Passages

by Olan Thorensen

  It was the second market day when a new wrinkle appeared. By that time, Mark’s daily use of Suvalu had smoothed the rough edges. They had been open for business for two hours when a richly dressed man of about forty years and a haughty manner appeared, accompanied by two similarly dressed men and four rougher-looking men who raised warning signs with Mark.

  “Who’s in charge here?” demanded the men’s leader.

  Mark, Ulwyn, and Wiflow looked at one another. Mark saw that neither of his companions was eager to volunteer to identify himself, so Mark spoke.

  “I am. Who wants to know?”

  “I am Dumonote Lurmon of the Cloth Guild. You are required to come with us to answer questions.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “Yours is not to ask questions, but to answer them to the Cloth Dumon. Come with us.”

  Mark was tired and overly anxious to return to Tregallon. And he was hungry—having missed eating when he woke up and only snacking on a dry roll he’d grabbed from another bakery stall. He was also offended by the man’s peremptory manner. It wasn’t clear which of the two reasons was most responsible for his response.

  Mark snarled. “Well, I don’t care who wants to ask me questions. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  The man turned red. “You’ll do as you’re told, or we’ll force you to come.”

  “Who? You? You look like the only thing you can force is a quill across paper.”

  The four enforcer-looking men began to step forward, then stopped when Mark picked up a four-foot-long, two-inch-thick bronze bar. Although no weapons were allowed inside the market, Mark had figured he could explain the bar as a demonstration of the stock from which they made pins.

  One of the four men licked his lips when he saw how easily Mark twirled the bar. He looked at the dumonote.

  Before a decision was made, a deep voice drew all their attention. “What’s going on here?” It was the market overseer.

  “This man is summoned by the Cloth Guild Dumon and is refusing to come.”

  “Well, settle it away from the market. You know the rules. I don’t care which guild you’re from, there’s no disruption in the market.”

  The dumonote glowered and commanded his companions to follow him.

  The overseer turned to Mark. “I don’t care if you started this or not, you’re causing too much trouble with the guilds. Any more and I’ll ban you from the market.”

  Mark set the bar down. “Sorry, Ser. They seem to be focused on me, but I’ll be leaving soon, and my two partners will continue without me. That should help with any guild problems.”

  The next day, they arrived at the vacant stable they’d rented for a temporary shop to sell pins on the other five days of each sixday. A red-haired young man stood waiting for them.

  “Excuse my interruption of your preparations to open for business, but I am Dumonote Rynlow of the Cloth Guild. Unfortunately, another of our dumonotes was overly rude yesterday when he came to see you. The Cloth Guild Dumon has asked me to offer apologies for other man’s behavior and to transmit an invitation to join him for mid-day meal at the guild building. Dumon Klinster says he would appreciate you accepting.”

  Mark looked at Wiflow, who shrugged. Ulwyn nodded from twenty feet away, where he was arranging boxes of pins.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” said Mark. “I will come, but at what time, and where is the guild building?”

  “Good. An aide will come at mid-day and take you to the guild. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

  “I suppose you did the right thing,” said Ulwyn after the man left. “Still, it makes me uneasy. I’ve been hearing stories about men who’ve run afoul of powerful Brawsea guilds, but I didn’t know how much credence to give what I’d heard. I just hope this second man was truthful that yesterday was an aberration.”

  At the first ring of the mid-day cathedral bells, a well-dressed teenage boy appeared to guide Mark. As told, the walk to the Cloth Guild building took fifteen minutes through a section of the city that implied wealth and power. The guild building was not ornate, but Mark could see the quality of the workmanship. They entered a large foyer to be met by Dumonote Rynlow.

  “Thank you for coming, Ser Kaldwel. The dumon is waiting on the veranda.”

  How’s he know my name? thought Mark. I didn’t tell him.

  “How many members does the Cloth Guild have?” Mark asked as he was led up a wide marble staircase.

  “There are different membership categories. Masters, journeymen, and apprentices. There are also many who work for the guild but are not members.”

  The response hadn’t answered Mark’s question, but he was distracted when they passed an open door to a room with scores of men bent over what appeared to be ledgers. Rynlow noticed his reaction.

  “It’s critical that the guild keep accurate records of all textile transactions. Although we are formally only the guild for cloth weaving, our reputation has traditionally led other guilds involved in textiles to use our accounting system. About half of the clerks you see work for the guild. The other half are from the spinning and clothing guilds.”

  I’ll bet that implies the Cloth Guild is one of the most important in the city, thought Mark.

  They climbed wide stairs to a hallway. At its end, they passed through a pane-glass double door onto an open-air veranda with six table and chair setups, only one of which was occupied.

  A white-haired man rose to greet them. However, what first caught Mark’s attention was the pattern of tiles covering the floor. On Earth, it would have clearly been intended to simulate an immense spider web. He altered his strides to avoid stepping on the “threads.” There were no spiders on Anyar, but the symbolism raised the hairs on Mark’s forearms. He shifted his gaze to the dumon.

  “Ah, thank you for coming, Ser Kaldwel. Please sit. We’ll eat, then talk.”

  The greeting belied the stern visage, the cold eyes, and the manner and aura of a dangerous man. He didn’t appear prone to direct violence but was the kind of person who ordered others to do whatever he wanted.

  The dumon was lean and his face narrow—in the manner of a blade. Mark had no doubt this was a man he couldn’t be too cautious in dealing with. Mark also had a flash comparison.

  Well, fuck me if this guy wouldn’t have been perfect casting for either Tywin Lannister or Littlefinger from Game of Thrones.

  Mark hardly noticed the meal. It was served by teenage boys dressed similarly to the one who had guided him to the guild hall. He sipped slowly on the dry, wine-like drink to stay as alert as possible. They ate while engaging in chit-chat on the weather, Mark’s impressions of Brawsea, and the sales of his two novel products. Only when they reached the latter topic, as the meal was finishing, did they move into the purpose of the meeting.

  “I understand the sales of your ‘safety pins’ are quite impressive. The market manager ruled that they do not fall under either the jeweler’s guild or any other established guild. Of course, the Council of Guilds could always overrule that opinion, but I don’t think that’s necessary or desirable. There are precedents for establishing new guilds for novel products or significant-enough changes in existing conditions. I’m sure with my recommendation the council would grant such a request.”

  I think I’ve just been bribed, threatened, or both, thought Mark.

  He also took a moment to consider the implications for future pin sales. It never hurt to have influential contacts. The dumon was effectively offering to support Mark and his partners with a monopoly on sales of safety pins. The price would naturally come down as the market grew saturated and the novelty wore off, but it could be a steady income for all three of them. Even better would be if it eventually included all of Frangel.

  “Your support and advice would be greatly appreciated,” said Mark, who pressed further on the leaf springs. “It’s unfortunate that the market manager ruled against us on the springs to make wagons ride smoother.”

&n
bsp; “Ah, well, that’s a different situation. The Wagon Guild is quite conservative and protective of its prerogatives. You must recognize that your ‘springs’ are directly applicable to wagon building and modification. Now, if you had gone straight to the Guild Council and filed a request for your springs to formally be submitted to the Wagon Guild as a modification of the existing trade, then the guild might have either granted you a fee for your innovation or given you membership in the guild. As it is, that might still be possible, but even with my support the chances are not good—though not zero.”

  Mark took the dumon’s words to mean the Cloth Guild might be willing to at least try to pull strings for springs. He suppressed a smile at the rhyme.

  The dumon also smiled, but his expression did not reach his eyes. “Though I suspect you will still garner enough sales in Kaledon, where you made agreements with the Wagon Guild chapter there. Then there’re the other parts of Frangel where the Wagon Guild is not strong.”

  How the hell does he know about our sales in Kaledon? Mark wondered.

  “Of course, these topics are only of marginal interest to the Cloth Guild. Not so are rumors we hear of you and your partners asking questions about possible markets for cloth at a much lower price than exists now. You must appreciate that the Cloth Guild would react vigorously to any attempt to undermine the existing cloth market in Brawsea or elsewhere in Frangel. Such an ingression on our guild’s rights would impact relations with other guilds and the rulers of Frangel, including the royal court.”

  Well . . . no doubt about that one, Mark thought. It’s definitely a threat.

  Mark’s instinct was to tell the dumon asshole to go fuck himself. Fortunately, he had left his instincts back at the inn and had instead taken along common sense for the meeting.

  “Oh, that was just speculation, Dumon. We’re new to markets in Brawsea, as you can tell from our error in trying to sell the new springs. Sometimes we let our enthusiasm run well ahead of what’s possible. We certainly wouldn’t want to impinge on the Cloth Guild’s rights.”

  “That’s good to hear, Ser Kaldwel. I suspected it was such, even though I did ask some of the more experienced guild members whether cloth could be made for half the price currently charged—I believe that was the ‘hypothetical’ number the rumors had you mentioning. Our members assured me such a price would be selling at a significant loss and that no weaver alive could produce cloth fast enough. Nevertheless, I’m reassured by you.”

  Mark didn’t believe for a second the dumon was satisfied. Even in his previous existence on Earth, he’d never felt intimidated by anyone, but the lean man with the sharp-edged features rang warning bells he didn’t know he had.

  “Well, Dumon, thank you for the meal and the useful discussion. I will be talking with my partners about the possibility of forming a new guild here in Brawsea. I hope I can call on you again if we decide to pursue that option. Advice from you would be greatly appreciated, and we would be in your debt.”

  The dumon casually waved a hand. “It’s always good to consider new blood, even in established societies such as ours in Brawsea. You clearly are a man with interesting ideas, and I look forward to our interactions being advantageous for all of us.”

  Mark and Klinster exchanged more pleasantries. Then the same boy who had guided Mark to the guild hall escorted him back to the rented space where Ulwyn and Wiflow were busy selling pins—mainly to mothers carrying babes.

  “How did it go?” asked Ulwyn.

  Mark rolled his eyes. “Tell you later.”

  Mark waited until they’d packed the unsold pins in the wagon to return to their inn. When the last customer was out of hearing, he motioned the two men closer until their heads almost touched.

  “What a snake!” Mark whispered.

  Ulwyn and Wiflow responded with blank looks.

  Oh, shit. No snakes here. I guess the analog would be the damn stirkin that poisoned me.

  “Sorry. Just saying Dumon Klinster might as well be a giant stirkin—pretty colors, but ready to strike with that poisonous stinger.”

  Both men grunted.

  “Well, exactly what did he say?” asked Wiflow.

  “It wasn’t just what he said, which was clear enough. There’ll be no selling cloth in Brawsea to undercut existing prices. He sweetened things by offering to help us establish a safety pin guild here, but I can’t judge whether he was serious. Even if he was, the three of us know that once the concept of the safety pin is out, they’re too easy to make to completely restrict production, even if we could have our own guild. Plus, once the novelty is gone and most people who will use the pins have all they need, the market will shrink.

  “No, it wasn’t so much his words as my impression that he’s one nasty character. It’s best if we keep far away from him. Any lingering thoughts we have about selling cloth in Brawsea, we can forget. It’s Kaledon and Tregallon for us. I wouldn’t mind if we were even farther away. I want to get far from the Brawsea guilds.”

  “What about trying to work a deal with them, like you did for the springs with the Kaledon blacksmithing guild?” asked Wiflow.

  Mark spit to one side. “Not going to happen. I wouldn’t trust this Dumon Klinster for one second. It’s better to just get as far away from him as possible.”

  ***

  Mark wasn’t the only participant perturbed by the lunch meeting. Dumon Klinster intently watched Mark walk away. The man’s size and ease of movement spoke of tremendous physical strength, but it was what the man said and didn’t say, along with the dumon’s cunning and intuition, that were more important.

  Klinster scowled at dumonotes Rynlow and Lurmon, who stood and waited for their leader’s evaluation of the stranger.

  “I don’t like it,” said Klinster, his mouth pursed and brow furrowed. “I can tell when a man’s lying, and this Kaldwel fellow was doing exactly that. He tried to claim he and his companions had exaggerated their ability to provide cloth at such low prices. As unlikely as it seems, I believe we need to take this threat seriously.”

  “And there’s the two new products they’ve brought to Brawsea,” said Rynlow. “I might have believed his claim of exaggeration was plausible if it weren’t for the safety pins and wagon springs. Both are innovative new ideas. It makes it unlikely their third product, the cheaper cloth, has no foundation.”

  Klinster slapped the top of the desk with his right hand. “No, we have to assume there may be something to this. Rynlow, here’s what I want you to do . . . ”

  ***

  By the third market day, the baker tripled the price for them to use his stall. Ulwyn was outraged, but Wiflow agreed with Mark that they were near the end of both time and stock.

  “The effort to find another stall in the market isn’t worth it,” said Mark, “and that’s assuming we could find a spot that didn’t want the same coin as the baker, or more. That’s it for me. You two can stay to finish selling the rest, but I have to get back to Tregallon.”

  “Ulwyn and I have talked, and we’ll be going with you. I found a clothing dealer with one of the largest stalls in the market. He’ll take all the remaining pins for one copper/silver for every three pins. That’s only one-third what we’ve charged, but it keeps us from hauling them back to Tregallon or staying here any longer. Plus, we can see the demand declining, so the clothier can sell the rest over whatever time it takes.”

  After the market closed, they began packing and preparing for the return to Tregallon. They had sold four-fifths of the pins they had brought to Brawsea.

  The next day, they left Brawsea, the wagons two-thirds empty but carrying bolts of cloth Ulwyn had bought, along with other trade goods the elderly trader had purchased. The light load meant they could push the horses harder. Mark was becoming noticeably more irritable in his urgency to begin the next step.

  The shorter time for the return trip was not without excitement, verging on trepidation. They lost one of the wagons while crossing a stream swollen by torrent
ial rains that lasted three days. Fortunately, the wagon was nearly empty, which may have contributed to its floating away.

  Two days later, a village warned of robberies in the area—leading the party to cluster the wagons each night and have a third of the men on guard duty at a time. They relaxed only after passing several more villages and a modest-size town whose citizens were unaware of a band of robbers.

  However, Mark’s most serious problem was that for the first sixday after leaving Brawsea, he had the itch they were being followed. Twice, he had the party stop for several hours after they passed through constricted terrain where there were no alternate routes. While the others waited, he backtracked to watch the road toward Brawsea. Neither time did he see anyone who could plausibly be following them, but the itch didn’t go away.

  CHAPTER 14

  ELATION’S DARK SHADOW

  Tregallon

  Dayna Firman shook her head so hard, her braided straw-colored hair bounced past both shoulders.

  “I don’t know, Mark,” she said, after hearing his proposal to expand Tregallon’s cloth production. The caravan had reached Tregallon near dusk the previous day, and Mark was at the weaving facility when the Firman couple arrived the next morning: Dayna, the head weaver, and her husband, Holt, as the overall manager. Initially, Mark had hired the husband with his serious demeanor as a necessary sop to Frangelese customs; a wife couldn’t have a more prestigious position or make more coin than her husband. Fortuitously, Holt was more than competent and was a perfect fit for coordinating workers. However, Dayna was a marvel. Her skill at weaving far surpassed the other weavers’, and she was sharp—having made several critical suggestions on improving productivity and loom design.