Eating and drinking, he wondered if his wits had left him. That was a thought to shudder at, madness. But life as a hale man would be dreary at best. What could he do?
Not creep back to Lona, whine for forgiveness, and seek to become a potter. She would despise him for that, after the hard words he had uttered yesterday, as much as he would himself. Besides, he’d never make a worthwhile partner in the shop. His hands lacked the deftness of hers and his tongue the unction of a seller—not that she ever truckled to anybody.
If he stayed on in Seilles, he had no prospect other than a continuation of his present miserable, cadging existence. Opportunities elsewhere—for instance, going to sea—were niggardly. But at least he would be making his own way in the world.
As he had wished to do, and been sure he could do magnificently, in the New Lands. Well-a-day, how many mortals ever win to their heart’s desire?
Arvel sat bolt upright. Ale splashed from the goblet in his grasp.
“What is it that’s wrong, dearie?” Ynis asked.
“Nothing … or everything.… I know not,” he muttered.
The sun had gone behind the houses across the street. Soon it would go behind the horizon. Irrendal had said to meet him at the Dragon Tower.
What was there to lose? Simply time, if last night’s business had been delirium after all, and time was a burden on Arvel.
Granted, legend maintained that the elves were a shifty folk, and their powers among men weak and evanescent. He must not let any hopes fly upward. But did it do harm if his blood surged and he forgot his pains?
Swallowing the last of his meal, Arvel hastened out. “Farewell,” Ynis called. He did not hear. Sighing, she moved toward a tableful of rowdies who whooped for service.
Hemmed in by walls, the streets were already dark, but people moved about. Linkmen were lighting the great lamps on their iron standards, while windows and shopfronts came aglow. Since the advent of modern illumination in Caronne, city dwellers kept late hours. Even those who had no work to do or money to spend enjoyed strolling and staring in the coolth of day’s end. Arvel could understand why creatures of night and magic now avoided the homes of men.
Sunset chimes pealed from the temple as he passed Hardan’s Port. It no longer existed save as a name; cannon had crumbled it and its whole section of wall during the Baronial War, and nobody felt a restoration was worth undertaking. Instead, the then Lord Mayor had turned the area into a public park. Trees that he planted on the borders had since grown tall enough to screen off view of surrounding mansions. Only the highest spires of the city pierced heaven above their shadowiness. Gravel scrunched under Arvel’s feet, along labyrinthine flowerbeds. Their perfumes were faint at this eventide hour. A nightingale chanted through the bell-tones and fireflies wavered in air. No lovers had arrived, which struck him as odd.
At the center of a greensward reared that remnent of the old fortifications known as the Dragon Tower. Ivy entwined it, and the fierce heads carven under the battlements were weathered into shapelessness. Here an elf might well venture. Arvel’s pulse fluttered. He took stance at the doorway. The chimes fell silent. The gloaming deepened. Stars trembled into view.
“Greeting, friend.” Whence had the vague tall shape come? Arvel felt after the sword he no longer wore.
Laughter winged around him. “Be at ease,” Irrendal sang. “You’ve naught to fear but folly.”
Arvel felt himself redden.
“Against that, no sorcery prevails, nor the gods themselves,” Irrendal continued. With the weight of the ogre off it, his slightly wicked merriment danced free. “Nor can the Halfworld ever be more in men’s lives than transient, a sparkle, a breeze, a snowflake, a handful of autumn leaves blowing past. Still … much may be done with very little, if cunning suffices.
“I pledged to you your heart’s desire, Arvel Tarabine. You must choose what that is. I can but hope you choose aright. I think, though, this should cover the price. Hold out your hand.”
Dazedly, the man did. A gesture flickered. A weight dropped. Almost, in his surprise, he let the thing fall, before he closed fingers upon it.
“A coin of some value as men reckon value,” Irrendal declared. “Spend it wisely—but swiftly, this same night, lest your newly won luck go aglimmer.”
Was there a least hint of wistfulness in the melody? “Fare you well, always well, over the sea and beyond,” Irrendal bade him. “Remember me. Tell your children and ask them to tell theirs, that elvenkind not be forgotten. Farewell, farewell.”
And he was gone.
Long did Arvel stand alone, upbearing the heaviness in his hand, while his thoughts surged to and fro. At last he departed.
A street lamp glared where the city began. He stopped to look at what he held. Yellow brilliance sheened. He caught his breath, and again stood mute and moveless for a space. Then, suddenly, he ran.
Zulio Pandric the banker sat late at his desk, going through an account book which was not for anyone else’s eyes, least of all those of the king’s tax assessors. Lantern globes shone right, left, and above, to brighten the work, massive furniture, walnut wainscot, his gross corpulence and ivory-rimmed spectacles. From time to time he reached into a porcelain bowl for a sweetmeat. Incense made the air equally sticky.
To him entered the butler, who said with diffidence, “Sir, a young man demands immediate audience. I told him to apply tomorrow during your regular hours, but he was most insistent. Shall I have the watchman expel him?”
“Um,” grunted Zulio. “Did he give you his name?”
“Yes, sir, of course I obtained that. Arvel Tarabine. He does not seem prosperous, sir, nor is his manner dignified.”
“Arvel Tarabine. Hm.” Zulio rubbed a jowl while he searched through his excellent memory. “Ah, yes. A byblow of Torric, Landholder Merlin-hurst. Father impoverished, barely able to maintain the estate. Son, I hear, a wastrel.… Admit him.” Zulio had long pondered how me might lay such families under obligation. Here, conceivably, was a weak spot in the independence of one of them.
Eagerness made the fellow who entered as vivid as his flame-red hair. “I’ve a marvel to show you, Master Pandric, a whopping marvel!” he declaimed.
“Indeed? Be seated, pray.” The moneylender waved at a chair. “What is this matter that cannot wait until morning?”
“Behold,” said Arvel. He did not sit but, instead, leaned over the desk. From beneath his cloak he took a thing that thudded when he slapped it down.
Zulio barely suppressed an exclamation of his own. It was a gold coin that gleamed before him—but such a coin, as broad as his palm and as thick as his thumb. In a cautious movement, he laid hold on it and hefted. The weight was easily five pounds avoirdupois, belike more; and the metal was pure, he felt its softness give beneath his thumbnail.
A sense of the eerie crept along his nerves. “How did you come by this, young sir?” he asked low.
“Honestly.” Arvel jittered from foot to foot.
“What do you wish of me?”
“Why, that you change it into ordinary pieces of money. It’s far too large for my use.”
“Let us see, let us see.” Zulio puffed out of his chair and across the room to a sideboard. Thereon stood scales of several sizes, a graduated glass vessel half full of water, an arithmetical reckoner, and certain reference works. He needed no more than a pair of minutes to verify the genuineness of the gold and establish its exact value at those present rates of exchange which scarcity had created—four hundred aureates.
He brought the coin closer to a lantern and squinted. The lettering upon it was of no alphabet he knew, and he had seen many. The obverse bore a portrait of someone crowned who was not quite human, the reverse a gryphon.
Abruptly he knew what he held. Chill shivered through his blubber. He turned about, stared at Arvel, and said, each word falling like lead down a shot tower: “This is fairy gold.”
“Well—” The youth reached a decision. “Yes, it is. I did a servic
e for the elves, and it is my reward. There’s naught unlawful about that, is there? I’d simply liefer the tale not be noised abroad. Too many people have an unreasoning dread of the Fair Folk.”
“As well one might, considering their notorious deviousness. Don’t you know—” Zulio checked himself. “May I ask why this haste to be rid of it?”
“I told you. I cannot spend it as it is. You can find a buyer, or have it melted into bullion, and none will suspect you of robbery as they could perchance suspect me. Chiefly, though, I want to travel. This will buy me a share in Sir Falcovan Roncitar’s enterprise, and whatever else I’ll need to win my fortune in the New Lands.”
“Could you not at least wait until morning?”
“No. I was counselled—well, I know nothing about these matters, only that he warned me I’d lose my luck if I didn’t act at once—and I do want to leave. Come morning I’ll buy a horse and a new sword and be off to Croy, out of this wretched town forever!”
Zulio decided Arvel was honest. He really had no idea of the curious property of fairy gold. His impatience might be due to something as trivial as a love affair gone awry.
Yes, probe that. “No farewells, no sweetheart?” Zulio asked slyly.
Arvel whitened, flushed, and whitened. “She never wants to see me again—What’s that to you, you fat toad? Break my coin and take your commission, or I’ll find me another banker.”
“I fear—” Zulio began, and stopped.
“What?” Arvel demanded.
Zulio had changed his mind. He did not need to explain the situation. He would be extravagantly foolish to do so.
“I fear,” he said, ignoring the insult, “that I shall have to charge you more than the usual brokerage fee. As you yourself realize, a coin so valuable, and alien to boot, is not easily exchanged. It will take time. It will require paperwork, to stave off the royal revenue collectors. Meanwhile the money I give you is earning no interest for me, and I must purchase additional precautions against theft—”
Arvel proved to be even less versed in finance and bargaining than Zulio had hoped. The banker got the elven piece for three hundred and fifty aureates, paid over in gold and silver of ordinary denominations while the watchman witnessed the proceedings.
“Help the gentleman carry these bags back to his lodgings, Darron,” Zulio ordered courteously. “As for you, Master Tarabine, let me wish you every success and happiness in your New Lands. Should you find you have banking needs, the house of Pandric is at your service.”
“Thank you,” Arvel snapped. “Goodnight. Goodbye.” Somehow, the immense adventure before him had not brought joy into his eyes. He lifted his part of the money easily enough, but walked out as if he were under a heavy burden.
Scarcely were the two men gone when Zulio stuffed the coin into a satchel and waddled forth to Crystal Street by himself. He could realize a large profit this night, but only this night. If he waited until dawn, his loss would be vast.
He did not think that Natan Sandana the jeweler, whose family and associates had been city-bred for generations, had heard anything about fairy gold. Quite probably Sandana did not believe the Halfworld was more than a nursery tale. Zulio came of backwoods peasant stock, and had dabbled in magic—without result, save that he acquired much arcane lore. Panting, sweating, he elbowed onward through crowds, amidst their babble and the plangencies of beggar musicians, underneath walls and galleries and lamp-flare, until he reached the home he wanted.
Natan was at his fireside, reading aloud from an old book—the verses of wayward Cappen Varra, which this prudent, wizened modern man loved—to his wife and younger children. He did not like or trust Zulio Pandric, and received his guest with an ill grace. Nevertheless, manners demanded that he take the banker into a private room as requested, and have the maidservant bring mulled wine.
Candles in antique silver holders threw mild light over bookshelves and paintings. The leather of his chair creaked beneath Natan as he leaned back, bridged his fingertips, and inquired the visitor’s wishes.
“This is an irregular hour, yes,” Zulio admitted. “I’d not ordinarily trouble you now. But the circumstances tonight are special. You are a man of discretion, Master Sandana; you will understand if I spare you long and tedious explanations. Suffice it that I have urgent need of gemstones, and do not wish to risk it becoming a subject of gossip.”
Natan grinned. Zulio knew, annoyed, that he was thinking of the courtesan Vardrai. Well, what did his sniggers count for? He’d assuredly forget them in the morning. “I have therefore taken a rare coin, a virtual ingot, from my vaults and brought it hither,” Zulio said. “Observe. Let us talk.”
Discussion occupied an hour. Natan Sandana was not so rude to a prominent man of affairs that he tested the gold himself … then. He did ask for, and get, a certification of value. In return, Zulio accepted a receipt for payment in full. “Have a care,” he warned, as he put four hundred aureates’ worth of the finest diamonds into his satchel—or better, because the jeweler had been still more anxious to deal than the slack market warranted. “Some evilly gifted thieves have been at work of late, I hear. Rumor goes that they employ actual witchcraft. That is why my attestation explicitly disavows responsibility for any effects of sorcery, as well as mundane malfeasance. You could open your strongbox and find nothing but a pile of rubbish, left as a jeer at you.”
“I thank you, but I doubt it will happen, and not just because I equate the supernatural with superstition,” the other man replied. A feverish intensity had come upon him. Zulio wondered why.
No matter. He had his profit, a clear fifty aureates above what he had paid out to Arvel Tarabine, in the form of gems negotiable piecemeal. Puffing, chuckling, jiggling, Zulio Pandric hastened back to his ledger and his sweetmeats.
“I must go out, dear,” Natan Sandana told his wife. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“What has happened?” she asked.
“An unbelievable stroke of luck, I hope,” he said, and kissed her fondly. “I’ll tell you later, if all goes well.”
As he stepped forth, the coin in his pouch dragged at his belt. He felt as if every passing glance lingered on the bulge, and pulled his cloak around it. Should he have waited for morning, when he could engage a guard? But that would have been to make conspicuous a transaction best kept secret. Tax collectors were as rapacious as any unofficial robber.
Besides, who would think that a drably clad little gray man carried a fortune on his person? Especially nowadays, when that fortune had been languishing for years in stock he could not sell.
Natan took Serpentine Street, the best-lit and safest way through Docktown, to the Longline. There he must pass a number of empty berths before he reached Sea Mule.
Fore and aft, the castles of the Norrener carrack loomed darkling. Between them, her guns glimmered dully by the light of wharf lamps and lanterns of the watch on board; her three masts stood gaunt athwart a lately risen moon. Its glade trembled on the river, which murmured with currents and tide. Rigging creaked as hemp contracted in the night’s damp chill.
“Oh-hoa!” Natan called. “Lower the gangplank. I’ve business with your captain.”
The pikemen obliged, which relieved him. Haako Grayfellsson might have been ashore carousing. Instead, the big man slumped in his cabin, amidst the malodor of bear-tallow candles, and swigged from a bottle of rum.
“Well met, Master Sandana,” he said in accented Caronnean and a tone which all but added, “I suppose.”
“I’m happy to find you here,” Natan said.
Haako stroked his red, barbaric beard. “You wouldn’t have, if I’d not blown over-much money on a vixen I’d heard praised—Enough. What would you of me?”
Natan laid palms on the table and leaned across it. “No need to pussyfoot,” he said. “About our conversation the day before yesterday. I am prepared to buy your pearls at the price we mentioned.”
An oath blasted from Haako’s lips, but it was a sound of utter del
ight. Briefly, Natan recalled Vardrai. Poor woman; in a way it was a shame how she had missed her chance at this investment. Well, so much the more for those whom he held dear.
“Why, welcome again,” the courtesan purred. She undulated into a position where light shone through her shift and outlined every curve against a nighted window.
This time her pleasure and seductiveness were sincere. The Norrener seaman was a little uncouth, true, but he possessed a vigor which he used with some skill. She had been sorry when he told her that he could not afford a second visit.
He stood awkwardly in the scented room, twisting between his fingers a fur pouch that contained something round. Through the window-pane drifted a vibrancy of violin and flute. Vardrai made it worth those beggar musicians’ while to keep station below this wall.
“I … have a … proposition for you,” he mumbled. Strange how he blushed, like a virginal boy, this man who had dared hurricanes and spears.
“Oh, I like propositions.” Vardrai drew close to him and ruffled his whiskers.
He seized her and kissed her. She seldom wanted a kiss on the mouth, but found that this time it was different. “What a woman you are,” he groaned.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she laughed, and fluttered her lashes at him. “Shall we try if that be true?”
“A moment, I beg you.” Haako stepped back and took her by the shoulders. His callouses scratched her slightly, arousingly, as he shivered. Otherwise he was gentle. His eyes sought hers. “Vardrai, I—I’ve come into a chunk of money. Left to myself, I’ll drink and dice it away, and soon have nothing for you … and my ship will be calling two or three times yearly in Seilles hereafter, it will.” The words tumbled from him. “Here’s my proposition. What say I give you the sum, right this now, in pure gold—and you let me see you free of charge, always after, whenever I’m in port? Is that a fair offer, I ask you? Oh, Vardrai, Vardrai—”
The Unicorn Trade Page 3