it was a trap, see if he was going to be robbed.

  The Blacksmith put up his hands to show good faith. “No, no, no. Don’t worry. I’m not out to steal from you. The cart is mine. I wasn’t working on it as I don’t have anything to pull it. I can have my partner shore up the wood here, and here.” He pointed to a couple areas that definitely needed help. “I won’t bother trying to fix the axle. I can replace it before the sun reaches its height,” he offered.

  “How long for the Woodworker to do his work?” Braden asked noncommittally.

  “A little longer, just past midday. Look here,” he said as he crooked a finger at the underside of the cart. Braden walked around the cart to put it between him and the Blacksmith. Then he leaned down to look underneath. The carriage and frame were in far better condition than the rest of the cart. Braden could see the Blacksmith’s legs and that he had not moved. For some reason he didn’t trust the man, so he remained wary.

  ‘G. What are you getting from this guy?’ The ‘cat didn’t answer right away. Braden opened the mindlink carefully. G-War must have let him in. He saw clearly through the ‘cat’s eyes. He was watching a female cat with great interest. ‘G. G!’

  ‘I don’t think I like its new ability to talk. It interrupts important thoughts.’

  ‘I’ll leave you alone if you can get something from this guy. I don’t trust him and I don’t know why.’ He looked up at the Blacksmith and nodded his head as he continued his examination of the cart.

  ‘He is thinking of murder. It darkens him. Not us. Make the trade.’ G-War cut the mindlink with a nearly audible snap.

  Braden was pleased that he had sensed something amiss.

  “What are you willing to trade for the cart, repaired as you described and two casks?” Braden opened. The dance had begun.

  When it was over, the Blacksmith and Woodworker were standing together, pleased with the deal. Braden had gone deep into his purse because he started to like the big man and his partner. He wanted him to be happy and maybe avoid the dark path he was considering going down.

  “Thank you kind gentlemen! I look forward to coming back, soon after midday, to pick up my cart and my casks.” He handed over half of the gold and silver agreed to, with the rest to be exchanged upon final delivery. They all shook hands, then both the Woodworker and the Blacksmith started taking measurements to complete their part of the bargain.

  Braden watched for a few heartbeats, then put his hand on the Blacksmith’s shoulder. Their eyes met. “Don’t do it. You’ll be different if someone dies. It’s not worth it.” The big man looked at him oddly, gave him a single nod of his head, and went back to work.

  Braden felt the dark cloud lift.

  20 - Saffrimander

  At midday, Braden was standing tall in the market square. There were more standing around than before, but not anywhere near as many as he hoped. As a Free Trader, he committed to starting the auction at midday. He was obligated to live up to his commitment.

  Without saying a word, he pulled a vial of saffrimander from his belt pouch and held it high. He let everyone take in the sight.

  “Saffrimander! You all know what it is. Magical! Mystical! The rarest and most exotic spice in Warren Deep! Who will make the first offer?” He bellowed over the small crowd. The bidding was started by another trader.

  “Ten pieces of gold,” a bearded man shouted hopefully.

  “Twenty.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Five platinum!” A newcomer offered. It was the equivalent of fifty gold pieces or five hundred pieces of silver. It was still a low price for Saffrimander. Far below what Braden traded to get it.

  He would take a loss! But there was no loss. He was no longer a trader. He was a nomad, a searcher. Anything he received was an investment toward crossing the Great Desert. An investment in the biggest trade ever. Braden smiled as the price climbed agonizingly slowly. He would always be a trader.

  “Ten platinum and that’s my final offer!” Another newcomer chimed in, this man was older and wore fine clothes. Braden didn’t care what this man’s final offer was. He only cared what THE final offer was. But the older man must have been someone as everyone deferred once he spoke. There were no more bids. Braden read the body language of the assembled people and determined to play to the man’s ego.

  “This is the lowest price I’ve seen in all my turns. My compliments to you sir on your deal. Ten platinum it is!” Braden jumped down. He handed the vial to the man, who turned to go without paying.

  “I’m sorry. Ten platinum, please.” Braden reached to stop the man from leaving, but was himself stopped by another man he hadn’t noticed. This man pulled a small purse from his belt and dropped it into Braden’s hand.

  “And that’s the end of it,” he said as he too turned and walked off. Usually, the buyer counted the money in the open, reinforcing the trader’s trust in the bidder. Braden thanked people for attending and bidding. As the last walked off, he opened the pouch to find two platinum pieces and fifteen gold. He’d been ripped off, as he suspected he would by the way the crowd treated the older man. Braden hadn’t though his duplicity would stoop so low as to pay a third of the agreed-to price.

  He saw the second high bidder, a man who had bid eight platinum, at the edge of the market. He went to him.

  “Are you still interested in a vial of saffrimander?” The man’s eyes perked up. “Eight platinum and it’s yours,” Braden said pulling the vial partially from his purse, shielding it from any other prying eyes.
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br />   “I’ll give you five,” he replied. Braden appreciated the man’s shrewdness, but acted insulted nonetheless. He put the vial back in the purse at his belt and walked away. He knew that G-War was watching them as he had returned to his perch on Braden’s horse. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. Eight is all I have. Would you take my last shekel?”

  “I’ll take your eight and a loss, and give you five gold back. Final offer.” Braden wanted the power of platinum. If he ran into trouble, money could buy a way out. The more he had, the better his chances of surviving. Then again, that was how a trader in the civilized world thought. He was heading into the Great Desert.

  “Done,” the man said before Braden could further refine his “final” offer. They made the trade, huddled closely together. With one last handshake, the two went their separate ways.

  He’d keep the last vial to himself. The trader in him refused to take a further loss. And if he ever ran across the old man again, he would set things straight. The man owed Braden six platinum and five gold. That was non-negotiable. The turn would come where he would pay. It was the law of the trade.

  21 – Running from the Fight

  When the cart was ready, the Blacksmith found Braden in the market buying dried greens and hard cheeses. The big man seemed excited about how the cart had turned out.

  Braden also found himself pleased with the final result. The Woodworker had performed magic with the cart, transforming it into one that was twice as high as the rickety old version. It contained no buckboard, so a driver would have to balance across two added boards and a leather strap.

  Braden hadn’t intended to drive from the cart, but the braces and leather strap were a nice touch. He thanked both the men profusely and gave them a couple extra gold pieces for their efforts. Once the trade was made, going above and beyond solidified one’s reputation, but it generally earned the craftsman no extra gold. Their reputations for high quality helped garner greater value in future trades. Call it better marketing, as long as the buyer shared the information.

  The casks were sturdy and new. He tied these within the cart using some rough twine. He brought the horses over, tying his mount to the back of the cart and hooking up the pack horse to the harness and leads. The horse seemed indifferent to pulling or carrying. Pack took his new task as stoically as his last. Once hooked up, Braden waved at the Blacksmith and the Woodworker as he drove through the square. He headed north out of town. No one needed to know his intended destination.

  Once out of sight of the town, he turned his horse east toward the Bittner Mountains. The pack horse, pulling the cart with their two blanket packs and two empty casks, was behind him as they disappeared into the trees.

  ‘We are being followed,’ G-War passed via their mindlink.

  “I thought so,” Braden answered out loud. ‘What do you see Skirill?’ he said with his thought voice. He was answered with a picture from high above of four men on horses, trotting along without a sense of urgency. They turned where Braden had turned from the road, following the cart’s tracks toward the woods. Skirill took flight, gaining altitude by making a wide circle, keeping the men in the middle of his vision.

  They had a good lead, but with the cart, they could not hope to long outdistance the men. Braden didn’t want to fight. He did not know why he had such a streak of bad luck. He was used to being welcomed to towns, treated well, and given a happy send off. The last three towns had been nightmares.

  This confirmed his decision to seek Old Tech. He needed to get away until things settled down. If he had to fight, let it be the unknown. The last thing he wanted was to be an outcast within his own land. If he killed these men, he wouldn’t be able to return. He doubted that he’d be able to return to Cameron or Binghamton. Memories were short; time would be his only friend.

  He needed to buy more of it. So he doubled back, taking a wide route to the south and then west to the main road. Through Skirill’s eyes, he saw when to stop and let the men pass him, still following his tracks to the east. He then raced his team to the road, heading north as fast as the horses could run. He kept going until he could conceal a turn back to the east. He headed into the trees once again, stopping the horses well off the road.

  He went back and erased their tracks. He left no sign for the men to follow. He walked the horses slowly deeper into the woods. Skirill floated to the south above the men who picked up their pace when they saw the track leading back toward the road. He watched through the Hawkoid’s eyes as the men reached the road, frantically looking about. When they picked up the track of the cart, one among many that had recently traveled the road, they galloped north.

  And they kept going straight past where Braden had turned off. Skirill glided east, directing Braden along the best route until he could get into the open and put more distance between them and the men. G-War didn’t sense anything near them, so they pressed on.

  Skirill made one last sweep toward the road, going higher and higher until he caught sight of the men as specks far to the north. Braden’s maneuver had lost them. He wanted to find out why they were following, but not badly enough to fight. Something was happening in Warren Deep, something unpleasant and dangerous.

  If traders stopped trading, the towns would become outposts. Distrust would grow. Then fear. Fear drove people like a stampeding herd that couldn’t be turned. They couldn’t be stopped. All Braden wanted was to ply his trade, enjoy his life, and some future cycle of the seasons settle down. He couldn’t do any of that if he was constantly on the run. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was happy that he didn’t have to ambush the four men. The only way he could have won that fight was by killing them at a distance using his Rico Bow.

  If they had no evil intent, then Braden would be the one in the wrong. He was certain that wasn’t the case, but was glad he didn’t have to find out.

  They pushed forward until the horses were exhausted, even though daylight remained. Skirill winged away for one last look, seeing that no one followed. They were safe, for the moment anyway.

  22 – The Caravan Rests

  They camped by a small stream, where they drank freely. Braden filled the casks and his new stock of flasks. This increased the weight on the cart, slowing them down, but they had no other choice.

  This part of the forest teemed with wildlife and shortly, G-War, Braden, and Skirill had killed a mix of rabbits and squirrels. Skirill ate his kills after ripping them apart and swallowing the pieces whole. Braden thought the Hawkoid must have one hell of a stomach to digest all of that. It made his stomach churn just to think about it. G-War avoided the bones when possible, preferring the softer parts of the flesh.

  Braden liked his meat cooked. He cleaned two squirrels and one rabbit, letting them hang until nightfall. He wouldn’t risk a smoky fire in the daylight.

  He searched the underbrush of the surrounding area. They needed more numbweed. He wanted some tubers, maybe other wild vegetables if he could find any. Skirill and G-War were carnivores. Braden needed more, wanted a great deal more than just meat, but was willing to settle. His last two trips into town weren’t long enough for him to get a bed and a good home-cooked meal. He would have been happy with a bad home-cooked meal.

  When Braden returned to their camp, Skirill was asleep on a branch overhead. G-War was asleep in the back of the cart. The horses were even down and out cold. Braden was instantly alert, adrenaline surging through his body. He’d heard of mutants who could put people to sleep with their breath. The mutie Bears could freeze beings with their mind.

  ‘Is it too much to ask that it is quiet?’ G-War asked via their mindlink.

  A certain amount of paranoia was healthy as it kept a person on his toes. Braden felt like he was going a little too far. G-War would have let him know if anything was wrong. Skirill probably would have, too. The horses should be sleeping; they worked hard this turn.

  And Braden felt fine. He had not yet eaten, so he wasn’t burdened with digesting the huge meals of his
companions.

  ‘Sorry, G. Too many weird things lately,’ he responded to the ‘cat, in his quietest thought voice.

  He went to work building a small fire where he could hang his one pot and make a rabbit stew. His mouth watered thinking about it.

  While his dinner was slowly heating, Braden pulled out his rudder. It had been at the bottom of the one blanket pack for many turns. He needed to update it. Carefully, with his fine pencils, he updated his entries, especially those regarding the path he had taken from Cameron to Whitehorse, back to his current position. In another half turn, he should cross the trail he made previously. This was the value of the rudder, keeping the trader on the best path. He smiled to himself. He would remain true to his craft.

  23 – Heading South

  The night was thankfully uneventful. Come morning, man, creature, and beast alike were well rested. They found their earlier track and followed it south, until the point where it turned west toward Whitehorse. They turned east instead.

  Skirill scouted far ahead. He flew to the northern border of the Great Desert, looking for the easiest way south. Skirill found a stream in the foothills of the Bittner Mountains, close to the Great Desert. They determined that would be the best place to camp and get their fill of water before plunging into the barren wasteland.

  Braden looked at the two horses and the cart. G-War was crouched in the cart, on the softest place he could find, the blanket pack of smoked meat, watching as the group passed through the forest and into the grassy plains. Braden thought of them as his caravan. Although he considered them equals, he took responsibility for their health and well-being.

  They continued across the plains in silence. Skirill spent some time aloft, but most of his time was in trees or on rocks, waiting for the caravan to catch up. He hunted while he waited, catching a few ground squirrels, which he ate in single, massive Hawkoid gulps.