Merchant and Magic (Merchant and Empire Book 1)
Author: Boykin, Alma T. C.
Date: 2018-05-12

Merchant and Magic

Alma T. C. Boykin

Copyright © 2018 by Alma T. C. Boykin

Cover art: Sarah Hoyt

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

Contents

1. In the Fair City of Guill

2. To Market

3. The Water Road Home

4. Home and Winter

5. Winter into Spring

6. The Sea-Road South

7. Road Wary

8. Across the River

9. The Southern Lands

10. Over the River and South

11. Claims and Coins

12. Troubled Markets

13. Mage or Merchant?

14. Donwah’s Daughter

15. Rumors of War

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Alma T. C. Boykin

1

In the Fair City of Guill

Magic sparkled around the seal as Tycho pressed it into the quick-hardening clay disk affixed to the bale of hides, or would have if he could see magic. He waited four heart beats, then lifted his seal. The impression had taken and the cluster of watching men all relaxed. A merchant’s first seal in a new market always attracted attention. The weigh-mage gestured his confirmation, as did the market-master, who entered his approval in the great market book. Tycho had already stamped the book, using the blue-green ink of the Free City of Rhonari to confirm his place of origin and trade-confraternity. Had the seal not taken, well, another mark would have been made, closing the gates to him forever. Tycho stepped back from the weigh scales, allowing the apprentices to take the bundle of un-cut hides off the platform and carry them through the enormous doors of the great wares-house.

“Welcome, Master Tycho Rhonarida,” the market master announced, his odd, high-pitched voice cutting through conversations and arguments in the square before the central wares-house. “May your spirits smile on your doings.”

“And may yours prosper and protect you and your—” Tycho caught himself before he said proud, “your fair city. May her walls be strong and her denizens be stronger.” He braced, not staggering as the weigh-mage slapped him on the back with a hand the size of a great-hauler’s foot. The men muttered and grunted their approval. He was a foreigner, but a man among men. That counted for much these days.

“So, what brought you besides hides, Master Tycho?” The stiff black and brown feathers fringing the man’s dark skull-cap marked him as a weaver.

“Hides with fleeces yet, hides tanned and scraped, hides tanned and un-scraped, and three Paolu-stone weight of furs from Griklant consigned for one Master Yehlu that I carry for Ulfrim of Quint’s widow, the order placed before Master Ulfrim’s death.” They all made spirit signs, warding off any lingering ill from the death.

“Good.” The weaver clicked his teeth on the last word, cutting the conversation as he turned to the journeyman waiting behind him. Tycho caught the meaning and moved farther away from the scales, opening them for the next merchant. Until weighed and confirmed on the mage-watched scales, nothing could be sold within the walls of the city. This all knew, or should know, but the list of banned traders painted on the wares-house wall served as a pointed reminder. One of the great-haulers pulling his wagon tossed her head, making her brilliant red and green crest-feathers flutter. The market-master nodded and wiggled his fingers, the signal that the weigh and approval had ended and all should return to their business. Tycho touched four fingertips to his forehead as he bowed, honoring the market-master and the market.

The instant the watchers dispersed, he strode to the wagon, pointing to the waiting men and boys. “You have seen the weigh.”

“Aye, we have seen.” The biggest man grunted, reaching into the sturdy wagon and dragging the first bale of hides out of the back. Since they were already known to the market, the rest of the travel group had unloaded first and dispersed, leaving the working men without further distractions or competition. The porters emptied the wagon with skilled speed, carrying the bales into the dark maw of the wares-house as Tycho counted. When the last bale passed through the doorway, he followed, hesitating at the entry as if he felt the protective spells that kept out fire and vermin. The warding-mage on duty nodded, allowing him to enter now that he’d acknowledged the spell-screen.

Tycho let his eyes adjust, then followed the last of his bales to the back of the hides-and-cloth section. “Use hides or show hides, Meester?” the tally-counter asked.

“Use hides, for garments. They are hides with fleeces, hides tanned and scraped, hides tanned and un-scraped, all fine-tanned but not trimmed, total weight three hundredweights Rhonari.” He waited as the tally-counter looked at the back of his tally board to find the conversion to the local weight. The wares-house appeared about half full, at least this side. A wall separated the food side from the goods side, something Tycho found quite agreeable. He still shuddered at the memory of his master’s tale about the time two barrels of tree-sugar broke and destroyed seventy bales of fine woolens and ten of glove-hides. They’d not realized the disaster until the apprentices went to move the bales and found the leather stuck to the floor of the wares-house. Tycho made a little warding off sign. The mage in charge of the anti-leak spells had been fined and forced to drag a leaking barrel and a syrup-drenched bale around the inside of the walls four times as apprentices pelted him with rotten vegetables and mud balls. The cloth merchant still went hungry that winter, because he had to make up the contract from his own pouch and the mage’s restitution was not sufficient to cover the loss.

The tally-counter handed him a slip of paper with his copy of the official tally on it, bringing Tycho back from the memory. Should anything happen to the goods, they would be on the official list for restitution. Tycho touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute, took the slip, then departed. The market would not open for two more days, giving him time to find his lodgings, make a thanks-offering, learn the local news, and rest. Gone were the days of drinking all night, traveling all day, and bargaining and selling in-between. But first he had to deliver the furs.

He paid a broken bit of ring, the value of a quarter-vlaat, to the apprentice who had been minding his great-hauler, then took the lead rope and tugged three times. For once the beast followed obediently, probably because she too was tired and footsore and looking for rest. The others tossed their heads but did not balk, for which he offered silent thanks. The locals watched, giving the beasts a healthy clear space. No one who had seen great-haulers on a run wanted to startle or anger the large beasts. Those few who had seen an un-clipped great-hauler reach out with its claws and grab another hauler or a man stayed even farther away, some making warding signs. Tycho had witnessed such a thing only once, and preferred never to see the like again. He walked steadily, head up as befitted a free merchant from a free city. The widow of Ulfrim of Quint had shown him her late husband’s notes, and he took the first turn at the water temple, followed the narrow street past two cross streets and a curve, and looked for the gate of metal under the sign of the verdant fish-eater.

A few children give his beasts curious looks, but none approached him. Tycho smelled cooking food and ignored his stomach’s mutters and growls. He’d get better in the traders’ district where his confraternity had a lodge. Two or three women nodded and he shifted out of the way of an apprentice staggering left and right under a bundle of rough sacking cloth too high to see over. “Pardon, Meester,” the apprentice puffed, then sneezed and hurried on. One of the second-row great-haulers sniffed the boy’s load, but for once she did nothing more than sniff. The street smelled no worse to Tycho’s own nose than did most cities. Little canals with captive streams flowed down one side of the street to carry away ordure and mud. Tycho approved. Since the channels also nullified some magics, he wondered how long they’d been there. Since the last war?

“Trweeeeeeesss,” the lead hauler sang out. Tycho ducked under her neck just in time, grabbing the would-be thief’s hand and twisting him around.

“Would you feel my staff?”

“I, I, was just— Oof!” Thud. Tycho shoved him away from the birds, giving the ragged man a firm boot in the rump as he did. The thief landed hard on the edge of someone’s stone steps.

“Twaaasss!” The lead bird tried to grab a beak-full of mud-colored tunic but the thief dodged, rolling away from her strike.

“Ye be lucky. Had ye grabbed her harness bells, ye’d be called the one-handed straight into the next world.” Tycho kept his voice calm, but spoke loudly enough for all to hear.

Several of the people carrying goods or market baskets smiled and nodded their approval as they passed. “Harbee the Rat! You’d best get back to your nest, or it will be my clog up your rear,” a ferocious-looking matron snapped. Her clog appeared only a little smaller than the second-beast’s foot, and Tycho decided he’d just as soon not get in her way. The would-be thief squeaked, fear on his round face, and scuttled up the street before ducking into a narrow passage between two houses. The matron scowled as Harbee disappeared from view, and said, “Ugh. If he’d put as much work into working as he does into spoiling everything he touches, he’d be the richest man bar Lord Valrep.”

“Eh, what do you expect from someone given to the Scavenger at birth?” a portly woman with a bright white cap and grey scarf called from over a half-open door.

Tycho ignored the ensuing discussion in favor of hurrying the great-haulers and his wagon into a wider part of the road. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a sign hanging from a building. The sign bore the image of a brilliant green fish-eater, its sharp teeth painted bright red. The merchant wondered what had inspired the sign, and how much silver a bright green pelt would fetch. Eh, not that much, since some held bright green to be dangerous on clothes, attracted spirits best avoided. But the sign and the heavy metal-worked gate below matched the widow of Ulfrim’s instructions, and Tycho led his beasts around to stand facing the gate.

“What business, Meester?” an lean man with a journeyman’s black apron asked from just inside the part-open portal.

“Tycho Rhonardia with furs of Griklant for Master Yehlu, from the estate of Ulfrim of Quint.”

“One moment, please.” The journeyman bowed and retreated into the shadows of the gate. Before Tycho could worry, the gates opened with only the faintest of protests from the metal hinges. He was impressed. He led the beasts and wagon into a large courtyard with a well in the right corner and a watering trough to the left. Apprentices and a slave filled the trough with leather buckets. A tall man with twitching fingers approached, limping slightly. He smiled with half his face, and Tycho touched his forehead with fingertips, honoring the god-struck man.

“Be welcome to water and land, Tycho of Rhonari.”

Tycho replied, “Thanks for the welcome and prosperity to the house.”

A sturdy serving girl bowed and took the lead rope as Tycho led Yehlu around to the opposite side of the wagon. He lowered the side panel, then folded back the covering canvas. “Three paolu-stone of furs from Ulfrim of Quint, now gone to the gods.”

“May his passage be swift and his return elevated.” Both made their patron’s blessing-signs. Yehlu turned his head a touch to the side and reached out, brushing the furs with his fingertips. “Very good! Haarman,” he called to someone. A brisk young man in a vest with the sigil of the preservation mages trotted up, touched his forehead to the two men, and made a complicated series of hand gestures while murmuring. Then he took a feather and a bit of fur from a leather pouch on his white canvas belt and touched them to the bundles. Master Yehlu looked away and Tycho followed suit, as if avoiding the flare of light as the spell-seal broke.

“They are free, sir.”

“Thank you, Haarman.” The mage half-bowed and hurried away, ducking into a low doorway near the well. “My lady is finishing putting up the fruits of the season.”

No wonder the mage raced back to his other work. “Of course. The summer is passing more quickly than some would like.”

“Indeed.” Yehlu leaned into the wagon and pulled out the first bundle. Tycho had not seen the furs, and he allowed his eyebrows to rise at the thickness and quality of the pelts. The grey-spotted blacks seemed especially fine, and he felt a momentary pang for how much he could have made selling them for his own benefit. Fur merchants always seemed better off than leather sellers. Then he reminded himself that it was a rare lord indeed who would confiscate raw hides and rough-tanned hides, while the stories of fur-dealers’ losses were legion. “Hmm, that is large. Very large,” Yehlu reached forward again and began unfolding a pelt the likes of which Tycho had not seen before. Tycho grabbed a paw before it could touch the ground and backed up, helping spread the enormous hide. “His lordship will be quite pleased with this.” Yehlu stroked the pelt with his weak hand. “This is one of the great northern ox hunters, in its winter fur.”

“By the stars of the south, I’ve not seen one this large before!”

Yehlu smiled and patted the hide again. “No one of good sense or wisdom approaches one of these when they are grown. I’d love to know the story behind the hunt, but such things are for the hunt-master’s servants, not the likes of me.”

All trades had their trade secrets. Still, Tycho could imagine that the story rivaled some of those told by the men who fished for the great western white-heads.

“But come! I am being a poor host indeed who ignores his guest in favor of trade.” Yehlu folded the hide and bowed slightly.

“There is no poverty in trade honestly conducted, and no dishonor in confirming the bargain.” The familiar words always made things easier.

“The bargain was confirmed with your arrival, and my haste out of season. Please, come into my walls.”

Tycho spread his hands in surrender. “I am honored to enter such walls. May your spirits bless you and all within these fair walls.”

Ritual complete, the two men crossed the courtyard and ducked into a rounded doorway with a wheel marked in the plaster above the arch. How odd—Master Yehlu followed Radmar of the Wheel, god of changes and turnings, as well as his own trade’s patron god. Tycho wondered how Yehlu could afford both, but perhaps he’d been born into Radmar’s fellowship for all that he was a fur merchant. Given how quickly fashion was rumored to change farther south, honoring Radmar might be sensible protection from caprice. Tycho found the two small altars and saluted them before he sat in the chair Yehlu waved him into. The room smelled of herbs and fur and a little wood smoke, despite the heat outside.

Apprentices and serving girls brought in cool wine along with bread and spiced oil. Tycho bowed in thanks, broke one of the small loaves, dipped it in the oil, then ate. His host followed suit, then each dipped a finger into the wine and let three drops fall onto the floor in thanks before drinking. Formalities finished, Yehlu bit off a large hunk of bread and gulped it down without oil. He leaned forward, expression intent. “So, what news from the road?”

“Nothing of great import, thanks be to all gods known and unknown. The crops around the city seem good, and no one spoke of hail or heavy storms along the way, although there were stories of bad weather to the east, too much rain early in the season.” Tycho lifted his cup, “Weak wine this year, or so they say. One of the better-known eastern lords was killed on a hunt.” He winked. “Just what he was hunting, and if his untimely death came before or after he found the game remains unsaid.”

“Indeed.” Yehlu winked back, lips curving just a little. That particular lord had been courting disaster by courting other men’s wives, as all knew. “Have you heard ought from farther south? Some of the merchants pass by sea rather than overland or up the rivers.”

Tycho wagged his empty hand back and forth like a scale beam tipping. Yehlu leaned forward. “It is said, and I heard this from a stone-trader who had spoken with the grain merchant in question, that Liambruu’s crown letters of credit are to be shunned. Merchant letters from known merchants may still pass, but not crown letters. Even the temples are shut to crown letters.”

“Ah. It has been coming, but I was not sure if it would happen this summer or next. I stopped taking orders from the south, and even Lord Valrep has ‘politely declined’ invitations to deal with the Liambruuni crown directly out of his surplus.” Yehlu raised one angled eyebrow as he sipped his wine. “Nor will he compel those of us within his walls to do business below the mountains.”

“Hmm. Oh, yes, you must know, and I will repeat this to the full market when it meets.” Tycho reached into the belt pouch on his left side, taking out a smaller cloth bag. “A light, please, of your generosity. I fear I am road-weary.”

“But of course.” Yehlu twisted in his seat, reaching behind him and dragging a metal rod and holder across the top of a chest, then setting them on the table. Tycho looked away as his host activated the light-casting spell affixed to the rod’s tip. Instead of watching, Tycho hunted through the coins in the pouch. “These.” He set the disks, as large across as a fat man’s thumb ring, on the table, pushing them over the rippled wooden surface to his host. “They are from Platport, or so the face claims. But rub them.”

Yehlu picked up the first coin, sniffed it, then rubbed it between thumb and forefinger and sniffed again. He wrinkled his nose and dropped the coin. “Ugh. What is that?”

“Not magic, according to the market mages and the master at Hillnbend trafeld. But the metal is not coin metal, and the stamp is not from Platport if you look at them through glass and moon-touched water. The coins also feel harder to the tooth than do good Platport vlaats and half-vlaats.”

A snort. “And who tooth-tests silver, especially this far inland from Platport? You say the stamp shows false?”

“Aye, but only through glass and moon-touched water. The god-side is off-center, and the city-side stamp is too deep, too clear. Platport has not minted new coin for three years, and these all looked new on one side.” Tycho turned the coin over. “The Trafledmeester showed all of us good coin and bad, so we could spread word. I kept these to show.”

Yehlu rubbed all four coins in turn, then wiped his fingers on his tunic’s hem. “Ugh, may bad repay bad and ill getting repay ill intent. Did the Trafeldmeester have any thoughts as to where these came from?”

“No but,” Tycho raised one finger in caution. “But there was word that similar stinking coins bearing the marks of Marshburt had appeared after the first southern ships came in. I have not heard anything more, and I have not seen any Marshburt coins since the caravan crossed the Ghaol River, so I pass the word as word only, not fact.” If someone was indeed foolish enough to falsify coins from the Free Cities, they would face more than just trade bans. The lords of Corwin had learned that the hard way when their city burned down around their ears after the Five Free Cities’ fireships sailed into Corwin’s port.

“It shall be taken as word, but I’ll tell my people to be watchful. And you say that the magics don’t show these,” Yehlu waved his weak hand toward the four counterfeits.

“Not as of when we left the trafeld. That could mean nothing, since none of the mint mages were present.”

“Hmm, yes.”

Tycho swept the coins back into the cloth pouch and returned it to the larger leather belt-pouch. They discussed business matters for a while longer, before Tycho sighed. “I thank you for your most generosity, but the hour grows late, and I have not paid my respects to the gods of the city.”

Yehlu stood. “And I thank you for the news, especially about the false coin. Should anyone challenge your words, I will support you.” He turned and went to a chest in a dark corner of the room. Tycho stood as well, politely not watching his host until he returned holding an elaborately carved piece of wood. “This is the remaining payment due to Ulfrim of Quint. It has been held in trust until this time at the temple of Maarsdam. I present this to you, that you might redeem what is in trust.”

Tycho inclined his head as he took the wood. “All debts are paid, all owing ceases as trust is repaid. May your gods smile on your household.”

Yehlu opened the door, letting Tycho out into the courtyard. All three of his beasts had drunk their fill and seemed quiet, at least for the moment. How long that would last if he did not get them to shelter and food Tycho did not know and did not care to find out. The youngest beast tended to be impulsive when he was hungry. The apprentices had also folded the canvas and tidied up the empty wagon bed. Tycho gave each servant a quarter of broken silver ring worth just under a quarter vlaat. The young men opened the gates and Tycho led his animals out into the street, back to the main market square, and then down the river a few blocks until he reached the gate leading into the merchants’ quarters. Temples of Maarsdam and Guilldun faced the square before the gate, a quiet reminder of the travelers’ duties.

The journeyman trader seated in the watch-shed at the gate stood as Tycho approached. “Master Tycho Rhonarida, be welcome in the name of Maarsrodi of Maarsdam.” He held out his hand. Tycho retrieved his seal from one of his inside tunic pockets and handed it to the young man. The journeyman confirmed the seal against the book of marks, bowed, and returned the seal. Then he opened the gate.

Tycho guided the beasts into the large open area just inside the walls, turned right, and handed the three great-haulers over to the beast-keeper. “They’ve drunk but not eaten since we entered the walls just after mid-day,” he reported. “And the young one with the grey crest-tip there, he likes to grab hats and hoods.”

“One of those,” the dour, lanky man sighed. Was being morose part of the requirement to work with traders’ beasts? Tycho tried to recall if he’d ever meet a cheerful beast-keeper in any city, but none came to mind. “Standard feed?”

“Yes. They are still on summer rations.”

“Ay, as are we here, won’t shift until after first frost.” Tycho took three tokens, showing that he’d left three great-haulers, and doubled back to an office on the opposite side of the gate. The sun-warmed stone felt hot to the touch, and the metal straps on the door almost burned his bare hand when he knocked. Tycho didn’t mind—it would be cold soon enough. Tycho knocked twice, then twice more, and opened the door.

“Come in and be welcome to Guill,” a woman’s steady voice called. Tycho’s eyes adjusted to the shadows and he saw a woman just past her middle years, strong of arm and shoulder and wearing the embroidered dress of a woman from Vlaaterbe. Tycho bowed to the sister-lady. “Do you seek company or simple shelter?”

“Simple shelter, honored sister. I am Tycho Rhonarida.”

She paged through a ledger. “Ah. Rhonarida and Maarsrodi.” The woman leaned over and he heard metallic clattering. “No, no, that should be over here. Yes, you, come to my hand.” She straightened up and he caught a glimpse of a widow’s chain under her scarf. “This opens your chambers, good sir. Second floor at the sign of Rhonari, the blue and white door sign. You will be alone for now. Meals are in the commons on the ground floor. There will be an apprentice elevation the second night of the market. If you decide to seek companionship, ask and I will introduce you to someone appropriate for your dignity.” In other words, he’d better not try to bring a town prostitute in without getting the sister-lady’s approval, both for his safety and for the prostitute’s. The sister-lady looked as if she unloaded barrels unassisted when she needed to, and could easily toss both an unwanted guest and a misbehaving merchant over the gate if she put her mind to it. Tycho approved of that sort of sister-lady.

He took his things to his assigned room. The bed was clean with fresh straw in the bed-sack, and someone had burnt a vermin-chasing candle recently. He found no surprises lurking in the under-bed-pot or the chest. He put his own lock on the chest, found the garderobe and wash room, and rinsed off more of the road dust. Feeling more civilized, he went back out of the gate to do his duty at the temple before sundown.

As a trader, he only had to make a token visit to the abode of the city deity. Even so, Tycho still rinsed his hands three times before entering. Once inside the temple, he bowed, then knelt twice in homage to the goddess, and left two vlaat in the box for such things. The priest on duty gave him a blessing and Guilldun’s token to show that he’d paid reverence to the city’s protectress.

Tycho went to both knees at the door to the temple of Maarsdam, then stood as the door opened. A scent of dye, fish, and the other smells of trade wafted out of the building, and he bowed before walking inside. The shutters over the window openings stood open, allowing light to pour into the airy space and touching the statue of Maarsdam. The god leaned on a gilded merchant’s staff, holding a scales in the other hand, one foot resting on a bale of trade goods. A little ship floated on water beside the god’s other foot. The deity wore a traveler’s hooded coat. He was sturdy instead of handsome, and Tycho approved of the artist’s understanding. Maarsdam wasn’t pretty. He was a traveler. Tycho genuflected, then raised his hands in greeting and called, “Hail, great traveler. A man from the north brings greetings and thanks. Thanks for the safe journey, thanks for trade done, thanks for trade to come. Hail, great traveler!” Tycho put five vlaat in the offering box in thanks, and as partial payment for his share in the apprenticeship ceremony to come. After all, this was his last trading stop, and generosity to the Great Traveler was likely to be rewarded, if he worked hard enough.

“Blessings of the traveler to you, distant son,” the priest on duty called. “May your road be safe, your animals sound, and your business prosper in this life and the next.”

“Thanks for the blessing, and for safety thus far.”

On his way out, Tycho touched the god’s staff that hung by the door. The wood, iron, and silver walking staff, twice as long as a man was tall, sat in gilded hooks. Tycho brushed his fingers over the wood and iron, feeling how smooth and shiny hundreds of other touches had worn the material.

Rather than stay up talking in the commons room with the other merchants currently in Guill on business, Tycho bought meat in a bread pocket from a shop near the gate, ate it, and went to bed. He was no longer a journeyman able to stay up all night and work all day. Alas.

2

To Market

Bread soaked in milk with wine, smallbeer, and a piece of fried meat with the sharp local mustard filled Tycho’s stomach just enough the next morning. The market would not begin for another day, giving him time to look around the market and to see where his booth would be.

His first surprise came when he reached the main wares-house to speak with the market master. “Ah, good that you are here, Meester Tycho Rhonarida,” one of the mages on duty said. “Here is your receipt from Lord Valrep. His transport mage removed the lord’s share last night.” The shaggy-haired man frowned, murmuring “waste of magic,” under his breath.

Tycho neither blinked nor raised his eyebrows when he saw the tally. He wanted to wince, but that might not be wise, either. A man never knew who might be watching. He only said, “Very well.” Three of the fine-tanned hides and two of the fleece-tanned hides, plus the two largest rough tanned skins. He should not have tempted the gods by assuming that nobles did not bother leather merchants.

After making sure that the seals on the hides-by-weight remained accurate, Tycho left the wares-house. The market master’s office filled the ground floor of the stone building on the opposite side of the great wares-house from the market scales. A cluster of men in merchants’ attire had gathered at the side of the grey building. He drifted that way, careful to avoid some piles of dung that had not been swept up for the tanners yet. “I don’t see— Oh, there.”

A smaller man peered at the wall. “Where? Ah, beside the fine cloth.”

“If spices are to be here, then…hmm. I see it now.” The cloth-trader nodded.

A section of the wall, a clothyard by a clothyard, had been painted rough black. A chalked map showed the market, with like goods clustered as usual, although as he studied the map, Tycho noted that one drinks seller had a booth in each section, except for the fabrics and weavings quarter. He smiled to himself. Spiced wine on white cambric was grounds for murder, or so his wife and his mother had both warned him on more than one occasion. He found his place beside one of the saddlers and across from a leather clothing maker and a glover. Normally the Guill market did not attract so many trades, but this was the last major market for the year. The next gathering would be the farming fair, and then winter’s rains would begin and no one could travel safely.

“That’s not fair dealings!” The loud, harsh words stopped all motion around the great square. The gathered traders and merchants turned as one to see who had spoken. “Bread costs a half vlaat per ten-weight. Ye’r cheating, you are!”

“And this is not bread, may Great Gember strike me and all my works.” A woman with the enormous basket under her arm pointed to a fat-bellied man in mismatched tunic and trews. “This is apple-spice-loaf, half a vlaat per two weight.”

“Bread’s bread ye cheatin’ wench. I claim ten weight and witnesses!” One of the merchants tapped on the market master’s door and leaned inside, then got out of the way as a wide-shouldered man with an ornate merchant’s staff emerged. He reminded Tycho of one of the wild northern oxen, as broad as they were long and far more dangerous than they looked.

“What’s this?” The market master’s bellow interrupted the ongoing dispute, and the man and woman both shifted to face him.

The fat man pointed at the baker’s woman. “I call unfair dealins’. She said bread’s not bread and wants two and a half vlaat for a ten weight. Bread’s a half vlaat for ten. I claim damages!”

The woman managed to curtsey as the market master approached, the iron cap on his staff making the stones ring. Several of the merchants trailed along to witness, Tycho among them. He’d not done much business here, and it never hurt a man to learn how the local market master weighed matters. The fat man sort of bowed, his loose dark green cap sliding and almost falling to the ground. Several of the men snorted. The woman pulled the white cloth away from her goods, showing them to the market master. “Apple spice loaf, Meester Loraam. Half to sell, half for the inn at the Three Blooms.” Tycho caught a glimpse of round, light brown loaves as big as his fist, with a dimple on the top and a sort of shiny glaze. Even he could tell that it was not every-day bread.

Meester Loraam leaned forward and sniffed. He stood. “Apples and spices, not living bread, leb-bread. What the price?”

“Half-vlaat for two weight, Meester Loraam.”

The market master nodded. “Top price for fine baking is one vlaat per weigh, so your price is within bounds.”

The man’s face turned red. “Nay! Bread is bread, all know that, ask Gember’s priest. Just price is ten weight per vlaat that man might live.” He pointed to the basket, his hand shaking. “Them’s loaves, that makes them bread, bread’s ten per vlaat.”

Meester Loraam turned to look at the man. “Where come ye from?”

“I come from Dinklefeld, that way,” he pointed to the south and east. “I’ve been here three day, know the bread laws I do.”

“Then you are excused your confusion this time, stranger. The lords of Guill set a difference between fine breads and leb-breads. Leb-breads are ten per vlaat, as you say. But fine breads are like fine goods, and trade for the cost plus a decent living for the baker. You may go, miss.” She curtsied again and hurried to make her delivery. “If you seek leb-bread, the sign of the Folded Roll has what you seek.”

“But bread’s bread?” the stranger sounded more confused than angry. Tycho wondered if Meester Loraam’s size had something to do with it.

“Not by law here. Man can live without apple-stuffed spice bread, or ground nut loaf with winter spices.”

One of the witnesses called, “Man can, but I can’t!” He patted his ample stomach, bringing laughter all around. Even the fat stranger smiled a little.

“I’m going that way, visitor, if you want to see where the leb-bread is sold,” the fabric seller offered.

“The matter is decided.” With that, everyone returned to their business. Tycho decided that Meester Loraam would be easy to work with and dangerous to cross, a good combination in a market master.

* * *

“Platport?”

“Aye. And I am told Marshburt as well, but my eyes have only seen the false coins of Platport,” Tycho said.

Meester Loraam, one of the goldworkers, and a small-weights mage all frowned. But they did not challenge his words or the false coins, now spread on a table along with true coins, so that all might know. Loraam made horns with his left hand and spat through them. “Bad ces to them that made these.” The gathered merchants and journeymen rumbled with agreement. “Hillnbend trafeld’s closer to the trade ports from the south.”

“Are the coins from Liambruu?” someone called. Tycho saw the man’s red cap and blue scarf, signs of a fine-cloth seller from Marshburt. “Seeing as how their credit word is broken.”

Meester Loraam turned back to Tycho, who spread his hands. “I do not know. It could also be a man thinking to be clever, like the mint-master’s wife’s brother in the County of Sinmartin.”

Several of the listening men nodded, and others bared their teeth and muttered to their neighbors. It had taken the offender several weeks to die if the stories were true, walled into a cell too small to stand and too narrow to sit, with air and water but only a little food. Even if the tales were only tales, no one tolerated counterfeiters.

“Howsoever it be, we have seen and are warned,” the market master stated, thumping the end of his staff against the cobbles, closing discussion with a thump and clang. “Has anyone else business for the good of the market?” No one spoke. The staff thumped again. At his nod Tycho swept the false coins into their pouch, and Meester Jos the spicer took back the true coin.

“Well met,” a light voice called. Meester Loraam turned and stepped to the side, making way for a slender man in a very expensive brocaded jacket, bright green hose, and crimson belt and boots. Tycho studied the leather. The man wore at least five vlaat on his feet and waist. “Well met,” he repeated, and Loraam and the other locals bowed low. Tycho caught the hint and bowed as well, stepping sideways as he did in order to get out of the lord’s way. His burley, crimson-clad guards carried pole arms as well as swords, and scowled, eyes glancing left and right as they eyed the merchants. Tycho knew the type well—they only wanted an excuse to beat up any man who looked as if he might consider defying their employer. Once he might have taken them on just to defend the honor of the city of Rhonari, but Tycho had grown wiser as well as older.

Lord Valrep nodded, looking down his slightly crooked nose at the merchants. “Welcome to Guill. You have my permission to trade from the opening of the gates tomorrow until the closing of the gates on the Feast of Yoorst, eight days hence.” He took a dagger out of his belt and handed it to Loraam hilt first. “With this dagger I give justice rights for the days of the market.”

Loraam bowed. “With this dagger I take justice rights for the days of the market.” A sigh of relief rose from the two score of men and the handful of women attending the market meeting. Meester Loraam could make decisions based on his observations and testimony on-the-spot, so they would not have to wait until the next time Lord Valrep held court to have disputes resolved. Tycho and a few others well remembered the way the father of the current count of Sinmartin had abused his justice, keeping merchants waiting long after the fair ended. Apparently Lord Valrep was wiser, or just did not care to be bothered. That his transport mages had lifted his share from the wares-house suggested to Tycho that his lordship preferred not to deal with minor matters like market disputes. Tycho preferred to avoid lords’ justice courts, so on that matter at least they stood even on the goddess Guilldun’s scales.

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. Since 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.

Three days later he watched the great crane lifting the last barrels into the hold of the Leaping Fish, the ship that would take him home. The open-sided wooden driving wheel creaked and he heard panting as four apprentices walked inside the wheel, working the ropes that pulled the barrels up. As they walked, strong men pushed on a long beam, turning the entire crane from the land side to the ship side. Tycho imagined that he was inside the crane house, the round base of the machinery. He heard drum beats, and the apprentices stopped, then quickly changed directions, facing the other way and lowering the barrel into the open hold access. The crane’s long neck hung over the ship, and he wondered if there were any truth to the story that someone far to the south had a crane that used no pulleys, but the entire neck rose and lowered. He studied the neck, considered the enormous beam and its supports, and imagined what would happen if the apprentices or prisoners working the mechanism slipped or didn’t listen to the drums. He winced.

The man standing beside him asked, “Ought wrong, Meester Tycho?”

“No. Thinking about the rumor of a southern crane with the dipping neck instead of pulleys, and what would happen if it slipped.”

The assistant harbormaster looked from the crane to the ship and back. “There’s be more than one barrel and a few sailors broken if it went wrong.”

“Aye. I think it is no more than a story, or a wine dream.”

“Aye.” The assistant harbormaster went his way and Tycho returned to his inn. He collected his belongings and a few more late letters that had arrived for him. As he left, he handed the inn-keeper a half ring for the maid who’d washed his shirts and smallclothes. Debts settled, Tycho carried his possessions down to the ship.

He’d watched his trade goods loaded already, and the mage in charge of water-out spells had assured him that all was well. “So long as no water comes in from above, this will last a month.”

“Good.” Tycho had paid top rates for the spells, and had flinched a little inside at the twenty vlaat cost. But the fine southern fiber alone would bring over eighty vlaat, and if it got wet, he’d have to put the bales overboard before they caught fire. Better to spend the spell money and pray to Maarsdam than to hope for Maarsdam’s favor alone. Plus, everyone knew that Donwah of the Waters had been known to strike cocky ship masters, leaving their passengers and cargo to suffer as well. No thank you, Tycho had decided before signing the contract for the spells. He was only responsible for his own failings—he didn’t care to share other men’s punishment.

Tycho waited until all the cargo had been loaded before calling up the ramp “Hail the ship.”

“Hail the land, come aboard.”

Tycho staggered little as he walked up the narrow and steep ramp, then down the ladder onto the deck. The sturdy ship rocked just a touch already as the river waves licked her sides. He’d seen one of the Chin’mai ships when he was young, the deep-sea ships that didn’t rock, but also couldn’t come far inland. He liked the koogs better, even if they did roll with every wave. The tide would be turning with the wind, or so the priestess of Donwah had said, and they’d be leaving with the wind and tide. The men on deck acknowledged him, then returned to their work. He carried his things down to the first deck and stowed them, hung his hammock, and made himself comfortable for the moment. The sailors didn’t like having spare bodies on deck when they loaded.

Tycho awoke in time to see the port disappearing as the ship rounded the headland on Plats River. The temple spire pointed to the cream-blue sky like a guiding needle pointed south. He squinted at the sun, thought about the tides and the time of year, and made a private wager that they’d stop at Strada for the night instead of risking the shoals near the headland.

He lost the wager. The full moon made a silver road on the sea, and the Leaping Fish continued on, past the low, dark land on either side of the river. Tycho smelled smoke and marsh, and the clean salt of the true sea somewhere ahead of them. The sails puffed a little as the night’s off-shore wind pushed them toward the deep waters. He staggered just wee bit as he walked across the deck and looked down the long drop to the river. A few orange and silver fish jumped, chasing the bugs that lingered over the water. Heavy steps came up behind him, and he turned and saluted the ship’s master.

“Too smooth to be feedin’ fish. Or you celebrate too much this noon?” Henk Wesserman always sounded as if he were speaking through the end of an empty barrel, as if the gods had put an echo in his voice for their own amusement.

“Neh, watchin’ the land pass and wonderin’ how far upriver sea-floods go.” Both men made horns, warning off any ill luck.

“All the way. There’s a story I heard, back when I was a rope-man, ‘bout a storm in my great-grandfather’s day it would have been. Washed away every farm from the big rocks there,” he pointed with his chin, “to the sea proper, and put water into every building as far upstream as Tynsford and deepened the channel into Platport. That much I believe. But the man said there’d been a great island off the shore where the shoals are now, and that Donwah took it in a night and a day, drowned everything on it and turned it into sea. That sounds too strange for my ears.”

“Huh.” Tycho considered the last big winter storm five years before. “Donwah does as she will, but that does sound like the story about the women of the Chin’mai with fishtails.”

“Maybe during the time of cold the storms were that bad, but now? Neh. Not that they’re not bad enough,” Henk added quickly, lest the goddess take offense.

“Aye. May that one five years past be the worst I see, and I’ll be content. The one what put the schaef on the council chamber balcony,” he added for the shipmaster’s benefit.

Henk scratched his head under his flat wool cap, then nodded once. “Aye. I was in Maans’hill for that one. Glad to be up on the ridge for once I was. Flood not as bad as in the other four cities.”

“Huh.” Maybe that big bend in the river had slowed the water. Or the marshes around the city hill had just filled up like a giant moat. Either might happen and probably did, depending on the wind and the water.

“Any news from the land side?”

Tycho sifted rumor and observation as he scratched his nose. “Nothing new since the trafeld. You know about the false coin?”

Henk spat over the side. “Aye. Bad cess to whoever’s makin’ ‘em.”

“Agreed. More have been found, mostly Platport but one from Chin’mai, if you can believe that.”

Henk’s eyes bulged a little under his thick black eyebrows, then he snorted. “Anyone stupid enough to pass off such bad false coin would be stupid enough to copy coin no one accepts. Chin’mai?”

Tycho raised his right hand. “Maarsrodi hear me, Donwah my witness, I have one from Guill that looks like a Chin’mai coin, but badly made, and it stinks like the others.”

Henk crossed his arms and leaned on the deck-rail, watching the land easing past. “Bagh,” he said at last. “I don’t like this.”

“No one does. A lot of mint mages are going to be busy this winter, or so market talk says.”

“Aye that.”

Tycho left Henk leaning on the rail and watching the land pass. He needed to sleep, and he’d never yet had a long sea passage that didn’t meet a storm. Sleep in the fair and work in the storm, that was the rule of a koog at sea. He stripped to his shorts and rolled into his hammock, asleep in moments.

* * *

The koog stayed close to land, stopping twice for water and provisions, and once to wait out contrary winds. Tycho wanted to be home, but Donwah had her ways and who was he to argue with the ship’s master? As the only passenger he couldn’t blame anyone else for being impatient, unlike some men he knew. And he’d sailed before. He’d have more success teaching a fish to drum-dance than persuading Henk and the men to skip a water stop. Instead he read the letters that had been sent to him at Platport, went over the season’s trade, considered what might be in demand next season based on the state of the lands he’d seen and the market talk, and wondered if the letters of credit from Liambruu would still be under ban next year. If so, it might make some things more difficult and he’d need to see about hiring another heavy cart for goods and coin.

Three days out from Rhonari, as they rounded the Great Headland, the wind began pushing them faster and faster, blowing from the west. The sea felt smooth, too smooth, and Tycho joined the crew tying things down and making certain the hatch-locks and sealing spells and caulk looked good, as best he could. They’d reached the one stretch of coast without safe anchorage and would have to ride the storm in the open water, making those checks triply important. “I’ll check the ballast pump,” he told Henk.

The master looked at him sideways, and for good reason. No one with sense worked on the ballast pump if they could do anything else. Just the miasmas and stench were enough to chase away those in their right minds. Tycho let the sailors make up their own reasons for his willingness to take on such a nasty job—the only one that did not require the ability to see or use magic. Henk’s broad shoulders rose and fell and he turned his attention to the rigging. Tycho took that as approval and worked his way down two decks, then wiggled through a tight gap between the ballast stone freight and around barrels of something until he found the pumps. They were in the same place on every koog, and he ran his hands over the leathers, pinching them here and there, and tugging a little where they attached to the handles. The leather moved with suppleness, not cracked or stiff, and he did not feel any leaks or holes. The rest of the pump was ready, as best he could tell without light. He didn’t want to risk striking a light unless he had to.

On his way back up, Tycho tugged on the chains holding the barrels, and kicked at some of the stones. They didn’t move. He’d already made certain that his own cargo was secure, and his possessions as well. Should he go on deck, or wait below? On deck, in the bow castle where he’d be out of the way for now. He had a sense that he’d be down below soon enough.

Three glasses passed before the main weight of the storm slammed into the Leaping Fish. Tycho added his prayers to those of the crew as he waited with a rope wrapped around his waist, one arm hooked around the support closest to his cubby on the first deck. The koog pitched up and down, dropping into the trough between the waves, then rising up with the water before dropping again. The wind pushed them hard, even with the sails down and the slant-mast taken in. Tycho listened to the water on the hull, the wind roaring as it raced around the ship, and prayed that he wouldn’t hear the sound of something moving below him. Once, ten years before, he’d had to help secure barrels of fish that got loose during a storm when the hold-fast on a chain snapped. He’d broken his leg and the other man had died, crushed between the hull and the fish. He couldn’t feel a pattern to the waves, just up, up, then down, with sideways wiggles that his stomach did not like at all. He hoped they could keep running with the wind on open water, and that the storm would not turn sideways. Koogs did not like wind from the side, not storm winds.

The next day, the cloud-dark sky turned paler, the wind faded and the waves eased, although Tycho’s stomach warned that he’d not be eating anything soon if he was wise. As the weather calmed outside the ship, he untied the rope and coiled it, then ventured up the ladder onto the deck. Four of the men clustered on the left side of the ship, looking down. One hauled up on a rope, dragging something out of the water, and Tycho made his careful way around the mast and the ropes coiled in tubs on deck to see what it was. A piece of painted wood came aboard and the men all went to one knee, heads bowed and bare. Donwah had claimed the Marshman’s Pride for her own, or at least had taken a large chunk of the ship as her toll.

“They left port two days before we did,” one of the sailor-apprentices said, voice trembling a little. “How did we catch them?”

With a grappling-hook, Tycho observed to himself, then begged Donwah for pardon. She was not forgiving of slights or disrespect. “Perhaps their cargo shifted,” he speculated.

The others got to their feet. “Perhaps,” Henk allowed, then pointed. “You, get a rope and toss it!” Tycho caught a glimpse of what looked like a mast or other long, round piece of ship with a man on it. He hurried to help anchor the rescue rope while the apprentice lowered the rope-net over the side, in case the man could be pulled that close to the ship. Neither Donwah nor the Scavenger always permitted their catch to go free. Henk swung his hand to the side, stopping Tycho. “Neh, get your staff, Tycho, in case he’s not what he seems.”

“Aye.” Tycho hurried as best he could below decks and returned with his heavy merchant’s staff. He waited, both hands on the heavy wood and iron, as the sailors pulled the rope-net up the ship’s tall side, and a man with it. He wore a grey-tan shirt and canvas trousers, both soaked through. The crewmen dragged the stranger over the side-rail and dumped him onto the wooden deck.

“Donwah be thanked,” the man gasped. He coughed, wheezed, and coughed again. “Cargo broke loose. Others were below, trying to secure it and pump. Water through hull seams, got worse with storm, then chain broke or pulled lose. I didn’t see it, but heard and felt it. Then a wave caught us sideways.” He coughed again, and managed to get to hands and knees. Tycho relaxed and planted the butt of the staff in a tiny dip in the deck planks, leaning on the staff. Then he shivered as he thought about how easily the sturdy ship had been taken by the sea. Did he know anyone on board? Probably. Donwah took her toll of merchants every year, be they apprentices or senior masters. That was the price for using the sea.

Henk crouched down on his hunkers beside the man and asked something. The man shook his head, coughed again, and answered. Henk stood. “He’s one of ours. No pirates right now, thanks be.”

The sailors salvaged a few things that floated past, mostly bales of fabric and some grain sacks and other things. The bodies they left to the goddess. Tycho wondered which mage had cast the protective spells on the bales and sacks. If he could find out, he’d hire the man next year if he returned via Platport. Very few charms or spells could stand up to great waters for any length of time, and these had been in the water for at least half a day. That kind of protection was worth every vlaat. Were the charms good in rain? If so, he might have some canvas charmed and use that on the wagons. But that was if they got into port and he went south next season.

Tycho looked at the seals on the bales and grain. “You know these?” Henk asked.

“Yes.” Tycho pointed with his chin. “These, and those. I’m not certain about this one,” he nodded to the bale on the end of the row, “but there were two new cloth merchants at Umfeld who worked with some men from, oh, the city where they make that very fine almost netting.” He struggled to remember the name of the place. It had not sent anything to the great trade fair before. “Argh. I’m getting old. It could be one of theirs, or someone newly made master. I don’t know all the cloth marks.”

“Well, it was the Marshman’s Pride, so they can be tracked from that.” Two of the mages in Rhonari specialized in matching marks to owners over distances. They were law-court mages, and this would come under the laws of salvage and the Scavenger’s Due, so they’d be called in anyway.

Tycho leaned closer, steadying himself with his staff. Something about the seal on the grain sack seemed odd, as if it had been done in haste, or had been rubbed away in part. On impulse he reached down and rubbed the edge of the seal, then sniffed. “Sh— ah,” he caught himself before he cursed and angered the sea goddess. Only sailors swore while at sea, with Donwah’s permission. “Maarsdam to my hand. It smells like the stinking coins.”

“What?” Henk almost knocked Tycho over as he lunged for the big sack. He rubbed the seal and sniffed for himself. “Well done! But damn, that’s strange. We’re not putting them in the hold, but keep them on deck. If someone’s put a malediction on them, I don’t want them down below.”

Could a malediction stay after the dunking the sacks had gotten? If it was part of the preservation charms perhaps, but did magic work like that? Tycho couldn’t remember.

After that, the last days of the journey passed quietly and without excitement. No pilot fish joined them, to Tycho’s mild disappointment, but they tended to stay farther south this time of year or so he’d heard. That evening, as the sky cleared, the Leaping Fish changed course and sailed into the mouth of the Rhonar River. From here it would be an easy sail to the port, if the wind cooperated. Otherwise they could unload and go overland, although he didn’t want to spend the money. The low, wet land eased by, and he noted the farm houses and barns on their mounds of earth, little islands in the great green and brown sweep of land around the river. Where the sea and river ended and the land began remained a mystery, changing with the tides and storms. Some folk thought the land around the four port cities was uncanny since it belonged to Korvaal and Donwah both. Tycho couldn’t judge one way or another. He just knew which ways were safe for man, safe for beast, or safe for wagon and cart. Several lords had learned the hard way that the men of the north would cheerfully hide in the marshes and watch armies drown, as well as fighting on land and sea.

“Spire in sight,” the man on top of the main mast called the next morning.

“Donwah be blessed,” everyone chorused, and Tycho went to one knee as he gave thanks. Maarsdam be willing, they’d dock before sunset.

Leaping Fish, with a little help from the small boats of the tugging men, docked two hours before dark. Tycho had changed from his boat clothes into his home clothes—a knee-length deep blue robe with squirrel-fur trim, leather leggings, black belt with his long-knife, and a soft, black hat embroidered with the symbols of Maarsrodi and Rhonari. He waited until the ramp had been lowered from the deck to the dock, then shouldered his gear. Staff in hand, he walked carefully down the steep wooden ramp, mindful that the solid ground would rock for a day or so until he got land-legs back.

“What news, Tycho Galnaar?” the dockmaster asked.

“You heard about Marshman’s Pride?”

“Neh.”

“Lost in the storm three days past, one survivor brought back on this ship,” Tycho pointed with the back of his head. Until all the salt had been washed off her hull by the river, naming the ship aloud brought bad luck. “Some cargo as well.”

The dockmaster shook all over, as if he’d gotten wet. “Not sure if she was due in here or not.”

“Other news is about false coin south of the Nasram River,” Tycho said.

“We’ve heard that.” The dockmaster smiled, a lopsided baring of small, yellow teeth. “Wagers were on how many you’d bring home.”

Tycho chuckled. “Four, from two different cities supposedly.”

“Well damn. I had eight.” The dockmaster stepped to the side, watching the sailors starting to unload cargo and studying the man in ill-fitting, borrowed clothes who struggled down the ramp. Tycho nodded and walked up the pier, slowly, taking his time and leaning on his staff. He smelled the tannery and wrinkled his nose. The wind had shifted, then. Over all the harbor smells came the city’s own scent, full of wood-smoke and dung and the heavy scent of the wares-houses, a bit like wet wool but not exactly. He caught a whiff of late fish and the tempting aroma of something fried. Fried things never agreed with him, being too hot and dry for his cold nature, but still, perhaps after he paid his respects at the temple but before he went home. Gerta wouldn’t know.

He stopped at the carved wooden pillar marking the edge of the city, and bowed. “Hail to proud Rhonari, free city of the north,” Tycho recited, then bowed again. Proud city, free city, his city. Once he crossed the line of paler stone set into the dirt he would be in city law and city duty. With a happy heart he crossed the threshold.

4

Home and Winter

Gerta patted one paten-shod foot on the rear stoop stone, the wooden tap tap tap warning passers-by of her possible irritation. “Your son,” she began, fist on hip.

“Half of him is yours,” Tycho reminded her, wondering which of the boys had gotten into what sort of trouble. He and Gerta had been not-arguing over the boys’ behavior for twenty years. “And you have delegated authority in my absence.”

Her eyes narrowed and she glowered a little at him. “That is true, but you are larger than I am, and the council frowns on hitting your own children on the head with broomsticks and fish-gaffs.”

Depending on which son had gone astray and how, Tycho doubted the broomstick would be strong enough to attract the young man’s attention. Girl trouble often required at least a heavy fish-gaff. Gerta moved out of the way, allowing him into the narrow door leading to the residential part of their wares-house. She said, “I just came back from a called meeting about letters of credit from Liambruu.”

That explained the patens and her formal dark attire, along with her wearing his chain of mastery. The flat gold and silver links shimmered, if one could see the spells cast on them, and showed that he had formally given her business authority to act in his name in his absence. She slid the patens off her fine embroidered leather shoes, removed her flat-brimmed hat, and lifted the chain over her head. “This I return to my husband and master.”

“This I accept from my wife and lady.” He accepted the chain, held it up for a moment, then lowered it over his own head and felt once more the weight of civic and domestic duty. Gerta put her arms around his waist and he pulled her close, kissing her thin, firm lips. Oh, he had missed her!

They finally parted for breath. “And what from the meeting?”

She frowned, red-gold eyebrows pulling into a lop-sided V and pursed her lips. She sniffed. “Anyone attempting to use crown credit from Liambruu is to be shown the door. Individual merchants are still permitted, and a list will be sent around at the next gathering, but nothing from the crown, no matter how much interest they agree to pay.”

“No one is accepting credit from Liambruu, not even the southern nobles.”

“Huh. And my husband and master, you smell of ship and unwashed clothes. People will talk.” She backed away and clapped her hands twice. Two maids appeared along with one of the serving boys. “A bath for the master of the house.”

As quickly as the wooden tub and warm water appeared, Tycho suspected that she’d gotten word of his return before he’d left the ship. He did not complain. Instead he stripped to the skin, then scrubbed himself. His travelling clothes would need a thorough cleaning and airing, and he’d go to the barber and get shaved tomorrow. He rinsed and found clean shorts and shirt, and a house gown waiting, along with proper food. He looked at the fresh fruit, cheese, heavy bread, and small-beer, considered complaining, and kept his thoughts to himself. He would get some of that fried meat and spicy fruit the next time he went by the docks. He wanted something else as well, but he’d seen the ring on Gerta’s little finger. She was in her woman’s time, and he’d promised never to touch her during those days. After five months of continence, another day or two would not kill him, he reminded his urges.

The next day, while Tycho had four months of beard and excess hair removed, a parade of wagons brought goods from the docks to the house. Freshly shaven and feeling more like a proper merchant instead of a traveling soldier, he and Gerta, and their two oldest sons watched and confirmed everything from his shipping lists and manifests as the barrels, bundles, bales, and boxes passed through the great front doors, large enough for a wagon to back through if needed. A half-dozen apprentices and a handful of hired men worked the hoist, lifting the goods from the ground floor and up into the four levels of storage space within the long, narrow house.

Like all merchants’ houses in Rhonari, the building extended back from the street more than five times its width. Storage and business rooms took up most of the space, with a three floor living house added onto the back, on the alleyway. Stone and tile covered the floor on the ground level, sturdy and easy to clean when mud came in. Pale red plaster covered the red-brick and wood of the exterior walls, spark proof like the tile roof. The edges of the roof almost touched the houses on either side, but didn’t quite, allowing rain drop into gutters and then refresh the little streams that kept the streets sweet. Some of the southern towns still allowed wooden roofs, or even thatch, and Tycho wondered how long such things would continue before the gods grew impatient and allowed the cities to feel the results of their folly. Because of the day’s warmth, Gerta had ordered the boys to open the windows and shutters, allowing air and light into the storage areas. Once he and the boys had everything in hand, she returned to the residential rooms to take care of domestic matters.

Gerta had grown round over the years, as befitted the mother of nine, five still living, and the wife of a prosperous trader. Her dark-blue dress with bands of grey trim stopped mid-calf and let him see her practical house-boots. A patterned scarf filled in the square neck of the dress, showing her husband’s prosperity as well as her proper matron’s modesty. Like all the women she wore a white and black cap and veil over her red-gold hair, but she did not pluck her forehead bare in the latest fashion. Some of the women had taken to removing their eyebrows as well, then drawing in a higher pair, making them look permanently surprised. Tycho didn’t understand the attraction, and he was glad that Gerta didn’t follow the youngsters’ silly fashions.

“More fish, sir?” Ewoud asked, nodding toward five barrels set off to one side. He was old enough to go out on his own, probably next season, but not with his father, not just yet. The young man needed more discipline than Tycho trusted himself to apply.

“Neh. Sponges and dried fruit for Andrade. He broke up the shipment because he came back through Rintown and they’ve started claiming first-purchase. Expanded their walls to force everyone to stop and sell.” Tycho didn’t approve of such things, but Rintown produced salt in blocks for craft and industry that were far cheaper than using eating salt. Andrade knew what might happen and had taken the chance, but had also protected his most expensive goods.

“First floor then, sir,” Bastian held the end of the barrel straps, waiting.

“Neh. Leave them down here and we’ll deliver them to him.”

The boys nodded and returned to sorting and loading. He’d brought back mostly cloth, raw fibers, and plant-wax. Bee wax was better for lights, jewelry-casting, and waterproofing, but plant wax lasted longer in the fabric and leather even though you had to use more of it. It also made better seals and took color and magic more easily, or so the chandlers averred. Tycho left such matters to their trades and to his wife. The spices and other high-value items had already been locked in a special, warded room, at least those he had not purchased for home use. Gerta had promised to make bread with ground sweet-bark to honor his return, and his mouth watered at the very thought.

“Father, do you wish to inspect the hams?” Tycho blinked at his older son. Ewoud repeated, “Do you wish to inspect the hams?”

Gerta must have bought them for some reason. But why would he need to check on them? The boys had expectant looks on their square faces, and he decided that he’d better look. “Yes.” Hams and other preserved meats were kept in the cellar, but Ewoud led his father and brothers up the stairs to the first floor, then up ladders to the third floor, just under the sturdy roof-beams. The open gable window let in barely enough light for Tycho to see that someone had made a tent-like shelter of canvas. The stocky young man rubbed his thumb over a metal ring, opening the spell on the canvas. He stepped aside, allowing his father to look into the space under the fabric.

Oh. Tycho blinked and looked again. Oh! Gerta had purchased a dozen air-cured hams at least, the rare, nut-fed and smoked full hams from Estland. Tycho reeled a little at how much of his money hung inside the canvas. A thick slice of such hams cost a vlaat. Half his net worth must be hidden under the protective drape! He felt light-headed and wanted to sit down. Instead he took a deep breath, catching a whiff of the rich ham scent, and said, “Very good.”

“They are. Mother let me have a tiny nibble off the quality slice.” Wiebe, his youngest son, licked his lips. “She found them at a salvage sale. The barrels had been labeled as wheat-n-rice flour, and two were. The other four held these, sir.”

Ewoud picked up the story. “Ten still have wraps and seals on them, and the one we opened, the seal tested true and matches that of one of the registered farms on the city trade list. Mother paid the edibles tax, made an extra donation to Maarsrodi and Yoost, and is keeping them until the feast of harbor closing.”

“Sir, could you persuade mother to let us have more, please, perhaps another quality slice?” Bastian reminded his father of the cats that gathered in the fish market just before the boats came in, licking their chops and hoping for a treat.

“I’ll see.” He’d have more success if he found a way to trade her for something. Gerta insisted on keeping a firm wall between business purchases and home purchases. Tycho considered the taste of the hams now perfuming his loft, and the hundreds of vlaats—thousands of vlaats!—that the fine cured meat would bring on the market. “I’ll see.”

Ewoud lowered the canvas and closed the ward again. “No one knows we have them. Not even the apprentices, sir.”

Tycho felt faint again. Then he remembered that Gerta had paid the proper tax, and that the hams had been in smuggled salvage. “Good.” He followed the boys down the ladders and stairs. “Thank you.” He gave each boy two bits of broken ring. “Go enjoy the afternoon.” They bowed and hurried out, no doubt to get into mischief. He went into his office, write out messages to those merchants for whom he held goods, and sent the apprentices to deliver the news.

Tycho ate a good midday meal, trying to ignore the scent of ground sweet-bark. Gerta would send the baking out tomorrow, but his mouth demanded bread right now. Patience, he told himself, patience. The maid removed his empty soup bowl and slid a large platter of fish in parsley and dill into place. After that came schaef-ribs, cheese, and fruit of the season. He still wanted the fried treats from the docks, and glanced at his wife. She regarded him over her spoon, as if guessing what he was thinking. The physician had said no fried foods, and she insisted on following the specialist’s orders. Tycho decided that he’d find a way, orders or no. He wasn’t entirely cold and damp natured.

He said, “The charms you purchased for the hides held good until I broke the seals in Guill.”

“Did they now. That’s good. I hope he’s available again next spring.” Gerta took another bite of fish. “His spells looked brighter than most I’ve seen, and he put more oompf into them, more strength. I’m glad they lasted.”

“Is he new?”

“Yes, Caster Paaula’s journeyman from Griklant, oddly enough. I’ve never met a preservation mage from Griklant before.”

He ran through his mental register. “Neither have I. Animal charms and tanning, and weather work aye, but not preservation.” Most people that far north dug chill-caves and preserved things that way instead of using any magic. Tycho approved of the thrift. “Did he do the charms on the items in the upper loft?”

Gerta shook her head, then sipped her small-beer. “No. I had our usual pantry mage set those. I told him I needed the canvas charmed for something dried.”

“Ah.” The cheese tasted rather strong, and he hoped there would not be more of it. It seemed more blue and green than cheese as he studied it. “Is this local?”

“Yes, and that’s the last of it, thanks be.” She wrinkled her nose. “Summer is not the time to be making crumble-cheese.”

“I quite agree.”

Gerta wiped up some of the juice from the fruit with a bit of bread crust. “I entered the trades in the ledger but I did not attempt to total everything beyond the rough tally in the scratch book.”

Oh good. He’d spent days correcting everything the last time she’d tried to do a final tally. “Thank you.”

Tycho spend the rest of the day working through the ledgers. He preferred to do everything himself, and Gerta’s scratch book was enough for the few things she did in his absence. She kept to round numbers, always estimating costs up and income down. She was a wise woman, and he wondered what had become of the wool-trader, Hako, who had allowed his wife to run everything without testing her skills first. She’d bankrupted him the second year of their marriage, allowing herself to be tricked into paying far too much for several loads of what proved to be coarse, inferior wool with the guard hairs still in it. Hako had been read out of the market and lost his city rights. Had he been able to start over somewhere? Had he kept his wife? Tycho shrugged. Radmar of the Wheel brought down the high and lifted the low, and who know what the next turn might be?

Tycho worked down the columns and across, double-checking his work with the bead-rack every page. He found the hams on the third page and blinked. Gerta had tucked a folded piece of paper into the book, and he removed the metal pin and unfolded the rough paper. It contained a receipt on fine parchment, two receipts actually, one for the food tax on the barrels of salvage and one for the donations to Maarsrodi and Yoorst. No one could claim that she’d not paid for the goods or paid the proper respect to the gods for the magnificent good fortune. He re-folded the page and left it between the pages. She given less than a tenth what the hams were worth, since they’d been sold as blended flours. Truly, he’d been blessed with a most wonderful wife indeed. And her idea of saving them to sell when the port closed was excellent. For some reason everyone wanted seasoning ham the instant enough ice built up to stop ships from departing or arriving.

Business kept Tycho busy that day and the next two. It wasn’t until four days after his return that he felt comfortable stealing a few moments to look at his coins. He allowed himself this one odd habit—when he found unusual or old coins, he bought them or traded them. By now many of his associates knew and saved things for him to look at. Tycho opened the three drawers holding his cases of coins and set the wooden cases on the table, then found his newest acquisitions. He spread them out on a bit of cloth and wiped them with a dampened corner of the fabric. No dirt or ink came off of this year’s catch, unlike some of his finds. He turned and opened the largest of the flat boxes.

He’d sorted the coins by place and by when he thought they’d been minted. He had a very few from as far south as two days’ journey to the mountains that separated Liambruu from the closest duchies and counties. All of them had a faint sun-and-rays on one side, with different designs on the other. A priest who had travelled in that region said he’d seen stones from before the cold years that had the sun-and-rays on them. According to the other priests in that area, no one used the mark after the cold years because it was considered cursed. Those made the coins the oldest Tycho had. They’d had dirt on them, and he’d thought they might be just thick vlaats or something similar until he’d cleaned them. The stinking coins looked almost as worn, but the designs were slightly off center on the false-coin, unlike the true coins, no matter what age.

As he compared the counterfeits to the good coin, an idea arose. He locked the office and went to the kitchen, where his wife was supervising two of the maids-of-all-work in grinding spices. “Gerta, I need a little vinegar. Not the good kind.”

She blinked but found some of the rough vinegar she used for preserving meat and splashed a bit into a bowl. He took it to the office and dropped the bad coin into it. It bubbled, but not like fine building stone did. Tycho tried a good Platport coin and it sat in the bottom of the wooden bowl without bubbling. He tossed the vinegar into the piss-box and returned the bowl. “I needed to test a material,” he explained. “Thank you.”

She nodded, not taking her eyes off the maids. Some dyes ran in water but not vinegar and vice versa, and testing new materials made perfect sense to anyone who’d watched expensive cloth fade in the rain. “No peeking in the pantry,” she warned him, then shook her finger at one of the girls. “Easy there, that’s too much fire-seed! This isn’t a spicer’s house.” He scurried out of her territory, fleeing to the safety of his office lest she decide she needed him for something.

The false coin looked even more like good silver after the vinegar bath, and he wiped a second false coin with the edge of the water-damp cloth. No change. Tycho straightened up and wondered what was going on. Vinegar turned most metal black, not silver. How strange. And why could the mages not tell the bad coins from the good? He lit a second lamp and set it where he had the best light, then compared a true Chin’mai coin with the false. Aside from the smell, they could be the same coin. Or were they? He peered more closely, squinting. There, in the middle of the design he though might be a leaf, he saw a crescent on the true coin. The false coin didn’t have the crescent. But was it a mint mark or a later traders mark, added to show that it was true currency? His other Chin’mai coin lacked the crescent.

Besides the false coins, he’d acquired one of the strange square coins from Almonten. They used a silver and gold blend as well as pure metals, and he’d obtained this one from a goldsmith who had no use for it. Instead of images of the gods, it had the gods’ names on each side, four on one face and two on the other, with the city name and a small flower on the reverse. At least, he thought it was a flower. He had a silver coin from Almonten as well, and instead of the flower it sported a bundle of grapes or berries. Tycho considered the spaces on the white fabric in the case and shifted the entire row up one, making room for the new arrival. He had no idea of the age of the coin, and so he left it with its silver brother.

The false coins kept bothering him, and he got out the set of fine scales he kept for conversions. He considered the false coins, and went to his money chest, hunting through the bags until he found the tan one with the red cord he used for Platport coin. Tycho removed three good Platport coins. He set one on the scale and weighed it. It was one fiftieth of a gallrund. The false Platport coin weighed just a little bit more, and Tycho added a few grains at a time to the opposite pan until the balance returned to level. “Huh.” Most false coins he’d seen or heard about weighed less, not more. But the difference was so slight, and who weighed every single coin? He hoped that whoever was making the false coin would give up.

Tycho put everything back into the cases and drawers. The first trade council meeting would be tomorrow, and he needed to speak with several people about business matters. He was not pleased with the rumor he’d heard that dowries might be going up. Geraarda would be old enough to wed next year, and he did not care to have to spend his entire year’s earnings just to find her a husband.

* * *

Dressed in his finest dark blue city gown and lighter blue trews, Tycho joined the other men filing into the council chamber. He did not rank among the first class of traders, the men so wealthy that they no longer traveled but instead stayed in Rhonari and let trade come to them. They were fine-goods traders and those who traded across all known lands, the men who took the greatest risks and earned the greatest rewards. Or lost everything, he reminded himself. He was too cold and wet-natured for that sort of business risk. Everyone needed leather and cloth. Not everyone needed sweet-bark, no matter how good it made sweet-glazed breads taste. Tycho nodded to Talman and several of the others of equal rank as they took their places. Behind them came the master craftsmen, the senior members of the butchers, weavers, millers, chandlers, goldsmiths and black-smiths and other guilds. All together sixty men sat or stood as was appropriate in the council chamber.

As he waited for business to begin, Tycho let his eyes roam over the inlaid pictures in the wood paneling that covered the room. The two mayors sat on an elevated bench, the senior priests and three judges on the benches below them. The wall above the men displayed images of Maarsrodi, Donwah, weighing-scales, and a kogge, all worked into the paneling many years before. Some of the woods had come from Chin’mai, others were storm-finds washed up in the north, or so he had been told. The ceiling sported three shades of wood in its interlocking diamond and chain pattern. The main walls were decorated with ships, grain sheaves, fat schaef and great-haulers and other livestock, and open account and law books, again done in pieces of wood. Benches that concealed storage for the record books and books of legal decisions provided seats for the oldest and infirm. The window shutters stood open, allowing pale light into the chamber. Thin cloud dimmed the sun, and Tycho wondered how long until the first true winter sea storm. Mage-tended glass and brass lamps hung from the ceiling, adding light.

Bang, bang, bang. The mayors stood. “All praise to Lord Maarsrodi, guardian of this proud city,” the priest called.

“All praise and honor to Maarsrodi,” the men chorused, bowing to the image in the wall.

The priest glowered at the group. “Any falsehood and false dealings will be dealt with by men or god. For what men cannot see, the gods reveal,” he warned. As he spoke, the recording clerk opened the side door and Maarsrodi’s staff was carried into the room by two acolytes. They set it down on the hooks built into the wooden bar that separated the judges, priests, and mayors from the others.

“So may it be,” everyone proclaimed. Tycho wondered what color the light around the god’s staff was. Gerta said she saw it as green, but Ewoud saw red light. Tycho saw nothing.

Dalmat Enkerman lifted a piece of paper so that all could see the large black wax seal hanging from a red ribbon. An unhappy murmur flowed through the men. “Bad taste, that,” Ventris hissed from in front of Tycho. Several men made horns, warding off ill will and bad luck. The priests of the Scavenger used black wax and no one else, unless the person were casting a bad-fortune charm. Enkerman held the parchment by the corners, two fingers per corner.

“His Majesty, most blessed of the gods, honored above all men, wise and strong of heart,” Enkerman read. “King Sanchohaakon of Liambruu, lord of the southern lands, guardian of the passes,” he stopped and glared at someone in the back of the room who failed to cover their laughter with a coughing spell. “As I was saying. ‘We, majestic and gracious ruler of Liambruu, hereby give word of our displeasure and disappointment with those who denigrate our trust and fail to accept our good will. We insist on our rights being honored by all men, and demand the full credit to which we are entitled, credit for all goods at all markets, per the same terms as the contracts signed by our gracious majesty two years ago. Should the unwarranted refusal of our credit continue, we will act in such a manner as to ensure proper respect and freedom of the markets. My our hand and seal, most blessed of the gods, favored above all men,’ and so on. Yes, this is his seal, as best we can tell.”

“No magic, no mage test,” the priestess of Donwah reminded everyone from behind her pale blue half-veil.

“Thank you, merciful lady,” Enkerman said, bowing a little. “There is no magical mark on the seal, but it matches the seal on file with the city and used on crown documents from Liambruu. And it came with two more, ahem, requests, for credit from His Majesty.”

Antil Webeker, the junior mayor, leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “The Free Cities will not extend credit to the Crown of Liambruu. The ealdorman of Marshburt said, I quote, ‘The Great Northern Emperor will walk the streets of Chin’mai before we extend any more credit,’ end quote.” Snorts and a few blessing signs greeted his recitation, and Tycho shook his head a little. The Great Northern Emperor had not been seen or heard from for five generations at least.

“I take it that the crown has not paid any of its debts?” Someone asked from the end of the third row.

The man serving as senior judge replied. “It has not. At the moment, merchants of Rhonari alone are owed one thousand gold Kog, one thin half-kog, twenty vlaat.” Tycho heard a thump from behind him, and turned to see one of the craft masters sitting on a side-bench, head between his knees. He sympathized. He’d never had a real gold Kog pass through his fingers. The value, yes, but not the actual coin. Ten golden Kog would buy a furnished townhouse and wares-house, or a fifth-share of a full-stocked koog. A thin half-kog bought enough food to keep a family in bread and meat and small-beer for at least a year, barring grain dearth.

“May we take Liambruu as collateral?” a young voice from the back of the room inquired.

“Who’d want it?” came a deeper reply. Cat-calls and laughter filled the chamber before the mayors banged their staves and restored order.

Enkerman leaned a little back and forth, trying to find who had asked the question. “Not unless you care to join every merchant and half the temples south of the Gheel. And remember, there is no magic in Liambruu. You will have to do everything by hand.” The priest and priestess gestured their agreement, and Tycho felt the hairs on his arms trying to rise. Life without any magic? How in the names of all the cities in the world did they preserve food or ensure fair dealings in business? What did they do for light in places where they dare not use fire? Probably the same as he did, use a horn lantern or glass-shed and pray.

“So, no credit to the crown of Liambruu until at least fifty percent of all owed debts are paid. To all creditors.” More murmurs and Tycho watched Ventris and his neighbor on the front row exchanged hand-masked comments. Ventris gave a little head-shake and the other man straightened up and crossed his arms, head down a little like a great-hauler male preparing to attack something. “That includes the temples currently holding pledges from the crown. We have a list of individual traders who are still permitted credit. The list is short.” Enkerman held up a page with perhaps a dozen names on it. “Several of the larger houses were found to be acting on behalf of the crown and lying about it. Their credit has been cancelled until they pay all monies owed to all creditors.”

“Bad cess to them,” several voices snarled and growled. Tycho made the horns.

Enkerman let the voices settle before resuming his seat. Antil Webeker stood and smoothed the black fur on his robe of office. If he didn’t stop doing that he’d wear it bald, Tycho sighed. Webeker had shiny stripes on all his gowns, robes, and jackets from that habit. Ruining his own clothes was his problem, but the united merchants paid for the official robes through taxes. “The councils of Marshburt and Vlaaterbe request that we look out for false coins. Traders and captains from both proud cities report finding false coins that look like good. If you find any, you are asked to take them to a smith and have them melted.”

Enkerman waited for a moment, then turned to the clerk, who bent down and retrieved a coarse black cloth bag on the end of a stick. Tycho’s stomach sank a little. They needed a jury for something. “Before you trample each other rushing to the door as if a wares-house were aflame,” the priestess said, laughter in her voice, “this is a contract dispute concerning a payment date. Not a high justice case, so all that is needed are witnesses.” His stomach did not return to its customary place. But he didn’t try to sneak out, either. Instead he prayed to Maarsdam to be excused.

An acolyte of Maarsrodi took the bag. The priest poured black and tan wooden tiles into the bag, kneaded it from outside with his hands, and sat. The acolyte held the bag out to each man in turn, and all drew a lot. Tycho’s stomach eased back into place when he removed a tan square. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do his city duty, he assured his god, but he couldn’t in truth swear that he did or did not see the light on Maarsrodi’s Staff disappear or remain bright. Ventris drew a black tile, as did Gerrt. A few of the guild-masters drew black as well, causing a hiss of speculation and interest. Neither of the tradesmen-at-large were tapped for duty, but the gods so rarely called them that they might as well be excused.

“Those not called are excused,” Webker announced.

The men of the council bowed to the images of the gods and filed out of the room by two of the three doors. A clerk came in through the third door, carrying a leather document case and followed by one of the weavers. The skinny man scowled so hard he reminded Tycho of the last apple in the apple-barrel, the one that always got dry and shrank because you couldn’t reach it.

“Only twelve allowed to trade? Why even bother?” the senior miller snorted as they left the chamber and entered the anteroom. Bread, cold meat, cheese, and sweet-cider waited for them, and Tycho removed his tankard from the rack and got something to drink.

“Why not? That’s enough for a small trade caravan or fleet,” Talman replied, knife in one hand and bread loaf under his other arm. He carved off three pieces of brown bread before returning the loaf to the table. “I want to know more about those bad coins. I heard from one of the captains in Platport that the coins didn’t appear until the ambassador ships from Liambruu docked last spring.”

The senior blacksmith raised the remains of one grey eyebrow. He’d lost most of his hair in a smithy accident in his youth. “Don’t bother trying to use them for anything.” He stabbed a piece of cheese and added it to his bread. “The metal’s worse than the cheap pot-metal out of Corwin-West. Probably kill you if you tooth-test it.”

Tycho drank his cider and kept his peace. Talk shifted to taxes and the harvest and weather, and he finished his drink, then excused himself. Gerta had removed her ring that morning, and he needed to be home.

5

Winter into Spring

The notary-mage studied Tycho and the seal, then stood. He walked around the merchant and out the open front of his work-area, into the main market and currency exchange. The stocky man pulled a stout cord hanging beside the door.

Clatter-tap, clatter-tap, clatter-tap. Everyone within hearing paused and looked to the notary. He raised his hands to his mouth and called, “Is there any man of good repute who can identify this person standing beside me?” He pointed an ink-stained finger at Tycho.

After a moment, three men in merchant’s or craftsmen’s clothes walked up, along with one of the ship-captains. “I know him. I am Ventris Bormanson.”

“I know him. I am Henk Wesserman,” the captain said.

“I know him. I am Gregor Smithson.”

“And I am Haako Peltzerman, and he is Tycho Galnaar, husband of Gerta Galnaar born Krewatzi.”

The notary wrote all four men’s names on his wax tablet. “Your seals, please, honorable gentlemen?”

Tycho stepped to the side of the doorway as the witnesses presented their seals. The notary inspected each one and made a mark on his tablet. “Thank you, gentlemen. The honor of the proud city be with you.” He and Tycho bowed to them, and the quartet returned to their business. Tycho would send a small thank you to their businesses later, as an apology for interrupting their activities. He’d served as witness for other merchants and masters. Should they prove to have vouched falsely, their seals would fail and all would know, because of the magic that tied all seals from Rhonari together.

The notary returned to his seat and wrote the names and seal confirmations out in a fair hand in the large book kept for just such things. He turned the book around and presented Tycho with a quill and the ink-pot. Tycho signed his name and marked that this was a renewal. When he took the book and ink back, the mage observed, “This is a short renewal, Meester Tycho. Has ought gone wrong?”

“Not yet, sir, but I made four over-saltwater voyages, and forded the Gheel twice, getting soaked to the skin the second time. I do not wish to tempt Maarsrodi or Korvaal by hoping that all remains well.”

The mage leaned forward, studying him more closely. He leaned closer, coming out of his seat, black eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth curving down with concentration. Then his eyes flashed open and his thin, angled eyebrows rose. “Ah. You were born under Donwah twice, were you not?” The man kept his voice down lest the sound travel past the threshold.

“Three times, sir.”

“All is explained. Too much saltwater in the blood.” Tycho braced for a look of pity, but the notary-mage on duty seemed to shrug, as if it were one of those things that might happen to any man, like being short-sighted, or losing a great-hauler to rain-cough. The priestess of Donwah had explained it to his father when Tycho showed no sign of magic as a small child—three of the goddess’s stars had been in the sky during Tycho’s birth, even though he’d been born for Maarsdam. He would never work magic, and man-cast magic would not affect him as much as other men. God-cast magic would strike him just as hard as anyone. His father had sworn the family to silence, lest the lack of magic hinder his eldest son’s chances in life. And so, since Tycho could not see if the spells remained strong, he requested their early renewal. The notary picked up Tycho’s seal and set it on a piece of blue-green silk-stem cloth. Out of habit, Tycho looked away like any man would when magic flared.

A few of the other notary-mages knew, but they kept their own council per their guild laws. The chief priest of Maarsrodi knew, of course, because he saw all men’s hearts through the power of the god, as did the priestess of Donwah. Gerta knew because she confirmed bought spells and goods, and because infertility charms did not work on him. Nothing in the laws of the Free Cities or elsewhere prevented a man from working because he lacked magic, but Tycho had seen the fates of some of those whose lack was known. He made a little warding off sign to prevent the discovery.

Tycho turned back to the notary’s table and watched the second part of the spell-renewal. Without magic-sight, all he saw was the mage dripping a little blue-green ink onto the face of the seal, then stamping a mark onto a piece of parchment. The man’s black skull-cap did not quite reach the remaining fringe of his hair, and Tycho idly wondered how old he was. At least thirty-five, possibly closer to forty, well into the age of mastery. No one became a market notary without being a master mage as well as knowing all the laws of Rhonari, all the laws the Free Cities held in common, and trade and business rules.

“It is ready. Please try not to rinse it in salt-water this time,” the notary said, winking. Tycho glanced over his shoulder and saw two men waiting just outside the door with receipt halves in their hands and scowls on their faces.

“Donwah have mercy, it and I will both stay drier this year.” He took the seal back and put it into its waterproofed leather bag, inclined his body in a slight bow, and put ten vlaat into the box for such things. Better pay more often than needed than be caught without proof of his identity and repute.

“…And I told you the quality wouldn’t be the same as if you’d bought what I had in stock.” Tycho moved as fast as was dignified and seemly away from the threshold of the notary’s office, lest he be caught up in the dispute. He vaguely recognized the thin man in farmer’s boots and trews, and if it was the same person he recalled, the farmer would talk both the merchant and the notary through dinner and supper both. Tycho followed his nose to one of the food stalls, made certain that none of his sons, apprentices, or servants were around to tattle to Gerta, and bought three battered and fried snow-fish halves, with salted crisp-bites. At his nod the woman sprinkled all of the food with a little vinegar, then handed it to him on a folded bit of old packing paper.

Tycho stepped out of the way of the people coming and going and ate his forbidden treat. What did people do who were born in the islands, where everything was hot and highly spiced, if they had cold, damp natures, he wondered? Some of the sailors claimed that there were cooling fruits that grew on the islands, so maybe they ate lots of fruit and fish. The prospect displeased Tycho mightily, and he savored the crisp crunch of the batter and hot flesh of the fish, sweet and firm to the tooth and tongue. Once a month wouldn’t hurt anything, and it was so cold and damp out that the air would ease some of the imbalance of essences. He did not lick his fingers after he finished, instead wiping them on the edges of the paper before putting it in an old-scraps barrel for the Scavenger’s children to collect.

“Ho, Tycho, well met,” a voice called, and he bowed as Dalmat Enkerman approached. “Have you heard ought of Andrade?”

Tycho considered what he knew and what he could say. “He and I left Guill at the same time, but he came overland through Harnancourd, or so he’d planned. I carried some bulk goods for him, and they have been sent to his wares-house. I expected him back this week or the next, barring weather.”

“Hmm.” Enkerman brushed his hands over the front of his oiled-cloth cloak. “His wife and a journeyman are concerned, because he has not sent word since he left Guill. He usually sends word every week. Through Harnancourd?”

“Aye, Harnancourd. He had late-season business to conclude, or so he said at the elevation of Rinmundo to journeyman.”

“Thank you. I’ll wait another week before asking out for news. Are you coming to staff sparring tomorrow?”

He had been remiss in his training, Tycho knew. It would show if he did not resume practice with staff, sword, and knife very soon. “Yes, I will be there.” The city guards’ duties included instructing those merchants who wished to learn or to stay proficient with staff and blade. Tycho did not enjoy the work, but he preferred being alive to the other alternative.

“Very good.” Enkerman bustled off. Tycho made a mental note of the questions and crossed the long, narrow market square. The small rain had begun falling, a heavy mist that might turn to either snow or the heavy, bone-freezing winter rain. Speaking of bone, Tycho redirected his path a little to the left, to Bondarsman’s house beside Temple Lane. The main door stood open for business and Tycho ducked inside. The cobbles of the floor needed to be swept, he noticed, and the wagon tracks cleaned up. Rough-woven sacks of raw bone slumped against a stack of travel boxes, as if they’d arrived so recently that the apprentices had not had time to sort and move them. Bondarsman must have gotten a late shipment in.

Bondarsman was in his office, talking to someone in a yellow and red striped tunic or half-jacket and flat yellow cap. An apprentice bowed. “May I be of service, good sir?”

“I wish to see, ah, that there,” he pointed to several open shipping chests and sacks. Worked bone spoons, hooks for hanging garments or herb bags, bone buttons, bone needles and awls, bone combs and brushes, and other household goods sat out on display. Tycho crossed the open wares-house floor and peered at the spoons. Some looked larger than usual, and he wondered which beast they’d come from, and what hide had once covered them. A set of knife-handles in a stack beside the spoons caught his eye and he leaned closer, inspecting them. They all had little designs carved into the handles, tracery or animal shapes, nothing that might give offense or be a god symbol. “Are these a sale lot?” He pointed to the knife handles.

The apprentice’s eyes widened and he wiped his hands on his heavy canvas trousers. “Ah, good sir, I don’t, um, that is, er,” he looked from Tycho to the closed office door and back, face turning pink. “They might be. Excuse me, please.” The boy turned and fled. He disappeared around a wooden partition and Tycho heard panicked whispers. What in the name of stranded fish was going on?

A sturdy young man emerged from behind the partition, dusting his hands on his journeyman’s apron. He walked with a little bit of a limp, and Tycho noticed a bandage on one ankle. He bowed to Tycho. “Your pardon, good sir. Erik is new to the trade. The knife handles?”

“Yes. Are they a sale lot?”

The journeyman looked up to the ceiling, blinked twice, and covered his mouth with his hand as he tried to recall. “Yes. Yes, sir, they are. They came in yesterday and I remember seeing the tax receipts. They are from Griklant and came with a commissioned order.”

The office door opened with a sharp screech, although whether from the hinges or Bondarsman’s mouth Tycho couldn’t tell. The bone trader had the highest pitched voice of any man Tycho had met, and sharper than most women. “No, I will not take him on as an apprentice and I will not purchase any hides. Hides are nothing but wasted weight in the freight wago—” The scrawny merchant saw Tycho and cut his words off so sharply Tycho half-expected to hear them clatter on the floor like dropped pottery. “The man behind you is a hide merchant.”

Tycho weighed insulting Bondarsman back, but decided against it for the moment. “I’m interested in those knife handles from Griklant.”

“Which? Oh those. Take them, please,” he flicked the fingers of his right hand toward the boxes, as if shooing the carved bone away. “Get them out of here.” A little gleam in his eye gave him away, and Tycho rested his hands on his heavy belt as he considered what price to offer. The few carved northern-made handles he’d seen for sale had been snatched up in the southern cities. “They’re taking up space. Give me a half-vlaat for the lot and they’re yours.”

Tycho reared back, acting insulted. “A half-vlaat for the lot?”

“Aye. I didn’t order them, don’t need them.”

“Neh, if they are that cheap you might as well burn them for the glass-makers to use. I only want them if they are worth at least eight vlaat to you.” He’d not reverse-bargained in a while.

“Eight? Maarsrodi would strike me dead for taking such advantage of a city-man.” Bondarsman shook his head, grabbing the quill he’d tucked behind his ear before it fell. He pointed with the quill. “Three-quarters if you absolutely insist, but no more.”

The stranger in red and yellow, and the apprentice boy, grew more and more confused as Bondarsman raised his price and Tycho lowered his, arguing back and forth until they settled on three and three-quarters vlaat, and Bondarsman would deliver them to Tycho. Did the stranger not know about back-bargaining? Probably not. The two men of Rhonari shook on the price and Tycho paid a vlaat down, then signed the sale book. Bondarsman preferred not to trade south of Platport, and Tycho was willing to risk the vlaats on the handles selling well farther south.

In fact, if Liambruu was not trading this year, it might be worth his while to go even farther south than usual. Northern goods fetched good prices in the south just because of their novelty. Like the bone knife handles. Northern bone had a tighter surface than southern and lasted better, or so Tycho thought. But he would need to have his agents look into the market, and to see if the demand justified the higher cost of going that far. Much of the way would be overland, if he went, alas. But that was in the future. Now he needed to speak with the waiting trader.

The stranger in yellow and red lingered in the main wares-house floor, holding a dark brown hat with a broad brim and crimson strings. He was taller than Tycho had first thought, and wore dark red under the open yellow and red striped, thigh-length half-jacket. A little fur trimmed the jacket’s lapels, and a little more peeked out from the collar of the under-tunic. It looked like pond-rat fur, and Tycho mentally shifted his guess of the man’s place of origin east and a little north, to the great wet forests.

“You are a hide merchant?” The stranger spoke carefully, as if weighing each word for its value. He slid the round sounds more than a native speaker, and Tycho patted himself on the back for his correct guess.

“Yes. Not furs,” he raised one finger in warning. “Hides alone.” Tycho considered what he had in his wares-house, what he could assemble in credit, and how long until he could sell any hides. “I might be interested in doing business.”

“Good. I came to collect payment. Letter of payment like under-melted ice—looks solid, breaks under foot with first step. Do not want to take hides back.” The tall man glowered over Tycho’s head, hands flexing as if he wanted to hurt someone, or shake them until they payed.

Behind him, Bondarsman mouthed, “Liambruu?” and raised one eyebrow. Tycho guessed that might be the case, but this was not the place to discuss such things. “Come, let us go somewhere we can speak freely without stopping others’ business.”

“I come.”

By the time Tycho helped his sons and two apprentices finish unloading Norkashnic’s hides so the man could get himself and his beasts under cover, the small-wet had turned into larger drops of cold rain that felt like daggers of ice when they hit unprotected skin. The narrow wagon fit easily into Tycho’s wares-house gates, but the three great-haulers had to stay out in the weather because of the wagon’s unusual length. “Is good.” Norkashnic stated when they finished and strapped the heavy canvas and leather cover back onto the wagon. “May your gods bring you only good, and may false-king’s gods send him only woe.”

“So may it be,” the boys chorused.

Norkashnic pulled on a waxed-fabric coat over his colorful clothes, saluted the household gods, and departed. Tycho had already paid him, and now two large stacks of northern hides sat beside the chest of knife handles in the ground floor of the wares-house. Tycho wanted to get something hot to drink and eat, but considered the weather and the hides and swallowed a sigh. He had to set a good example for the boys. “Lower the hoist straps. No point in letting these sit where they might get wet or tempt rodents.”

Bastian looked as if he wanted to argue, and had the same expression on his face that his mother used when she didn’t think the time was quite ripe to voice her objections. Ewoud sighed and pointed to the youngest apprentice. The boy drooped, probably tired from moving the thick hides, but didn’t say a word. He slumped, walked to the hoist chains, and lowered the straps that fit around the goods to be lifted into the storage floors. “Which floor, sir?” Bastian asked.

“Second.” He didn’t want the apprentices poking around the third and fourth floors just now. And he had some other hides on the second floor. “The chest goes on the first floor, with the other miscellaneous goods.”

Gerta surmised that he’d worked through dinner and had a larger than usual supper waiting when they finished. “He had a contract with the Liambruu crown and two merchants for hairy-ox hides and snow-hunter hides, plus a few mixed hides, all tanned. He came from Wiga, got in two days ago, and…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Gerta frowned. Ewoud finished chewing his fish stew and asked, “Sir, the king defaulted?”

“Yes, he did. There was no money waiting.”

Gerta frowned deeper, but waited until after they’d finished eating and the younger boys had been sent to bed before she asked, “My husband, what said the priest?”

“He accepted our offerings and said that because the pledge had been broken, there was no harm in my taking delivery and paying for the hides. All but one have been tanned, and that one,” he shook his head a little as he thought about it. “I’ve not seen anything that thick. I sent word to the armorers to see if any of the shield makers or armor makers are looking for that kind of material.” If not, he might see if it could be cut smaller as it was, and tanned for boot-soles. “He said it took two hundredweights of tanner-bark to tan all the hides, and I believe him. They do it in hollowed out logs to get even more brown-water from each tanner-tree.”

“Did he say what he was buying?” She sat with her eyes closed, likely tired from the day’s work preparing for the upcoming festival and feast.

“Grain, wheat and rye and water-grain, glass, bog-iron, and a set of mill-stones, but those will wait until next year. He placed an order and put money down. They are building a new temple in Wiga and need building stone, but no one had any since sailing season is ending.” Tycho shrugged stiff shoulders. He shouldn’t have been working so hard. That was what sons and apprentices were for. “It took half a day in Bushmaak to agree on the price for the water-grain.”

Gerta made her “not surprised” noise. Tycho was impressed that it only took half a day. A few years ago the traders had ended up bringing in three judges and the priests of Maarsdam, Gember, and Korvaal before reaching an agreement. Yet another reason to stay with hides and leather. Everyone agreed that man must have wheat and rye and the other land grains in order to live, and everyone agreed that they took land and labor to grow. But water-grain grew free for any who chose to do the work of gathering it, and only a handful of river-dwellers lived on it. So was it a luxury good or a grain? He tried to stay out of the argument. He didn’t care for the flavor and texture, and Gerta thought it too expensive for everyday use. Had he been setting the price, Tycho thought he’d apply the same rules as were applied to bog-iron, another gift of the gods.

“All of one ham was sold today. The butcher kept ten percent for stocking and carving the meat.” She yawned. “Sorry.”

Ten percent was very good. The man had handled meats for Tycho before and could keep his mouth closed when asked. Tycho approved.

“Good. I’m for bed. The ceremony starts at the third bell tomorrow.” He pushed out of his chair. Gerta stood, and then reached for the iron coal-hoe and bent to bank the fire in the main hearth. He went to their bedchamber as she descended to make certain that the maid had taken proper care of the kitchen fire. Ewoud was attending a gathering of some of the merchants’ heirs and would sleep in the trade house, since the meeting had not finished before the closing of the gates.

The next morning Tycho, Gerta, and the five children walked together to the temple of Maarsrodi. They all wore red and brown with brown sea-dog fur lining and trim, and the adults wore their chains of status. Their clothes were not the fanciest on view, but very well made and of prime wools and durable furs. Everyone who saw them would know that Tycho had been blessed by the gods. The rain had stopped, and bits of cold blue sky appeared among the light grey clouds. Winter had come to the Free Cities.

At the third bell, all the temples on the worship square near the docks opened their doors, all but the Scavenger’s temple. Instead of opening the doors to strangers, the priests erected a portable altar in front of the white-painted doors, and eight black candles burned behind glass wind-screens. The Scavenger’s priests wore black cloaks with black hoods, patched with black and dark brown. Under their hoods they wore black half-veils, covering the lower halves of their faces. The priestesses of Donwah wore half-veils as well, to show that no man or woman could see the face of the goddess of the great waters and thus truly know her. All the temples sat on raised platforms of soil and brick and stone, elevated so that the usual floods wouldn’t enter them, just as the first cities and farmhouses had been built on mounds of dirt. The temples themselves were made of brick, painted in the gods’ colors or left bare red. Stone or baked-clay images of the gods stood above the doors and in the walls, telling everyone who was worshipped there. They were square, not long and narrow, and not as tall as the surrounding buildings. The temples stood on the oldest ground in Rhonari, between the city and the sea.

Two priests or priestesses from each temple brought links of iron chain out of the sanctuaries, each link as long as from Tycho’s fingertips to his elbow. Four of the master smiths stood at the end of the temple road beside a stack of connecting links. Men of the dock-men’s guild waited off to the side. The priests brought their pairs of links to the smiths, held them up for all to see, and handed them to the craftsmen. The smiths fastened the links together with smaller chains as the dock-men each took a link or connector. When the smiths finished, the priests and priestesses turned to face the close-packed crowd. “The port is closed,” the called as one. The dock-men carried the chain to the end of the road and hung it from enormous black iron rings built into the buildings on either side of the way. Shipping season had ended. The port was not completely closed to all shipping or to fishing boats, but the contract year had come to an end and no major trading voyages could go out. Ice would finish the task of locking in the port in a few months, if this year were no different from the rest, and then all watermen and sailors would truly rest.

A wail of mourning rose from the watching crowd. “How will we work? How will we trade? How will we live?”

The priests waited until the sound faded, then called, “Why weep? For this is the time of rest and preparation!”

A cheer echoed from the walls around the square, and the crowd surged out of the square, heading to the guild feasts or the holiday markets, or just going home to get out of the cold if they could. Tycho and a number of other merchants went to the temple of Maarsrodi to pay their respects and leave any extra offerings they felt were due to the god. Tycho also left a smaller gift to Donwah, since he had been born under her watch. He wished he hadn’t been, but so it was, and who was he to try to surmise the gods’ reasons for what they did or didn’t do?

The next day, despite the holiday, a messenger came from junior mayor Antil Webeker, summoning Tycho to an urgent small-court. Tycho brought Ewoud along so the young man could see what it was like. A servant had started a fire in the chamber’s ornate fireplace, and the heat felt welcome after the cold walk from the house. The pale chamber always seemed cold to Tycho—a pleasant coolness in summer and an ache-inducing chill come winter. The paneling was lighter and simpler than in the great room, probably because the smaller court had been constructed later, during a space of hard years when the city had far less money to spend on luxuries like inlaid paneling.

Tycho turned from the fire to see the others taking their places in front of the wooden rail-bar and brown-draped judges’ table. Antil Webeker had tied dark-brown cloth to his merchant’s staff and Tycho stiffened. So did the other men as they entered the smaller gathering room, once they saw the death-cloths on the mayor’s staff and the judges’ table. He could guess who had died, and what the problem was. There were always problems, always always.

The dozen or so men and a few other witnesses stood in a loose half-circle behind the wooden bar separating the judges’ table from the rest of the room. A small door opened behind the table, and three men in white judges’ masks and dark blue gowns entered, followed by a woman in dark brown wearing a gold chain of authority and carrying a red-sealed leather folder. A boy—perhaps eight years old—walked behind her, carrying a ledger and peering around as if he’d never seen the room before. The woman and boy had empty, worn faces, and she seemed to be shaking as if with summer’s fever chills. They stopped two paces from the judges’ table and Webeker spoke to them. The woman nodded and led the boy off to the side, into the area reserved for petitioners and witnesses. Webeker turned to the gathered men as the judges took their seats. The woman handed the folder to the clerk, who in turn passed it to the closest judge then took his place in the back, recording every word.

“Andrade Godkurt and his two oldest sons are dead. They died outside the gates of Harnancourd, killed by road-robbers.” Webeker stopped, waiting for the hisses and snarls to fade. All the traders made the horns, warding off similar fates. “They were not alone, but had gotten separated from the rest of the group by difficulties with the ferry. Before you ask, the lord of Harnancourd is investigating to see if the difficulty was deliberate or because of an accident.” He shifted so that he faced the woman.

She spoke calmly and clearly, her voice carrying so all could hear. “My lord and husband left instructions for such a thing. But he did not anticipate his primary heirs dying with him.”

The judge on the left-hand end of the table broke open the seal after showing it to the group. Tycho leaned forward, then nodded like the others. What he saw matched Andrade’s seals on the barrels he’d brought back for him. If the magic matched he could not say. No one raised a protest, so he took the seal to be genuine. The judge removed papers from the folder and showed them to his associates and the junior mayor as the watchers observed in silence. Tycho wondered how close to Harnancourd’s walls the men had been when they were attacked. It had been a few years since he’d travelled that route, and he recalled a bend in the road just north of the river and ferry, where rocks and trees had hidden the way ahead. If Andrade had been there alone, and had decided not to wait for the rest of the larger group to catch up…

“This will states that Marta Godkurt born Corwindes is to give authority to Karl Andrade Godkurt, eldest son of the couple. No provision is made for an exception.” The judge sounded irritated behind his mask, and Tycho and several others made “tsking” sounds of disapproval. What had Andrade been thinking? “Marta Godkurt is to turn over all books and the chain of authority to Karl Andrade. She will receive her dower and a widow’s portion. The unmarried children of the house will receive a quarter share of the estate, payable upon their majority, and will remain in the house with their mother and Karl until they come of age.

“All unpaid debts are owed to Karl and he is charged with collecting them. Karl receives authority to pay all known outstanding debts, either in full or in proportion to the amount owed until such time as all debts can be cleared. All contracts are transferred to Karl and Karl alone.” The judge set down the page, and Webeker appeared to be fighting the desire to speak. “Karl Andrade Godkurt is dead, and left no testament or widow.”

Tycho winced. Ugh, what a disaster. By city law, Andrade’s estate lapsed to the city and would be divided among his creditors in its entirety, leaving nothing for his widow or surviving child or children. Children? Tycho tried to recall but couldn’t. Widow Godkurt nudged her youngest son, and he stared at her. She leaned over, whispered, and he straightened up, carrying the ledger to the judges. The man on the right end of the table stood and met the boy, taking the heavy book from him and sending him back to his mother. The judge passed the ledger to the man in the center, who opened the book and studied the most-recent entries. “Current holdings are valued at two gold kog, eighteen vlaat in the city now and three kog, one thin-half-kog four vlaat outstanding. Debts owed three kog, nineteen vlaat.”

“That is if my lord of Harnancourd releases what remains of my lord husband’s goods, sirs,” the woman said. She remained calm and Tycho admired her composure. She had the dark skin of someone from the sea islands to the east, and looked young, with a round face under her headdress. Was she his first or second wife? Second, Tycho remembered. The first had died of winter cough twelve years ago.

Tycho considered what Andrade had owed him and raised his hand. The judge with the ledger nodded. “I release half Andrade Godkurt’s debt to my house. I, Tycho Galnaar speak.” It wasn’t much, a few vlaat, but mercy to the widow and child seemed only right.

“I release a quarter of Andrade Godkurt’s debt to my house. I, Dalmat Enkerman speak,” came from behind Tycho. The others followed suit, releasing parts of the debt in order to leave at least survival funds for the remaining family. Andrade had paid his debts on time as best he could when the gods willed, and had shown mercy himself on occasion. To do any less would be to tempt Maarsrodi’s displeasure.

The judge who had read the will stood and turned to Widow Godkurt. “What man will speak for you, Mistress Godkurt?”

He could hear her swallow. “No man speaks for me, honored sir. My father is dead and I have no brothers or brothers-in-law within the Free Cities. My son, our son, Andrade Marlo is ten years from manhood.”

And the will had made no provision for anyone other than the oldest son, now deceased, to act for the estate. The judges huddled together, as did the merchants.

“Can you take a ward?” Talman asked Enkerman.

“No. I’ve taken one two years ago, and that’s more than enough.” Enkerman ran a hand through the bit of hair that had escaped his soft black cap.

Other voices said, “Not me.”

“I can’t.”

Talman looked back to Tycho. “Tycho, what about you?”

He looked at Ewoud, who glared at the floor. Taking the woman and her son on would mean that Tycho had to run both businesses, and that his son would share the responsibility of paying off Andrade’s debts if Tycho could not do it. He considered his assets, losses, and what Gerta would do if he surprised her with this. Chase him through the market with a fishing-spear or laundry bat came to mind, although he wasn’t certain where she’d find either one on short notice. And without magic… No, absolutely not. He couldn’t afford the risks. “I cannot.”

They heard a surprised noise from the judges bench and looked that direction. “And are you willing to swear this under god oath?” the man in the center seat demanded from the widow.

“I am, honored sir.” Whatever it was she sounded confident of it. The clerk got up and eased out of the room, returning quickly with a priest of Maarsrodi and some wood for the fire. The priest carried something in a blue-green cloth, which he set on the judges’ table. They in turn stood and backed two steps away from the table, clearing space for him. He laid the cloth on top of the ledger and unfolded it, revealing a cube of iron-stone and a chain.

“Come here, Mistress Marta Godkurt born Corwindes.” The woman walked to the priest. “Stop. Stand here,” he pointed down, moving a little so that all the men on both sides of the table could see what transpired. “Extend your hands, palms up.” She did as ordered. She wore no rings, Tycho saw. Interesting. The priest laid the chain over her hands and moved the loose ends of the black chain so that they touched the grey-flecked, dark green iron-stone.

“Mistress Godkurt, who kept Andrade Godkurt’s records?” One of the judges demanded.

“I kept Andrade Godkurt’s records.”

A second judge asked, “Who handled his accounts within Rhonari?”

“I handled his accounts within Rhonari.”

She held her hands still, and the men around Tycho murmured, “All true.”

“Will you discharge all duties of a citizen of Rhonari and a trader in faith?”

She swallowed. “I will discharge all duties of a citizen of Rhonari and a trader in faith, so far as my sex permits.”

The priest pointed to the woman. “All have seen and heard her oath?”

“Aye,” the men chorused.

“Marta Godkurt born Corwindis, you are charged with all privileges and duties of a free merchant of Rhonari, so far as your sex permits, until such time as you and your son return to this court for him to assume those duties.” Antil Webeker met the eyes of each man in turn. “You have seen and witnessed her oath.”

“It is witnessed.” Tycho joined in with a clear conscience. He had not seen the truth spell, but he had seen and heard her vow before the company and a priest.

“Go now, Widow Godkurt, and assume your duties.” The priest removed the chain from across her hands and she walked past the wooden bar, standing with the men as one of them. Tycho wondered if she were strong enough to handle one of the pole arms the city militia used. If not, she’d be assigned to work the walls, boiling water and throwing it on any attackers and other similar duties. Four other widows served the city in like fashion.

“If there is no further business for the court?” No one wanted to mention anything if they had it, Tycho knew. Webeker looked to the leftmost judge, who nodded. The mayor thumped the butt of his staff on the floor. “The court is dismissed.”

“And that, Ewoud, is why you do not travel with me,” Tycho said once they were clear of the building and well on their way home.

The boy nodded vigorously. “Now I understand, honored father.”

Tycho made a mental note to review his will when they got home. He’d be going south again come spring, and he did not want to leave anything to Radmar’s whim.

6

The Sea-Road South

The winter passed as they often did, with a little snow, much cold rain, a few flooding storms, and the onset of negotiations for dowry rates. It wasn’t that Tycho didn’t think his daughter was not a fine, well-trained, and charming young woman with an abundance of skill and an attractive face, far from it. But Geraarda should not require two gold kog to find a husband. Especially since Tycho would have to leave much of the selection and opening negotiations to Gerta while he went south. Both Gerta and Geraarda had candidates in mind, and to his great surprise several of the same names appeared on both lists. One of Geraarda’s he crossed through, then scratched it over until all that remained was a black splotch.

“He is unacceptable, my lord husband?” Gerta raised one eyebrow.

He pointed at the blot. “He abuses hired women. Was almost thrown bodily out of the merchants’ housing in Gheelford for beating a prostitute when she insisted on being paid the full amount he owed her. He was forced to pay damages as well as twice her hire. I do not trust some of his business practices, either.” What passed between a man and woman was their business so long as both agreed, but bad trade practices plus abuse? Absolutely not in any man who would marry one of Tycho Galnaar’s daughters.

Gerta inhaled with a hiss, frowning mightily, and planted her hands on ample hips. “I agree entirely. I knew of questions about his business practices, and there are rumors that he has injured great-haulers and other beasts, but only rumors. He is off the list and I will tell the boys that he is not welcome to court should he take the initiative.”

“Thank you. Just say that he is not acceptable at this time and leave it there. Should he push matters, you may go into more detail. I witnessed the episode in Gheelford, if a question arises.”

She nodded once, then pointed to a second name and shook her head. “He is not going to inherit more than a quarter-share. His mother informed me that he is not, as she phrased it, the kind to wed a woman.”

Tycho blinked but did is she recommended. He had not noticed the young man’s behavior, but was that in itself a sign? That he had not done anything while out as a journeyman? Well, possibly, but Tycho reminded himself that he’d been continent before marrying. Did the boy have the same disability that he did? It mattered not. Gerta had spoken and he trusted her judgment.

Mid-summer would pass before Geraarda came of age, but it was better to be prepared than surprised and forced to pay more than was needful, especially since he would be away. Not that he anticipated rapid selections and bargains, but sometimes the gods blessed a couple and they found a quick and solid match.

“Do you have a route planned yet, sir?” Ewoud inquired the next afternoon as they inventoried the outgoing goods. A light-mage had refreshed the spells in the wares-house the afternoon before, although Tycho had insisted that he not make all of them reading-bright, just colors and shapes bright. Why spend money for magic they did not need?

“Platport, then well to the south, to Milunis.” He mentally traced the route on a map. “Alas that the gods did not see fit to create a port at the mouth of the Moahne, but so it is.”

Wiebe bounced on his toes. He looked very much like Tycho’s own father, leaner than Tycho but with his father’s green eyes and fast, skillful hands, and a gift for trade charms. Perhaps it was time to apprentice him to a mage, Tycho thought once more. “Moahne, that is the river that ends in the old mountain, is it not, honored father?”

“Yes, it is. For that reason ships cannot go upstream and the cliffs on the coast prevent docking or building a trade city. It is said,” he straightened up, easing his back. “It is said that some of the lords in the south once petitioned the Great Northern Emperor to send a stone mage to carve the cliffs into a city, or at least carve a hole large enough for a port, with a way to reach the top of the headland, but those are stories from around the evening fire, nothing more.”

Ewoud looked thoughtful. “Honored father, are there mages that strong in the emperor’s court?”

“No one knows. I have been told that in times of great need, several mages from the same guild can pool their strength for a single work, as we pool money for ship shares, but I’ve never asked a mage.” Asking a mage for guild secrets struck Tycho as a very good way to find himself in very great trouble.

“Ah.” Ewoud wrinkled his nose a little and moved to the next stack of goods. “One box of bone knife handles.”

“Check,” Wiebe marked the line on the wax tablet.

“Ten white-fish teeth, uncarved.”

“Check.”

“Five white-fish teeth, carved.”

“Check.”

“One white-fish hide, tanned.”

“Check.”

“Oof.” Ewould struggled to lift the enormous skin. “Um,” the pale grey skin seemed to take on a life of its own as the young man moved around underneath it, looking for a tag. Tycho bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Ah, one chest of spices and medicinal herbs from north of Griklant.”

“Not on the list.”

A muffled “What?” came from under the hide.

“I do not see it on the list.”

The hide humped and lumped and Ewoud emerged. He smoothed his hair and peered over his younger brother’s shoulder. “It should be. No, that’s not. Ah, there it is,” he pointed.

Tycho peered as well. “That chest has already been marked off. This one,” he pointed to the lump under the hide and other goods. “Should be over there, with the goods to be shipped on the first voyage. This one has camphor-moss in it.”

Both boys wrinkled their noses. “Cool season, yes, sir.” Everyone knew how camphor-moss sweated out its essence in the heat, and no one wanted to be around large amounts of it when that was going on.

“And we need to bundle that hide. It has aired long enough.”

That night, after Gerta had ordered the boys and her husband to go to the public wash-house to get rid of the white-fish smell, she asked, “How long until the season begins?”

“The priests said two more weeks to the port opens, but I want to wait for the Great Fir to be ready, so another week after that, the gods willing and the shipyard doesn’t find anything wrong.” And another week allowed for the storms that always came with the opening of the port to pass by. He’d written his agent in Platport already, giving the man time to ensure that the great-haulers were ready and in condition. Once again, Tycho wondered if the northern oxen could be conditioned to working in the southern lands. Probably not, and shaving their coats so they did not overheat might be exciting, at least for someone watching from the safety of a wares-house roof. He smiled at the thought.

“Oh?”

“Imagining someone attempting to shear northern oxen to use for hauling goods in the south.”

Gerta put one hand over her mouth as she considered the idea. “Oh. Oh my. I don’t— I hope the shearer can run and climb very well.” She stopped. “Can oxen climb?”

“I don’t know, and I do not want to be close enough to find out.” To his knowledge, no one had ever managed to break the huge beasts to drive.

After some consultation and prayer, the priests shifted the date of the port opening to several days later than originally planned. Opening shipping while both Donwah’s and the Scavenger’s stars were high smacked of impiety, or so the priests said. Tycho overheard one of the small traders telling a fellow, “I’d call it bad fortune to open when both storms and Scavenger are at their height.” Tycho was inclined to agree. No one wanted to give too much to the Scavenger, no matter how much good his followers did for the health of the city. For Tycho’s part, he wasn’t comfortable with shipping so much white-fish bone and hide when the sea goddess was watching so closely. He was certain the hunters had followed all the proper precautions, but there were stories about what happened to those who took Donwah’s bounty for granted. They never ended well.

On the day announced, everyone assembled at the temple square and the entrance to the harbor. Heavy grey clouds hugged the sea and darkened the sky, but the air felt warm and a scent of grass and spring seas and soil undercut the usual port smells and wood-smoke. The two mayors led the ship captains in a procession through the watching crowd, their merchant’s staves thumping in unison against the cobbles. Tycho wondered how much it would cost to cobble all the streets, or at least those leading to the wares-houses and market square, then decided that numbers might not go that high. Just the stones alone would be more than he really wanted to pay taxes for. The seamen stopped at the chain, then spread out into a line across the width of the road. The mayors turned and called, “Who will let us trade?”

The senior priestess of Donwah and the senior priest of Maarsrodi called from the foot of their temple steps, “Who asks?”

“We, the children of the sea and of trade,” the seamen and mayors chorused.

“What bring you?”

“We bring offerings and honor and praise to the gods, the gods who gave us life.”

The priest and priestess walked until they faced each other, consulted quietly, then faced the crowd again. They raised their staves over their heads, holding them in two hands. At that signal, junior priests and journeymen smiths rushed out of hiding, while the mages from the guilds associated with trade surged out of the crowd. Together the two groups lifted the chain down from its rings and swiftly disassembled it, the smiths carrying off the smaller connecting chains and the priests lugging the enormous single links back to their resting places in the temple treasuries. The mages formed a line facing the seamen, with the mayors and the senior priests in the middle.

“In the name of Donwah, the port is open!” the priestess called.

The priest commanded, “In the name of Maarsrodi, go forth and trade!”

A hole opened in the lines of men. The priest and priestess led the way out to the port, the seamen, mages, mayors, and then the crowd following. The procession went all the way to the farthest end of the most distant dock, and the priests and priestesses began blessing the ships, their owners, and those who would go forth to do business on the waves and roads. Small booths had been set up on the land-side of the road, selling sun-buns and fried sun-disks. The money went to help the poor and orphans, and Tycho purchased sun-buns for the family, then rejoined the wash of people moving down the dock.

A group of black-clad priests walked past without a sound and Tycho fought to keep from ducking. The priests of the Scavenger did not bless anyone. Instead they followed the other priests, silent, watching, faces hidden, black shapes reminding everyone that the Scavenger took what Donwah permitted. Tycho had bought scavenged goods from wrecks once the shippers’ marks had been confirmed and the goods checked for destination marks or spells. He’d gotten some very nice things that way. But he still tried to avoid attracting the black-clad priests’ attention.

One of the older priests of Maarsrodi stopped not far from where Tycho stood with his family near the repair dock where Great Fir floated. The priest seemed to sniff the air, then searched the crowd until he found Tycho. He marched straight toward Tycho, eyes intent, head forward a little like a sight-hound or hunting bird. The people standing in front of Tycho moved out of the way without seeming to, leaving him alone with his family. “You. You are the coin man,” the beak-nosed prelate stated, pointing with a square chin.

Tycho glanced left and right for one of the mint-mages, saw no one, and swallowed. “I collect odd coins, yes, sir.”

The priest came closer and despite the dark blue hood’s shadows Tycho could see that his eyes had shrunk to little dots of black in pale green, as if the priest stood bare-headed in bright sunlight. “You have no magic,” the priest murmured, “but magic is not everything. You have knowledge. But do you have wisdom? Watch, ask, and be ready when the god calls.” He leaned back, throwing his head back as well, and raised his free hand. “The blessings of Maarsrodi on this family, may trade prosper and health fill the house.” Without thinking Tycho bowed low, sensing his wife and children doing likewise. “Watch, ask, and be ready,” the man repeated, spun on his toes, and moved down the dock to the next ship, the hem of his calf-length cloak swishing like a rocking ship.

Gerta recovered first. “My lord husband, has the god spoken through his priest?”

“I can think of no other explanation,” he replied, slowly, quietly, weighing words the way he weighed foreign coin. Should he be afraid? No, but he would watch and be ready for something, whatever it might be. He hoped it would be a magnificent trade, perhaps a monopoly on fine hides, wonderful enough so that he could retire from the sea and roads and stay home growing fat with Gerta and watching his children and grandchildren prosper.

“When may I have my sweet-cake?” Rikila begged. The family’s youngest child held it in her hand, waiting. Gerta had told her to wait until they had been blessed.

“Now,” her parents said in unison. The entire family bit into the soft, warm, spice-and-fruit filled disks. This would be the last sweet for some time, and the older family members savored the treat. The lean part of the year had arrived, between the end of the old food and the arrival of the first fruits and young animals. Rikila devoured her bun, then licked her fingers with studious care before patting the front of her jacket in search of crumbs. Tycho broke off a piece of his own sun-bun and slipped it to her when Gerta looked away for a moment. He really wanted one of the deep-fried fruit pies. Gerta glanced back at him, eyes narrowed a little, as if discerning his thoughts. How did she know?

* * *

A week and a half later, Gerta and the two oldest boys walked with Tycho as far as the temple of Maarsrodi. Together they climbed the steps, bowed, and entered the shadows of the god’s dwelling. Once there he turned to his wife. They had said their physical good-byes the night before, savoring each other’s presence and comfort. Now they both struggled to stay calm and to hide their feelings. He saw how her hand trembled on her smaller staff, a copy of his but suited to a woman’s hand and frame. She only carried it during his absence. Her lips trembled as well, and he wanted to kiss her and make them stop shaking. But that was not the way. Instead he leaned his own staff against the temple wall and turned to face her. As the boys and two priests watched, he removed the heavy gilded chain he wore around his neck, the chain of mastery and of his confraternity of Maarsrodi. “With this chain I give you, Gerta Galnaar born Corwindes now Rhonarides, authority of the house and wares-house, all legal rights and duties as your sex allows.” He lowered it over her head, transferring his privileges and duties to her. Until he returned or Ewoud reached the age of authority, she had full control of his business and full rights within the household. A cold shiver raced over his shoulders and the little hairs on his arms stood up as he let go of the chain.

“With this chain I Gerta Galnaar born Corwindes now Rhonarides take authority of the house and wares-house, and all legal rights and duties as my sex allows.” She kept her voice steady and strong. This was the eighteenth time he had left her for the sea and the road. Would it ever grow easier for either of them? He stepped back, as did she. As he watched, she and the boys bowed to the image of Maarsrodi and left the temple. She no longer glanced back to him as she had when they were younger. Tycho waited until he had full control of his feelings before taking up his own merchant’s staff, bowing to the god, and departing. He could not linger—Great Fir sailed with the tide.

The voyage passed quietly, although Tycho shivered a little every time he saw a white-fish breeching, throwing itself out of the water and snapping at low-flying pouch-bills and sea-fats. Tycho had eaten a sea-fat once, and had moved it onto his list of foods he would eat only if absolutely nothing else were available, and “else” included shoe and strap-leather. The pale grey birds looked plump and tasty, especially this time of year when the little grey-darters schooled to spawn and the birds ate until they could barely fly, but the flesh tasted of nothing but grease and the flavor had clung to his mouth for days after he’d eaten the bird. He still wondered if you could light one and use it instead of mage-lights or candles. If the white-fish thought them tasty, they could have every one they caught, Tycho thought. Although he wondered about the white-fish’s sense of taste.

“The weather is too fair,” Deelman Garoostra grumbled. The ship’s captain folded his arms and glared at the soft blue sky and splashing white-fish. “Fish runs look too good. Bad sign that is. Means storms.” He stomped to the ladder and climbed up onto the stern castle, staring at the sky as if he could make it reveal the storms he swore were hiding just out of sight. After a week and a half, Tycho had grown used to the litany. Perhaps it was Deelman’s way of warding off ill-luck. He’d seen stranger behaviors, like that trader from Corwin who always pissed on the left side of the road. If it worked, who was Tycho to say anything?

By the time the spire of the temple of Donwah at Platport appeared over the horizon, Tycho and his fellow travelers decided that Deelman’s worried talk had worked. For the first time that Tycho could recall, there’d not been any truly bad weather, and the one storm had felt more like a token effort than a true blow. The wind had come up, the waves grew larger, and a it had rained for one watch. Then the clouds disappeared, the stars shone down, and all was quiet. On the other hand, the trip had taken three and a half weeks instead of the usual two and a half because of the quiet winds. “At least we’re not on one of those ships that also has oars, like they use in Liambruu,” Gerrt reminded everyone as they watched the land creeping into view. Tycho suspected that they’d have to anchor for the night and not make port until the next morning. “I’m not one for rowing.”

Tycho glanced down at his winter belly and had to agree. “Aye, that’s what sons and apprentices are for.”

“Could be worse,” one of the sailors said as he passed, hauling a length of rope. “Could be towing the ship upstream like they do in the eastern lands.” The merchants all made the horns to ward off the very thought. Tycho had seen that once, when he was a journeyman. That morning he had decided that he’d rather work in the mines than drag the big barges up the river. The ropemen all bore terrible scars on their shoulders and backs from the heavy lines. The oldest could not longer stand straight, legs bent and shoulders hunched even when they slept. Weight-mages could only ease the barge so much. Maarsrodi and Donwah save him from such a fate.

The next morning the Great Fir docked in Platport. The merchants disembarked and visited the temples. Duty done, Tycho hurried back to the dock and watched the crane moving his goods as he waited for his agent to arrive. Motion caught his eye and he glanced to the right. A man so tall as to serve as a mast wove his way through the people doing business, loafing, picking pockets, or trying to move their goods, his head and shoulders sticking up over the rest of the men and women. Liam Scribeson was a blue-bark tree among men, tall and fragile. He leaned on a walking stick. The gods had made him tall rather than strong, with loose joints and weak eyes. Tycho didn’t care if others whispered that Liam’s parents had angered Yoorst so that their son carried a curse. Liam had the best memory for trade and travel that Tycho had ever encountered, and the man knew every caravan master and beast master on land, or so it seemed. “Well met,” Tycho called.

“Well met, Meester Tycho,” Liam called back, his voice that of a man half his size or smaller. He nodded toward the Great Fir. “Yours?”

“In part.”

“The expensive part?” He smiled and extended his hand. They pressed palms.

“Aye.” Tycho followed Liam back through the crowd.

The calls of the hawkers and hagglers almost drowned out the calls of the sailors and port-men. A serving woman glanced at a fish cart and scowled. “Ugh, you call that fresh?”

“Dowah strike me with scales if I lie, they’re fresh caught this morning,” a wrinkled old woman screeched.

A man lounging against a large mound of bales of raw wool snorted, “That explains why you always wear long skirts and scarves, Mari-the-Sulk.”

The woman pushing the fish cart set it down for a moment and shook her large fist at the speaker. “You wouldn’t know fresh if the fish jumped out of the water and slapped you with its tail, Teernan.”

“Hot pies! Hot meat pies!” a time-worn man called. He carried a tray of strange looking pies in front of him.

“How many cats you serving today?” a sailor called, laughing.

The wizened pie-seller glared and croaked, “Gember strike me dead if there’s ought but good meat in these pies!”

“I thought you told me that cat’s good if you brine it first,” a buxom matron yelled back, generating laughter and a few queasy looks. Tycho steered clear of all the peddlers and dodged the beggars. He’d given at the temple and he didn’t trust some of the so-called “injured” men and orphans. Tycho sniffed as he and his agent pushed upstream against the flow of hawkers and businessmen. Mud, muck, a whiff of fish guts, dung, baking bread, and under it all the choking sting of hot pitch from the caulk-works. It smelled like a port. The ground rolled a little under his feet as usual and he was glad for his staff.

Neither man spoke until they ducked into Liam’s office in a small section of one of the city warehouses not far from the end of the port and the start of the river-front. “You are still planning to go as far as Milunis, sir?” Liam began. A slender young man who looked like a shortened version of Liam served hot tea and buns, bowed, and left. “My youngest nephew.”

“Yes.” Both men let three drops of tea fall to the floor in thanks, then drank. The buns contained a thick, sweet fruit paste, the kind some people made even thicker and used as fruit-sticks. “Have you heard of any difficulties yet?”

“No, sir, not yet, but no ships have come in from the south.”

Tycho blinked, set the thick-walled mug down on the table between them and leaned forward. “No ships at all?”

“Not from Liambruu, sir. Chin’mai, Richlant, Aardoui, and a few others, but no one from Liabruu. One of the men from Richlant said that he’d been told all travel from Liambruu was now overland. I don’t know about that, because how will they move the stones?” Liam waved one flipper-like hand. “But I do know no ships or traders from Liambruu have come in.”

“Huh.” Tycho considered the words and what they might mean. It could be nothing, or that the winds were unfavorable. Perhaps the king had died and no one wanted to leave until a new ruler was crowned and his policies known. Or was it something worse, like plague? He made the horns, lest thought become truth. “That surprises me.”

“There are rumors that the king sent word to Milunis and the counties along the mountains that they must pay for the right to trade with Liambruu, in addition to the usual taxes, but those are rumors.” Liam straightened up. “Not a rumor—magic is twice as expensive this year as last.”

Tycho winced inside. “Guild strife?” That was the usual cause, someone stepping into someone else’s rights, that or a material shortage.

“No. Six of the guild mages and several apprentices and journeymen have died this spring, with more sickening and being spell-weakened. It’s not the usual spring illnesses, or an early bout of the summer flux.” Liam blinked and squinted a little as he looked over Tycho’s head at something. “There’s a whisper that the Scavenger is angry with the mages, and a whisper back that the Scavenger usually moves less subtly.” Liam wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “I prefer not to inquire too deeply.”

“Neh. That’s for the Scavenger’s followers and priests.” Tycho needed more of the hot tea after that news. Thanks be that he did not depend on magic purchased locally. “To change deities, to Yoorst. The great-haulers?”

Liam exhaled through his lips, making a rude sound. “Is it true that someone found a way to tame the northern oxen to pull?”

Tycho felt his eyes bulging with surprise at the idea. Had Liam ever seen one of their hides? “No, no truth to the rumor. I bought hides from a merchant from that region and he said he thought Radmar’s Wheel would stop turning before that happened. Even raising them from orphaned young and hand-feeding them won’t tame them enough.”

“Pity. The great-haulers are in condition. I took the liberty of drawing up a contract based on last year. Prices are higher because two of the weight-mages died, so more animals were needed early on before the current yearlings were certified fit.” Liam took a contract page out of the open-topped box at his side and handed it to Tycho. Tycho skimmed it, nodded once, stopped and re-read the price again, and sighed to himself. Of course prices would go up when he had more goods to ship overland. But it was not as bad as it might have been, and it did include a beast mage who would go with the animals as far as Gheelford. “You need five wagons, sir?”

“Yes. Full size. And the usual spares.” That would be twenty animals plus their handler and the mage. Tycho resumed reading the contract, saw that there were no other changes, and held out his hand. Liam handed him an ink-jar and freshly-trimmed quill. Tycho signed and initialed the contract, then took his seal and ink-pot out of their pouch. He stamped the bottom of the contract before returning it to Liam. Liam tipped the page, looking at the shimmer in the seal, then set it aside.

“There will be a caravan going as far as Moahnebrig that leaves in two days, with some continuing to Milunis. Otherwise there’s a caravan in four days as far as Gheelford, and one the day after taking the coast route to Moahnemund. All three are still allowing travelers to join them, provided you have a seal and your own transportation. The first group are using Vlaaterbe law, the third I have not heard from, and the second is still deciding on an ealdorman.” Liam frowned and shook his head. “If I might sir, if you can be ready, I’d recommend the first group. The second, well, the senior trader has his head up his ass so far even the Scavenger-born can’t find it without divine aid.” He rolled his eyes. “They are some of Corwin, some of Guill, and some of Sinmartin, plus independents.”

“Maarsdam be merciful, what a mix,” Tycho groaned. He felt sorry for anyone who got tangled up with that group. The first group would also have access to fresher fodder and probably less trouble with robbers, since they were early in the trading season. “I can be ready if the beasts and handlers are.”

Liam smiled. “They are. The great-haulers started smelling spring a few weeks back. One whole farm got loose and decided to come to town on their own, Yoorst as my witness. It made a bit of a mess.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t here for that little excitement.” Tycho chuckled, imagining the chaos as thirty or so of the large birds wandered through the city.

“I watched it from a second floor window. That was close enough, thank you.” Liam poured them both more tea. “So what news from the north? Have you sold Wiebe to the slowest ship captain yet?”

“No, but I had a few moments. His mother is making sounds about tying him up and leaving him on someone’s doorstep with a note and the apprentice fee.”

“Worse than my cousin’s brat?”

“Not yet, but you remember how I said that the priests of Korvaal had planted trees around the edge of the enclosure that abutted Gember’s district?”

Liam pursed his lips as he thought. “No, I—Oh, yes, I do now.” He started to smile even wider. “The trees are now taller than the wall.”

“Indeed.”

“How many boys were involved in this adventure?”

“Only six, and only one of mine.” Which was one too many. “The watch caught them before the third was over the wall. They were trying to sneak festival sweets from the great ovens.”

Liam shook his head as he laughed. “If the ovens are like those here, they would have been in for a great and unhappy surprise.” He coughed. “Not that I know anything more than I have been told about the baking plaza.”

“Of course not.” What boy didn’t try to raid the ovens at least once in his life? Which was why the priests of Gember and the plaza servants carried large, thick, dough boards, boards which served other purposes in addition to removing loaves from the ovens.

“Youth is wasted on boys,” Liam said after a thoughtful moment.

“It certainly is.” If only he could send Wiebe and Bastian out with the beast-handlers and channel some of that youth into less exciting streams.

7

Road Wary

Tycho studied the other men and they returned his regard. “He has seal and transport, his own beasts, and a beast-mage. Is he known to ought here?” the lead guard asked the other caravan members.

“Aye, by sight and reputation. He’s good, and he can fight.” Jens Hemprat, the ealdorman, nodded to Tycho. “He’s good for the road.”

“You’re in, then,” the senior guard said. He strode out of the group, going instead to confirm details and weapons with the other hired men.

Jens clapped his hands together once. “So. It has been agreed that we follow Vlaatport law while we are on the road. All know and understand?”

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“Je.”

The merchants all signaled their understanding. Having one basic code made life easier, and everyone knew already what was legal and what wasn’t. Vlaatport was not too different from Rhonari in matters of travel law, or so Tycho recalled. The ealdorman spoke for the group if needed, and the group acted together if threatened by bandits or others. Any differences were settled within the group while on the road, and of course local market rules applied at the market cities. Each man was responsible for his hired men and beasts.

“We have sixty wagons, ninety three men, a hundred great-haulers more or less.” That generated some knowing laughter and a few sighs. “We rotate. Draw for positions tonight, then rotate down the lines, travel in double line.” Jens looked at the men. “Who here can fight with staff?” All the hands went up. “And sword?” Two-thirds of the hands stayed up. “Knife?” A few hands rose, most lowered. “Anything else?”

“Flip sling. I hunt with it.” Someone in the back, a man from Corwin Tycho guessed, based on his accent.

“Good to know. We will have weapons practice at night when we are outside of walls.” Tycho grumbled a little at the news but had to agree. Skills unused were useless.

“We leave day after tomorrow, when the gates open. If you and your men and beasts are not here,” Jan pointed down, “you can find a different group.”

* * *

The lead great-hauler tossed her head again, as if her head-harness fit too tightly. Tycho had checked it four times at least. He sent an unkind thought toward the beast and waited as the ealdorman dickered with the ferryman, just around the bend in the road. They’d stopped here, in the woods, so the birds didn’t see the water and all rush to get a drink. According to market rumor, the weather was warm early down south, sending the rivers up before the usual time and raising transport rates. Tycho breathed a sigh of relief that the heat had not begun this far north. He had to get that camphor-moss to Gheelford before the heat started to ruin it. The female shook again, then clawed the rutted, dirt road. Her two followers tossed their heads as well, and Tycho realized that almost all the birds rustled in the harnesses, clawing the ground or scraping their beaks. A few had started swaying and nodding their heads, crest feathers starting to rise. What did they sense?

He let go of the rope long enough to get his staff out of the wagon. His slot for the day put him on the outside of the caravan, not far from where the riverside trees began. Their large leaves cast deep shade that cooled the air but also hid anything that might be sneaking through the woods. And it was open woods, not much undergrowth beyond the edges of the road.

“I don’t like this,” one of the lead guards snapped, but very quietly, and untied the peace straps on his sword before getting his shield down from the side of another wagon. Several of his men followed suit, and Tycho remembered what had happened to Andrade, and where. He’d started wearing a thick, quilted jerkin under his overrobe, just in—

“Grab them!” A half dozen men surged out of the shadows, heading for the wagon behind Tycho’s. Tycho held the great-hauler steady as she mantled, trying to flee. Each to their own and the guards would respond first, that was the rule. Keep the beasts steady in case the attackers tried to stampede them.

“Easy, girl, easy,” he soothed. He eased his weight onto his toes in case he needed to leap out of her kicking range.

“Go!” Another half dozen men swarmed toward him. Tycho dropped the rope, trusting the presence of the other birds to keep his from bolting too far. He shifted his grip on the heavy staff and lunged forward, swinging for the head of the closest brigand. Iron-bound wood met skull with a firm thunk and the rat-like body dropped. A second thief swung his own staff at Tycho and iron rings met wood. Tycho grunted from the shock and kept moving. Iron won, the lighter staff broke, and Tycho changed grips, smashing the fool’s knees, then bringing the staff around and breaking his head. He heard screams and ran as best he could to the back of the wagon, where two men tried to force the bed open. One turned to Tycho and pointed his finger, chanting something. Tycho pushed through whatever it was and smashed the mage’s ribs, interrupting the casting and knocking him off his feet. He heard a bowstring sing not far from his head, and heard different screams behind and beside him. The second thief dropped, an arrow in his back.

Then nothing but bird cries and a few moans. And his own heart, and blood, and panting. He smelled shit and blood, and crushed leaves, and angry bird stench. The thief mage slumped against the wagon’s back wheel groaned and Tycho thumped him on the head just enough to stun. “Anyone hurt?” the caravan healer called.

Tycho called back, “I’m fine, one injured thief here. He’s a charm-mage of some kind.”

“Need a medico back here,” the wagon handler who had been hit first said. “Slash wound and a thief down.” After a pause a second voice added, “Need a beast-healer too.”

Tycho panted, took a long breath, then panted some more. His hands stung and his right shoulder complained about the shock. He leaned on the staff as he walked slowly up to the great-haulers. The lead bird sniffed at him and tossed her head again, trying to keep him from catching her rope. “I know that trick,” Tycho reminded her and grabbed it on the way back down. He rested the butt of the staff on the ground, leaned the head against his shoulder and reached up, scratching the bird just below the ring of blue feathers on her neck. She seemed to shiver, then relaxed and started calming down. Tycho studied the body at her feet. “I think this one’s dead.”

“I hope so,” the senior guard snapped. He prodded the rag-clad body with his boot toe, then crouched down and felt for heartbeats. “If not dead, close to it. He won’t wake again, I can see that.” Brain showed through the bone and blood on the man’s head. “Good work.” The soldier pulled his kidney-knife out of its sheath and sent the man on his final journey.

Tycho nodded, mouth dry. He did not like killing men. The gods had provided animals for men to eat and benefit from, and you killed what you needed as fast and clean as possible. Killing men was different, unless they’d been declared out-law. He wanted to throw up, but this wasn’t the time. He swallowed hard and went back to settling the great-haulers.

“Good response,” the senior guard told everyone that night, after they’d crossed the river and put more distance between themselves and the attack. “One of ours injured, four of them dead, and Lord Smitts will be taking care of the charm-mage.” He nodded to Tycho, who sat on a bench in the caravan-inn courtyard. “How he missed you I don’t know. He launched a stop-move charm and missed.”

“I felt something slowing my arm,” Tycho lied. “It grazed me. I tripped a little, and that must have saved me. That and Maarsrodi’s blessing.” He had not felt anything. With so much saltwater in his blood, charms had little effect, or so he’d been told.

Several of the other men looked thoughtful, and others made god signs. Tycho would leave something in the next temple of Maarsdam that he visited, of course. “However it happened, or didn’t happen, we didn’t lose anyone or his goods. Might not be so fortunate next time.” Jens Hemprat said, folding his arms and looking at them from the other side of the fire. The ealdorman spat into the flames. “We go wary now, and if you have swords, carry them close.” Several of the men made faces, and Tycho agreed. It would be better if they could wear them like nobles, but that had led to more trouble than it was worth on occasion. Keeping them close enough to grab but out of sight abided by the letter of the law, and the priests and the few letters from the Great Northern Emperor’s courts about the problem had all said that men had the right to defend themselves and their property. “And practice every night, staff at the least if you do not have a sword.”

Happily for Tycho, that was the only excitement of that sort until they were within a few days of Gheelford. Two of the great-haulers took ill from green fruit and had to be treated by the beast-mage. The results smelled worse than an overfull latrine on a windless summer day, but the beasts were back to work in another day. Two wagons broke, one of them losing the front axel and of course it was the lead wagon and on a bridge at the time. Tycho helped unload the cargo, carrying it to the far side of the bridge, then managed his own wagons. He earned his supper beer that day, and the next morning he remembered why he did not do things like that. His back ached and almost refused to move, his hams hurt, his shoulders complained mightily, and he wondered if perhaps not bringing Ewoud had been in error. Then he rolled over and wondered if he could get to his feet without help.

That Tycho managed, but the rest of the day he moved slower than usual. The sun on his dark blue and dirt-brown over-tunic eased a little of the soreness, but not much, and he wished that the chest of camphor-moss were already camphor rub. Well, then it would weigh more and be a fire risk. And he’d make less money from the sale. He sighed and stretched carefully, one eye on the closest great-haulers to make certain they did not nip at him while he was bent over. The birds could be right bastards when they so chose.

They bought bread from the hamlet where they overnighted. Too small for an inn, it did have a pen for the great-haulers and water for them, and a bakery that served two other collections of houses and barns. “Your pardon, sirs, but the grain is a little heavy this year,” the apprentice said as he showed them the available loaves, all coarse dark full-bran farmers’ bread. “The miller swears he ground what he was given, and the grain tested good by the seals on the sacks.” He cut the end off a smaller loaf and they could see that it had a tighter texture and was a little more crumby than the area’s usual dark bread. “It tastes the same,” he assured them.

They shrugged and bought a few loaves of the bread, using it to spare their way-bread and other supplies. Once they crossed into the lands drained by the Moahne, bread became expensive and grain far more scarce. The dark loaf tasted a little more sour than Tycho preferred, but heavy bread required heavy leavening. He chewed and let his thoughts drift to the next market, in Gheelford, and to what he hoped to sell there. The camphor-moss was spoken for, but he’d sell a few of the teeth and perhaps some of the knife handles, but not the white-fish hide. Unless someone offered him an extremely good price for it, all of it.

“Think they could make this any thicker?”

Tycho blinked. “Uh?”

The senior teamster held the slice of bread up against the light of the fire. “Could they make this any thicker?” No light appeared around the oval slice.

“Maybe if they tried making flatbread out of it.”

One of the other merchants, a quiet man from Vlaaterbe whose name Tycho could never recall, snorted. “Neh. Then we’d be using it for wagon boxes and wagon sides, or rolling it into a log and using it for an axel.”

“You know,” someone said from the shadows off to Tycho’s left, “They make wheel-shaped bread in the far-northeastern mountains and hang it from ropes. They bake once a year, and it lasts until the next fall. Could be the same recipe.”

Tycho continued to chew as he considered the possibility. Since this was the same bite he’d started with, he decided that the recipe probably was a first cousin if not identical.

The caravan set out the next morning the moment the morning star touched the horizon, before there was enough light for shadows. The ealdorman wanted to reach Gheelford as soon as possible and no one gainsaid him. The beast-mage moved a little slowly, and several people kidded him about having a third slice of bread. “Don’t go near the river or we might not be able to haul you back out.”

“Neh, it’s getting kicked by that blasted great-hauler what’s slowing him down.”

The scrawny mage gave both of the men a rude gesture in passing and continued to his place in the caravan. But by the second hour he’d started leaning over as if with cramps, and two of the teamsters helped him into one of the more lightly-loaded wagons. He didn’t vomit, or seem to have the flux, but he looked pale and shook as if with chills. One of the guards looked pale as well. “Don’t know, chief. Feels like a muscle cut, ‘cept there’s nothing there. Not cold, but shaky.” Two other men seemed to have the same ailment by that evening, but all were able to walk, unlike the mage. He didn’t recover until the next morning, and even then he seemed weaker.

“No spells,” he croaked. He drank a mug of tea. “Too weak. It feels like I’ve been working all day and night with hand and spells both, then carried a great-hauler up to the top of Donwah’s spire and back.”

Tycho was still stiff but otherwise fine, and aside from those four, no one else fell ill before they reached Gheelford. “Could it have been the bread?” Tycho asked one of the guards.

The man scratched his road-beard for a moment, then hawked and spat to the side. “Sorry. I don’t think so, Meester Tycho. All of us should have took sick, ‘specially Bony over there who gets any sickness hiding between here and the western sea.” He jerked his chin toward the guards’ healer, a man who resembled a skeleton with hair. Tycho had seen how much the healer ate, and wondered how he could stay so scrawny. Had he been given to the Scavenger despite his birth-god? Or was he just one who lived fast and died young, consumed by inner fire? “Bony had four pieces of that shit and didn’t blink.”

Tycho grunted acknowledgment. Probably an insect or something in the water, or a miasma from that wet area near where they camped. This close to the river miasmas could make a man sick if he wasn’t careful. Tycho had escaped the lowland flux so far, but he suspected his time would come. The summer sun brought something out of the soil and steamed it into the air along the river. He looked out across the long slope leading down to the distant river and wondered why miasmas were not so bad in the north. Less sun, he decided, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. The breeze had stopped and standing in the sun felt a touch overwarm. A long whistle signaled the end of the rest pause, and Tycho and the guard returned to their places, ready for the push into Gheelford.

The caravan entered the city walls the next morning as soon as the gates opened, joining the flow of local farmers and traders. Tycho led his five wagons to the warehouse the confraternity of Maarsrodi kept here and checked in. The group would stay five days, long enough for the city could take its staple-right. It also gave the great-haulers and their handlers time to rest. Tycho himself wanted to see about a few possible business ideas before continuing on. Once the wagons were safely inside the warehouse, he left his belongings in the trade house and went to the main market, where they others were gathering to get the latest news and see what trade rates were. The tall white houses had blank faces, lacking the decorations common elsewhere, and he wondered why. Perhaps custom reserved the trim and colors for the courtyards instead of the street side. Or did the city goddess demand plain houses? He considered what little he knew about the goddess of the city and gave up the speculation. The houses were plain white with white shutters and that was that. As he walked down the streets, Tycho heard a growing commotion ahead of him, from where the other caravan members stood, and he sped up.

“You have a beast-mage?” A large woman demanded, so tall she almost looked down on Jan Hemprat. “Where is he? I need him to look at my cattle!” She clutched the lapels of Jan’s long vest. “Where is he?”

“I need him first. My great-haulers are ill.”

“My schaef need help with screw-worm and I’m out of dip.”

Jan raised his hands. “Please.” Two more people pressed close, demanding the beast-mage, and he called louder, “Please! In Yoorst’s name, he’s at the guildhall making his arrival known. Go to the guildhall and ask.” At least half a dozen people immediately elbowed their way through the market crowd and charged for the building. Tycho wondered if they would pull the poor man apart, each trying to drag him away to tend to their animals first. A few people looked to Tycho, saw the staff and dark clothes, and returned to their business. He joined the others listening to the market master.

“Platport coin’s no good here, so don’t bother if you brought it, new or old,” he snarled. The two large young men looming behind him nodded and glowered at the traders. Tycho felt his hackles rising in response, but kept a polite and neutral expression on his face. “No credit from Liambruu, and if you are acting for the court of Liambruu, you need to get yourself outside the gates before sundown. And no brocade. Council’s seen enough of that, so take it elsewhere. If you need spells or mage healing, go elsewhere. We’ve barely got enough mages to take care of ourselves.”

“Why’s Platport silver no good?” one of the caravan guards asked.

“You got some?” The bully-boys with the market master both had clubs, and one thumped his against his hand.

“No, but is there a city fight we need to know about, or is it more of those damned bad coins that were appearing last year?”

The market master’s shoulders sagged a little, relaxing, and he sounded less angry. “Bad coins. No fight that I know of, unless you brought one with you.”

The ealdorman shook his head. “No fight, no trouble, we are just passing through to rest and cross the river as we go to Milunis.” He twisted around, squinting, then pointed. “Tycho Rhonarida, you know the most about the bad coins. Have you seen any this year?”

“Just the ones I found last year. Do these still stink?”

“Of course they stink, they’re counterfeit,” one of the bully-boys growled. He really wanted to thump someone, or so Tycho guessed. He didn’t care for that kind of “protector.”

Now the market master looked confused. “What do you mean stink?”

“The bad coins last year gave off a bad smell if you rubbed them, sir,” Tycho explained from the edge of the group. “They also looked false if you used moon-touched water and a glass to study them.” He didn’t mention the vinegar.

“Huh.” The stooped man blinked once or twice. “There are no changes to the laws or the market rules since last year, besides those. Any questions?”

Grumbling and murmurs rose and fell, then Jan replied, “No questions, sir.”

“Good. Tycho Rhonarida, come with me, please. I want you to look at these things.”

Jan mouthed “Go along” and Tycho gave him a nod of agreement. Pissing off the market master would help no one, but pleasing the market master could be very rewarding. He followed the two bully-boys and the older man. The market master favored his left leg, and he did not stand exactly straight, as if his back curved or his shoulders had been broken at some point. The shade of the arcade in front of the market office felt good. Tycho wanted a drink, but business came first.

“Here,” the man said as soon as they entered the office. “No mage-lights. Use the window.” He reached into a box built into the wall shelves and pulled out a rough cloth sack. He dropped it onto the top of a scarred table. It made a dull thump as it landed. Tycho rested his staff against the wall by the door and untied the strings around the neck of the sack. It held tarnished coins, and he picked one up and rubbed it. He caught a very faint whiff of stink, not as strong as last time. He took the coin closer to the window, where the light was better, and studied it. The head looked almost identical to that of Platport, except for the bright die-marks. The reverse seemed a slight bit off center. “Well?”

“It has the same stink but not as strong, sir. And the mint mark is wrong for a new coin, and too clear for an old one.” Tycho put it back in the bag. “What did your mint mage say?”

“Before he died, he said he thought they were false, but they didn’t show false to magic.”

Tycho hissed, “Blast it to all the gods’ hells and beyond.” He made the horns, then said more loudly, “We, that is the other traders, were hoping the mint-mages could find something over the winter and trace it back to whoever was spreading the garbage.” Tycho wanted to find the person and strangle them, but he knew he would have to get in line.

The market master’s eyes looked half-open as he studied Tycho. He pointed a knobby finger at Tycho’s chest. “How do you know so much about the bad coins, hmm?” The bully-boy with the club stepped in front of the door. Tycho’s heart thudded and he went on alert.

“Because I was at the late trafeld at Hillnbend and was warned there, saw the first bad coins. Trafeldmeester told us to spread the word and gave me a few bad coins to use to show others. I passed the word to Guill.” Tycho kept calm. Showing fear or anger would only make the men even more suspicious. “And I collect odd coins, and old ones, the ones from the Great Cold.”

“Huh.” The market mater folded his arms, eyes stull half-closed. “I don’t trust you, Rhonarida. What you trade in?”

“Hides, plus I have some white-fish teeth and bone knife-handles from north of Grilkant, and a chest of camphor-moss for Master Brill at the sign of the half-fish that he ordered from Andrade Rhonarida.”

The bent man unfolded his arms. “For Andrade, eh. That passes the trade. Him I know, and he doesn’t trade with anyone crooked.”

“No, he didn’t.” Tycho had to be honest. “He and his two oldest sons were killed by thieves just north of Harnancourd late last autumn.”

“Shit. What happened?”

Tycho spread his hands. “He and his wagons were on the first ferry across, then the men behind decided to dicker. Andrade moved up, out of the way of the ferry and around a bend in the road. The next group found the bodies there, and located the wagons on the other side of the woods, all the great-haulers with their legs sliced.” That news had rankled, and he wondered who was so vile as to cripple innocent animals. Great-haulers could not tell a man anything.

“Bastards! Who does that to healthy beasts?” The market master shook his head. “Damn. That’s bad to hear. Who took the business?”

“Mistress Andrade was sworn in with all rights and duties until their surviving son reaches the age of maturity.”

All three locals hissed. The market master jerked his head down in a nod. “So be it. I’ll pass the word, and you say Platport’s changed their mint-marks?”

“Aye. Instead of the crescent moon they use a cross with equal arms and dots on the end of each arm. Started this year.” Tycho paused, then asked, “And you heard about the mage illnesses from Platport?”

“Up there as well?”

“Aye, price of magic was double what it was last year when I arrived.”

The market master shivered. “Ugh. Thank you for the news, and for the word on the coin. I don’t think the council will change its mind on Platport coin, though.” He frowned and blinked a few times. “Any idea what’s causing the sickness?”

“Some say bad beer, some say miasmas although its early for that in Platport, some say the Scavenger’s angry.” Tycho shrugged.

The market master made a circle with his right hand for Radmar’s Wheel. “Gods’ ways are their own. No one here knows either, or why its mostly mages and mage-kin. We’re sending word to the Great Northern Emperor for help.”

Tycho nodded. If anyone had the magic to stop this, it would be the Great Northern Emperor, if he even still existed.

“You can go.”

Tycho inclined in a sort of semi-bow. “Thank you. Maarsdam look well on your house and your proud city.”

“And on yours.”

Tycho did not relax until he passed around a corner and out of sight of the market office. Water flowed out of a tan stone public fountain and Tycho leaned on the gritty stones, intercepting the cold water from one of the spigots and drinking his fill. The metallic spring water made his teeth ache. He filled a waterskin and walked back to the warehouse to see about getting the camphor-moss to its destination.

When he returned from that errand, glad to be rid of the fragile stuff, he saw Jens and a heavyset man with big arms and the white cap of a baker arguing in front of the warehouse, an open sack of grain in front of them and a sealed bag beside it.

“If that’s what you northerners call grain, you deserve to be bankrupt,” the baker snarled.

Through gritted teeth, Jens replied, “And I said that’s not northern grain!”

Tycho walked up to the pair and leaned on his staff. They stopped fighting and glowered at him. The baker pointed to the open sack. “If you know this man, stay away from his goods. They are rotten.”

Tycho looked at the sealed grain sack. The seal was red with grey edges, and the design looked as if he ought to know it. He crouched down and peered more closely. The insignia seemed vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen it before but wasn’t from Rhonari. “That looks…Huh.” He rubbed the seal’s edge then sniffed his fingers. “Ugh. Same as the bad coin, and the sacks from the wreck.”

“What?” Jens demanded.

“What wreck?” the baker blinked and seemed to go on alert, head thrust forward, eyes narrowing.

Tycho stood, leaning on his staff again. “My hand to Maarsdam. I was on the Leaping Fish last fall and Marshman’s Pride was wrecked just ahead of us in a storm. We rescued one sailor and some of the cargo, including grain sacks. The sacks had that same seal, and the seals stank like the false coins from Platport and other cities and Chin’mai.”

The baker demanded, “What kind of grain?”

Tycho sighed. “Don’t know, because the saltwater bath ruined any protections on the sacks and the grain-merchants declared the grain to be ruined. It had little grey flecks in it and they smelled it and gave it back to Donwah and the Scavenger.” He tried to remember. There was something else, too about the seal, what had it been? “Oh, yes. The saltwater took the magic off the seals themselves.”

The baker stiffened, eyes flashing, face turning redder. He crouched down, twisting the seal on its strings. “Shit! Look.”

“Damn, you’re right. That’s—” Jens rubbed the edge of the seal and sniffed his fingers. “Fagh.” The baker did likewise and made a face. Jens straightened up and pointed to the sacks. “Was this bad salvage?”

“We need witnesses,” the baker announced. He waved to a passing apprentice. “You, boy, call the market master, and Master Rijks and Master Taanmere.”

Tycho followed Jens as his witness. The whole group lugged the offending sack, the sealed sack, and two more bags with identical seals on them into the market, to the white stone pillar of justice. The market master re-appeared, this time without his bully-boys. The baker waved to him. “Here! Someone’s been shipping bad grain under a false seal.”

“What?”

The baker explained what had happened, and the market master and two witnesses examined the seal and the open sack.

“There’s something else in the grain,” Jens stated. “Here.” He stuck his hand in, pulled out some of the dark tan wheat, and sorted through the grains. “This grey isn’t wheat. Not rye, dinkel, nor anything else I know.” The others all dug out some to see for themselves.

Tycho peered at the grain in his palm. Wheat he recognized, but the grey stuff looked smaller, like skinny seeds instead of wheat. He sniffed, carefully. It wasn’t musty exactly, but it had a nasty little something that irritated the back of his throat, or that smelled like it should irritate his throat like smoke did.

A local man with weaver’s feathers on his skullcap squinted at the grain. “No, that’s not grain, at least not here it isn’t. Those are seeds, like the ones for silk-stem. But no one eats silk-stem, and it doesn’t grow much farther north than the Moahne River. Leastwise no one I know of eats silk-stem,” he said, looking to the market master and then to the baker.

“Not something I’ve ever heard of using, Master Rijks” the baker agreed.

The other craft master brushed the grain mix off his hands and back into the sack. “Open this other one,” he pointed to one of the sealed bags with his toe. Tycho drew his knife, broke the seal then cut the pack-thread and opened the sack. “Whunf!” Everyone backed away from the stench. The grain looked as if it were alive, it had so many bugs in it.

“Fire,” Jens said. “We need to burn this here, on the stones.”

“Yes!” The baker hurried off as the others moved farther away. The casual onlookers backed up and two young men grabbed the leather water buckets from one of the hot-food stalls and stood ready in case any sparks got away. The baker came back with some wood and a few thin sticks and fluff. Master Rijks used flint and steel to light the fluff, then the sticks, and the market master set the bags alight. The crowd that had gathered to watch moved farther back as stinking grey smoke rose and the bugs popped and snapped in the flames.

“Do you have any more sacks with that seal?” the market master asked the baker.

“One, and I’ll send it to the Scavenger. I bought it late in the winter from a man who said it was ship salvage from up-river, just after that last big storm before the river closed for sailing.”

Tycho watched the flames devouring the false grain. Bad coins, bad seals, bad grain, what was going on? And none of it things that mages could see or that had magic still on it.

Watch, Maarsrodi’s priest had said. Watch, ask, and be ready. Tycho felt the hairs on his neck standing up. Be ready for what?

He did not like this. Not one bit. And he wasn’t the only one, if the faces of the men and women around him told true.

8

Across the River

“I don’t have a good way to get letters of credit to Milunis,” the Five Cities’ factor said. He grimaced, although Tycho wasn’t certain if it was because of the complication or because a tanner’s waste wagon had leaked as it passed through town to the river and the nose-stinging stench was still hanging around the building. “Have you traded recently that far south, sir?”

“No. Guill was as far as I went last year. Usually leave the southern cities to Liambruu and Sinmartin and Bushmakk.”

“It’s, well, see.” The round-faced man hunted among rolled maps and documents in the cubbies behind his long counter until he found a map. “We’re here,” he pointed with one thick, dark finger, then put river rocks on the corners of the map to hold it. “River’s here, and the main roads and routes are the top five strips. Bottom two are ship routes on the river.” Tycho peered, looking for names, and found Milunis on the fourth strip down. “Red dashes are county, duchy, city, and Liambruu borders.”

“I see.”

“Because of the problem with the crown’s credit being no good, they started leaning on their merchants. After we,” the factor pointed at the floor, “and other people got stung last year, no one will take anything from Liambruu except goods for barter and silver coin. Good silver coin, and you can be certain everyone is weighing every single piece of metal with the crown mark on it.”

Tycho snorted. Debasing coinage was a good way to tell the world that you’d ruined your accounts, once everyone found out. “They still mint good silver?”

“Aye. So far,” the factor’s mouth twisted a little to one side and he snorted in turn. “But that meant that a lot more businesses are wary of letters of credit, even from the Five Free Cities, unless you personally know and are known to the receiving party, or have an agent in the city already.”

Damn. Tycho had neither, just his contacts through the confraternity. “What about temple letters?”

“Same problem. And without mage-notarization, someone could claim the letter was forged and there would be no way to prove it was good.” The notary took a deep breath. “There is one option, other than hiring a wagon to carry the coin you’ll need. Maartin Krewatzi Corwinda is known and has credit in Milunis as well as here. I can write you a letter of credit through his agent. Fair warning, he’ll want three percent. He’s done this before, and we’ve done it for him.”

Ugh. Tycho felt his lip trying to curl and wanted to spit. Doing business with and through Maartin Corwinda? He’d rather kiss a great-hauler’s tail feathers. He’d rather eat a sea-fat. If Maartin said the sun rose in the east, Tycho would look west for the dawn. The last leather he’d accepted that had Maartin’s seal had rotted before it came off the wagon, almost. But he couldn’t haul three hundredweight of silver along with his goods, assuming he could find that much in Gheelford at a reasonable interest rate. He wondered if this were some sort of test by Maarsrodi. Or perhaps he had irritated the god in some way? Tycho considered his options, swallowed his pride, and took a long, calming breath.

“Very well. Three percent?”

Relief colored the factor’s voice. “Three percent, due within a week of arrival, no excuses, or he’ll lien your goods.” As he pulled clean parchment, the proper inks, and a seal out of their cubbies in the counter, he added, “The rate for silver here is one vlaat to three-quarters Gheelmark.”

He’d heard worse, but not much worse. “Be nice if the gods would direct someone to a new silver mine. Preferably one of my sons.”

The factor chuckled as he started writing out the necessary letters. “Or one of mine. Tin would also be welcome. My wife wouldn’t turn down jade, either.” Tycho left him to his work and walked to the letter wall to see if he had anything. A bank of boxes was built into the wall. Each vertical row had the name of a city, and a wooden tag on the individual boxes told which confraternity owned the box. Tycho found his and opened the door. A stack of letters and a parcel filled the box, and he glanced through them. He had four, two from home, one from Liam, and one from Andrade’s agent in Moahnebrig. Tycho put the others back, closed the little door, and took the letters to the window to read. He started with the one from Moahnebrig, scratching his head a little as he tried to decipher the man’s script. Was paper so expensive that the man had used what had to be a hummingbird quill to save space?

Tycho made it through the first paragraph, quit, and re-folded it and put it away to finish later. Liam’s letter was far easier, although the news wasn’t good, or at least, not as good as Tycho would have liked. Platport was calling in all its old coin, to be melted and re-cast with the new mark. Tycho didn’t have much in his bag, and Liam said they were going by weight on the exchange. But once word spread, Platport old coin would be completely useless for anything but melting to recast. Worse, rumor had it that more Free City coins than just those from Marshburt had been found to be false. But no more mages had died.

Tycho folded that letter and put it and the others in the leather purse on his belt. He’d had the purse made of hard leather with additional shrunk rawhide inside the bottom, so anyone who tried to slice it from below would be gravely disappointed. Instead of cords or straps, metal chains held it to his belt, opposite his kidney knife. “Meester Tycho? All done. All I need is your seal.”

Tycho pressed his seal into the blue-green wax, counted to three, and lifted it away. The factor lifted the page, tilted it, noted the shimmer and nodded. Then he presented an ink-pad and Tycho stamped the top of the introduction letter. Tycho signed the credit letter, the factor counter signed it and added his own small official seal, then bundled both into a larger sheet of glazed paper, folded it carefully, and sealed it in red with the local seal.

“How much for the teeth?” a prosperous looking man asked later that afternoon. His fine white shirt and dark red-brown brocaded long-vest, and patterned leather belt suggested that he was a master craftsman. Tycho couldn’t see a badge on his flat-brimmed hat.

“Four vlaat each, the two plain ones are three and a half.”

A plainly-dressed woman who had been peering around the man stared, eyes almost bulging, then shook her head, frowned, and continued on her way. What did she expect? White-fish teeth were pure luxury, and hard to obtain.

“Hmm.” The man stroked his neatly trimmed and braided beard, then looked up and to the side, lips moving as if he were working numbers in his head. “That makes two, a half, and a half quarter mark for the plain ones,” he said under his breath. His lips moved a little more, then he looked Tycho in the eye and jerked his chin down in a nod of sorts. “I’ll take the plain ones.” He opened a leather pouch and brought out five marks, putting the coin down on the trestle table, then poked around with a scar-blotched finger until he found a quarter coin. Tycho weighed the quarter coin and the man frowned. “Don’t trust me?”

“I trust you, sir. I don’t trust any part coin, not after last season. I was in Guill when they caught the smith shaving part coins. Every coin he cut for someone, he shaved.” Tycho shook his head as he handed the man the two teeth, each as big as his own hand, wrist to finger tip. “Some were Gheelford marks, some were Rhonari vlaat, even some Guill vlatten.”

The man clutched the teeth against his chest, his lips parting in a snarl, eyes narrowed. “I hope they whipped him around the city.”

“They did, after they stripped him of his guild rank and confiscated all his goods and metals. Then Lord Valrep had him put in the stocks for a week, there in the market by the justice pillar.”

“Good. Coin clippers give the rest of us a bad name.” He must be a smith, Tycho guessed.

Tycho set the scale down. “That they do. Like bakers who short-weight, or cloth men who over-stretch their fabric.”

“Aye.” The smith departed, satisfied, and Tycho swept the coins into his pouch and rearranged the display to cover the gaps. Now, if he could just sell the carved teeth. He wondered what the smith planned to do with the teeth. Set them in something? Turn them into cups?

A man in farmer’s garb bustled up. “How much for that hide there, the rough one in the back?”

“This one, sir?”

“No, ‘tother one.” Tycho moved his hand onto a darker skin. “Yes, that one.”

Tycho tugged it out of the stack and set it beside the teeth and other wares. “It’s northern schaef, one vlaat and a quarter.”

“Huh. And that first one?”

“Two vlaat.”

“Two vlaat? What did it do, graze on pure gold? One and a quarter,” the farmer held his hand at an angle, signaling a bargain.

Tycho responded in kind and the dicker was on.

* * *

“Why’d you sell to the farmer?” one of the fine-goods merchants asked a few days after they’d crossed the Gheel.

“His money’s as good as anyone’s.” Tycho didn’t like the taste of the food that night, but it was food and he hadn’t cooked it, so he stayed quiet.

The fine-goods man opened his mouth to reply when they heard Jens exclaim, “No mages?” Everyone stopped and turned to see what the commotion was.

Jens and a local farmer had been bargaining over some fodder for the great-haulers. “No mages right now. The fire-away mage died back last full moon, and our beast-mage lost his power, still not go it all back yet. Heard that the light-mage over in Lordswood is still working, but he’s got enough work to keep him eating meat twice a day every day.” The lean man scratched under his floppy straw hat, then settled it on his head again. “T’others died, or still so weak they can’t do proper work. Bad stuff it is, heard we’re not t’only ones?”

“Aye. Happened in Platport, Gheelford, other places north of the river,” Jens said. “No one knows why.”

“Huh. Well, that doesn’t change my price.” Tycho returned to chewing. What was happening to the mages? No mage-lights meant more candles, for one. Wax would go up in price, and he decided to encourage Gerta to buy more and ship it to Gheelford. He’d send a letter to the factor there to warn him of the shipment and to see if the chandlers wanted to buy it at a discount for early cash payment. Lamp-oil too, but he didn’t trade in that yet. The cost of shipping just didn’t cover the price, or it hadn’t. Without light-mages, it might go up enough to make it worth his while, perhaps.

As the merchants, guards, and their beasts walked farther and farther south, Tycho began wondering why the gods had not seen fit to make at least one river run south to north. All the useful rivers for trade ran from east to west, from the distant eastern mountains to the western sea. A few smaller rivers fed into the great rivers like the Gheel and Moahne, but they were not long enough to be useful for traders needing to ship goods. For that matter, why had the gods made the Moahne and Gheel so difficult to ship on? Because they had, he told himself yet again. And there might be a reason he didn’t want to know. They were on the dry stretch between streams, and trees had given way to grass and perfume shrub. Instead of brown, the dirt was reddish with white lumps in it. The world was as it was.

Yergin, one of the grain merchants, wiped his face with a scrap of something formerly white and waved at the land around them, carefully, lest he startle the great-haulers. “I’ve heard it said that this area was true desert during the Great Cold, like far southern Liambruu is today. No grass, just scrub and sand and prickle-ball plants, that kind of place. But cold, not hot.”

“Huh.” Tycho studied the grey-green leaves on a twisted bush. The plant’s bark looked silvery and smooth, and nothing grew under it. The clumps of pale green grass started an arm’s length from the outermost branches. “Wouldn’t take much to do that, looking at that grass.”

“There’s a kind of grain they grow here for their own use, like barley but better for dry, bitter soil. The yield’s not as good as wheat or true barley, but it can survive without rain for longer.” Yergin stared straight ahead. “Not where I’d want to try to farm if I had a choice.”

“Neh, not if I had a choice,” Tycho agreed. Thinking about grain reminded him. “Do you know if anyone eats silk-stem seed unless its famine?”

Yergin’s head jerked back, as if Tycho had just insulted him, then he relaxed and laughed. “Only in famine, although it is said that they use it as flavoring in Liambruu. Have you ever tasted it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You might, once we get to Milunis, or might not, since Liambruu isn’t trading much. I have. It is bitter. They grind it up and add it to sauces to make the flavor deeper, or so the spice-trader I ate with averred. Don’t know about deeper, but I wouldn’t touch it to sell.”

Bitter. The seeds in the wheat with the false seal had smelled sour, not bitter. Did that mean they weren’t silk-stem, or did it ferment to sour from bitter? “Thanks. Jens said he thought the seed mixed into the bad grain might have been silk-stem, but none of the witnesses wanted to taste it and find out.”

“Smart men. I don’t eat what I can’t identify.”

“No meat pies for you then, sir?” one of the guards asked from the outside of the column.

Everyone in earshot laughed, and Yergin grinned, showing his missing teeth. “Neh. If I’m going to eat rat, I want to know that I’m eating rat. And it had better be cooked all the way through, not like that garbage the inn-keeper tried to serve at Harnancourd a few years back. My hand to Maarsdam, I heard the roast bleat as the beer-wench brought it into the room.”

Talk shifted to food stories and Tycho chuckled, winced, and considered the seeds in the wheat. False coin and false grain. Two things that everyone in the cities needed to live. And not just in the cities, but fewer farmers bought grain than did towns’ folk. And why couldn’t the mages spot the bad coins? Was there counter-magic on them of some kind? Now he wished he’d tried the most recent bad coins in the vinegar to see what they did. They were much closer to good silver than before. Between the counterfeiter and the fool on the throne in Liambruu, he was ready to beat someone with his staff if he could determine who had caused all this trouble. Having to depend on Maartin Corwinda! Ugh.

Tycho turned the coins and the grain over and over in his mind. He needed to ask someone about the seeds, but didn’t want to inquire in the caravan. Plus they were all northerners, and might not know local southern plants. He considered the matter for the rest of that day and the next, at least when he wasn’t trying to keep the great-haulers from acting up. The open country woke something in their tiny brains, or inspired mischief, and every little while one of the birds would try to wander off, with or without the wagon. Supposedly a smaller, wild great-hauler still lived south of the Moahne River. Tycho did not want his beasts getting ideas. If one ran away, he’d have to pay extra, and he’d be down to two spares.

The group reached Moahnebrig in good time, for loose definitions of good. Storms kept them in camp two days in a row. The great-haulers refused to budge when hail was falling, tucking their heads under their heavy wings and making large feather-covered lumps on the ground. For that matter Tycho had not been eager to travel in lightning storms. Then the mud that followed the rain had slowed them for another day and a half, of course, even though they were early in the season and the ruts were not that bad yet.

The local people kept the roads better in this area than elsewhere, or maybe the ground just drained faster. Either way, several wagons still bogged in the sticky red mud and had to be pushed, pulled, and heaved back into motion. It would be midsummer when they reached Milunis, or so it felt some days. Damn, but he wanted to travel by water. So much faster and cheaper than overland. Of course, Tycho admitted, a traveler couldn’t drown on the road without trying hard. Yes, but Donwah still claimed her own on the rivers. Even so, for trade, water was better. “How would you connect the rivers,” Tycho mused aloud one evening.

“Huh?” Jens asked, looking up from his plate.

“How would you connect the rivers?” Tycho repeated. “Could you dig a big ditch, like the drainage ditches they use to keep the fields dry south of Maans’hill, but with water in it for moving flat-boats?”

Jens chewed, then shrugged. “Ask the Great Northern Emperor’s mages. I’ve heard he has earth-moving mages in his court, but I’ve also heard that he rides in a wagon pulled by flying pards.”

Tycho wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to be under a pard, flying or otherwise.” The big hunting beasts left scat so foul even the tanners couldn’t make use of it.

“But that’s what it would take, or a lot of digging and work. And how would you keep the water in the ditch?” Jens ate some more. “I’ve heard a few people talk about trying to link the rivers, but no one wants to work out how to do it.”

That was the conclusion Tycho was reaching. Just trying to imagine the cost of labor alone made his purse scream for mercy.

They had to stop the next day near a modest village in order to repair some of the wheels and to let the great-haulers rest after an especially difficult stretch of sandy road. Tycho took advantage of the delay and after confirming that no one was interested in buying hides, he sought out the temple of Gember and Korvaal. They shared a house in this region. Tycho left a small offering and looked for a priestess or priest.

“May I help you?” an old woman asked. She wore the light brown with wheat patterns of Gember.

He bowed to her. “Yes, reverend sister. I have a question about seeds and grain.” He spoke slowly. His northern accent might confuse her and he didn’t want to cause accidental offense.

“And what is your question?”

“Are there seeds that look like silk-stem but are not? I ask because someone has added bad grain to wheat and used false seals on the bags. It smells sour, not bitter, small and grey, thinner than wheat,” he added.

The hunched old woman leaned on a staff with a small sickle made of wood capping the end. “And this was in wheat sacks, you say?”

“Yes, reverend sister. In Gheelford, possibly a little north too.”

She sniffed and blinked. One eye was age-white, but the other seemed to bore into him. “South of the river. You will see tall plants in fallow fields, tall with large single flowers on top. The look like wool, the flowers do, grey and fuzzy, but those are the seeds. We harvest the seeds, comb them out of the wool, and use it for padding and stuffing. It can be spun, but not easily, and works better if it is spun into true wool or even ramie. The seeds smell sour, and we do not use them. And mages must leave the room when the women pull the fluff from the seeds, because the seeds give them a headache, terrible headache, and they can’t work for the rest of the day. Seeds are oily and burn grey. No one eats them.”

“No one eats them?” he repeated, making certain he had heard.

“Correct. Are you deaf?”

He blushed and ducked his head. She sounded exactly like the priestess who had taught basic reading and writing at the temple school. “No, reverend sister, just far from home and wanting to be certain that I did not mishear.”

“Humpf. And you say these were in grain that smelled sour?”

“Yes, reverend sister. It was burned, the opened sacks. The one still sealed was returned to the Scavenger because it had been sold as salvage after a shipwreck.” Tycho did not like this one little bit.

“Good. If you come across more of this, tell one of us,” she pointed to herself. “We need to know who is tarnishing the goddess’s good name for gain or for evil.”

He shivered. The look on her face boded ill for the guilty party or parties. He bowed low. “If I encounter more, I will do that, and I will tell my companions to do likewise.”

“Good. Go with Gember’s blessing.”

“Thank you, reverend sister.”

The stuff gave mages headaches if they were in the room with the dust and fluff. What happened if they ate it? And why mages? Did it also bother mage-blood, those who were related to mages but who lacked the true gift?

An idea hit Tycho so hard that he stumbled, catching himself with his staff. He looked around for witnesses, and made a show of glaring at the ground and knocking a rock out of the way with the butt of his staff. What if it had been the bread that made the beast-mage so sick, and the other men? And if they ate even more of it, without other things in their stomach, could it kill a mage? Or did the sickness weaken them like hard hunger could weaken a man, leaving him open to other ills?

He rolled the ideas over and over in his mind as he returned to where the caravan had settled for the day, the way sea-waves rolled shells on the shore. Tycho kept his thoughts to himself, although he did inform Yergin and Jens and the others that the priestess had asked them to report contaminated grain to the temple as well as to the market master. “We tell the priests of Maarsrodi if someone is abusing trade rights and claiming protection from the confraternity, so I thought I’d ask if I should do the same with Gember’s crop.”

“Who bothers the gods with things like that?” A beast handler rolled his eyes before returning to mending the harness strap. “They have other things to do.”

Tycho leaned back in case Yergin or one of the guards tried to throw a rock or clod at the man, making the horns as he did. Yergin scowled and pointed at the beast handler with the tip of his eating knife. “Because fouling the goddess’s gift and passing it as good is an insult to the goddess, and if she and her priests get mad, we,” he pointed the knife at himself, “go hungry. It’s not bothering the goddess. It’s telling her hands and eyes here,” the knife pointed to the ground, “that someone is abusing her name. I don’t care to be hit by her anger by accident or because she thinks I’ve ignored insults to her good name.”

“Huh.” The man didn’t say anything more as he re-stitched the harness strap.

“So, when do we see real trees again?” Tycho tried to remember the speaker’s name, but it kept slipping out of reach. “I’d like shade I can use.”

“One day from Moahnebrig, the river forest starts.” Jens nodded as Hardrad, their guide and chief wagon master, pointed down the road with his head. “Stay away from the trees with the big flat leaves that look sticky. The sap’s poison, makes your skin blister, and the fruit will kill you. Some people gather it and use it for medicine and dyes, but they have magic and special clothes and metal hats and sap-shields. Leaves are like so, pale green,” he held two hands together, palms down. “No big animals last I heard, but if you see something lumpy in the water get away from the bank or get yourself out of the water fast. But don’t splash. Splashing attracts attention you don’t want.”

“Is that where the lumpy strips of leather used for sturdy trim come from?” Tycho knew they were not embossed, but he’d not seen any pictures of the animal.

“Yes. They are called potodents.” Hardrad stood up from his crouch and walked back down the line of wagons, probably to check on the great-haulers. He rolled from side to side like a ship when he walked, and was one of the few to ride in a wagon most of the time instead of walking. Tycho preferred to ride, but that meant less weight of goods in the wagon. Goods brought money and shoes were comparatively cheap. His winter belly had disappeared already, alas. He missed home food, although he did not miss having Gerta constantly asking him what he’d eaten outside the house.

The next afternoon Tycho and the others saw what Hardrad had meant about the forest. A mass of green appeared as they trudged over the top of a low hill. “Some say at the end of the Great Cold, the river ran so high it left a bank here.” Hardrad pointed with the long whip he used to encourage the great-haulers. “River’s on the other side of the forest, another day and a half, barring trouble.” Tycho thought it looked like one of the illustrations in the temple books, where a forest appeared as a straight green line. The lead great-hauler tossed her head and he peered left and right, trying to see if anything might be hiding in the scattered, chest-high brush. The grass grew better here, and he wondered if something were sneaking toward them through the knee-high grasses and plants. He didn’t see anything, but he stayed watchful, just in case.

As they walked down the slope, motion drew his attention to the sky. A dark shape circled, and another, and another, swirling over a point on the ground not far from the road, if it didn’t bend. “Wonderful. What died?” the beast-handler walking beside one of Yergin’s wagons groaned.

“Don’t know but it probably fell into the only water in the district,” the guard on the outside of the second wagon row said. Groans and rude sounds met his declaration. They’d saved their dead coals in case they had to filter death-fouled or slime-fouled water, but Tycho really did not want to do that if they didn’t have to. His father had once made him help clean out a farm cistern that a schaef had fallen into and drowned. The beast had been there some days before anyone checked the water.

Tycho had wanted to take some of the stones out of the side of the cistern and just let the water out, but no, oh no. How standing waist deep in water could be hot work Tycho still didn’t quite recall, but he remembered the growing stink as the water level dropped with each bucket he handed up to one of the hired men. Green slime had grown on the sides of the stone-lined cistern, and the stench as it dried made his eyes water just thinking about it. Tycho had decided right then and there that he’d do as well as he could in school and as an apprentice just so he never had to work like that ever again. Maybe he should hire Wiebe out to a farmer and see if that cured his excessive high spirits? Tycho filed the thought away and moved his scarf up higher over his nose to keep out more of the dust.

Whatever had died, it was not on the road, but downwind of the well-trodden dirt way. The great-haulers mantled and hissed at the eaters of the dead as they circled and squabbled over the dead meat. Whatever it was had been large, or there were just that many of the black, bald-headed birds in the area. Tycho did not leave the road to find out what it might have been.

They camped in a caravan plaza just north of the forest that night. Hardrad didn’t want to push through to the first caravan plaza inside the woods. “Won’t be there before night, and I do not want to be getting sorted out in the dark.”

Tycho and some of the others took advantage of the early halt to wash their smallclothes in the troughs provided. “I’m sorry, sirs, but my washer women are just now recovering from an illness,” the manager said, wringing thick, stubby hands. “All but one got the flux and cramps that laid them out for six days and more, couldn’t eat, shook as if with fever chills. The one not sick delivered her baby yesterday and the midwife won’t let her work for at least ten days.” He wrung his hands a little more, adding, “and no fresh mage-lights, sir. So please be careful and rush-lights or lamps will be a quarter vlaat per night.”

He really needed to get wax shipped south, Tycho thought once more. He was glad he’d sent orders to Gerta to that effect. Then he grunted as he wring the water out of his under breeches and two shirts. No wonder washer women looked as if they could carry fish barrels without blinking. Then he remembered the beast-mage on the road into Gheelford, and the guards. The sickness sounded like what had afflicted the beast-mage. Were the women mage-blooded? Tycho started to ask, but the manager wandered off, moaning a little to himself about the cost of spells and the bad harvest and no trade from the south. The guard working beside Tycho rolled his eyes. “And if it rains he’ll worry about river-sickness and flooding, and if the mud will slow the caravans and hurt his custom and make the beer weak,” the guard moaned, mimicking the round man’s speech. The others chuckled.

That evening Tycho faced off against one of the guards, practicing blade-work. They left their swords sheathed, focusing more on strikes and counters than courtly grace and style. The effort made sleep come easily.

A horrible noise woke Tycho that night, just as the Southern Ship crossed the arc of the sky. “What’s that?” someone called in the darkness.

“Mgrrwaaa! Snrraaaa!” Then screeches and great-hauler shrieks.

“Torches and blades, you and you,” the lead guard’s voice cut through the commotion.

Hardrad shouted, “Aim behind the eyes and for Yoorst’s sake don’t hit the bird!”

Oh shit. Tycho pulled on a tunic and jammed his feet into his boots, then rushed toward the red torchlight and commotion. He grabbed one of the wall torches as he went, lighting it in the smudge-fire that burned in the plaza’s central yard. Great-hauler screams and men’s shouts ebbed and fell, and something roared, then screamed like dry wooden axels turning against wooden braces. He saw men moving, and birds racing around and around the inside of the stone pen.

“Scavenger take it,” Hardrad snarled, rolling and limping up beside Tycho. He raised his voice, “How many birds hurt?”

“Can’t tell yet, sir. Looks like one dead, two crippled but I’m not getting closer until I’m sure this thing’s dead.” The lead guard sounded angry. “Someone left wood piled against the outside of the pen and the bastard climbed up that and into the corral.”

Two of the beast-handlers pushed past Tycho and climbed over the gate into the pen. They had buckets of feed, and he guessed that they’d be scattering it away from the body, luring the birds and calming them down. “You with the torches, yes you and you,” the guard called. “Bring them here. The rest of you go back to sleep for now unless you’re ready to help move that damned wood away from the pen.”

By Yoorst of the Fields and the Scavenger, the dead, arrow-struck beast was disgusting! It shimmered in the torchlight, as if its dark hide were wet, or it had a slime skin. The smell made Tycho’s stomach churn, and he wasn’t the only one. It was rotting meat and a tanner’s waste and harbor muck all rolled together. He made the horns, warding off any uncleanliness. The claws on one of the thing’s feet were uneven, with one large claw and two shorter ones, and a missing digit or a stub digit. “This can’t stay here,” the lead beast-handler stated. He glared from the carcass to the still-frantic great-haulers and back. “And they won’t pull it, Yoorst as my witness.” Which meant the men had to. Tycho wasn’t the only one to groan.

“What happened? What— Yoorst have mercy, those never leave the forest! The beast mages set spells to repel them,” the manager moaned. He wasn’t wringing his hands, because he had a torch in one of them, but he twitched as if he wanted to.

Tycho saw the guard leader frowning, or so it seemed in the torchlight. “Spell didn’t work, or it wore down enough that this thing got through. Climbed the wood piled outside the pen. Now we have to drag it out.”

No one objected when they stopped early the next day. Four of the great-haulers had been clawed or bitten, two had kick-cuts on their bodies from the panic, and the beast had managed to kill one outright and had been eating it when the guards shot it with crossbow bolts and then stabbed it to death. Tycho had lost one great-hauler, with another lightly injured but unable to pull until the slash across its chest healed. If it healed. If the wound did not rot. A beast-healer would be good to have, Tycho sighed to himself as he held the afflicted male’s head steady. The beast-handler smeared honey and sweet-leaf paste onto the cut and made Yoorst’s sign.

Had they offended Raadmar, so that he was turning the wheel against them?

9

The Southern Lands

“Must have been built by a pageant planner,” one of the beast-handlers grumbled from Tycho’s right side. He was walking two of the injured great-haulers farther ahead in the line, to keep them calm and so they could water first and avoid the usual crowding.

Tycho wondered. The walls of Moahnabrig shone white against the dark green of the forest behind them and on the other side of the blue-grey river. Towers, at least four that he could see, no, five, anchored the walls. Two of the towers appeared to have red bands painted just below the upper rows of stone. Reddish-brown tiles with blue and grey bands covered the roofs of the towers. Only one spire rose above the wall, but Hardrad had said that the city had suffered a fire two years before, and the count had ruled against any wooden spires. The city truly did look as if it were a drawing from a temple manuscript come to life, aside from the smell of the river and the scruffy great-haulers in a paddock beside the road. The light brown birds stared at their darker northern cousins and hissed. The caravan birds returned the compliment. The goats in the paddock along with the great-haulers ignored the commotion.

“The sooner we finish watering, the sooner we can get inside. Evening comes earlier here, even in summer.” Tycho took the hint and guided his trio of birds into line with the rest. Hardrad planted his fists on his lean hips, glowering out from under his broad-brimmed straw hat. “Don’t let them drown themselves,” he called to the men at the troughs.

“No worries. I don’t want to haul one of your beasts out of my water,” the well owner called back. Tycho wasn’t pleased about paying for the water, but he had to admire the man’s ingenuity. Instead of a central trough and pump, four smaller pumps fed a central cistern that in turn fed ten troughs. Each had enough space to allow great-haulers to drink without being crowded from behind. The birds didn’t mind being jostled from the side so much, but they kicked viciously at anything that brushed them from behind. Tycho unhooked the lead female and took her to water. As he returned to the wagon, beast-handlers led the other two past him. By the time he’d hooked the female back to the wagon, the others were watered and could be jollied into position without too much fussing. The process went much faster and smoother than with the usual single-trough arrangement.

He was near the back of the line today, so Tycho did not have to wait too long between hitching the beasts and urging them into motion. No one ever accused great-haulers of being especially intelligent, but they knew that walls meant food and pens with dusting pits, and the birds stepped out with a will.

Guards stopped them at the city gate. A scribe tottered along behind the guards. He had to be as old as the river, Tycho guessed, and wondered how the scribe could even walk. The age-hunched man peered up at the wagons as the men declared the load, then checked the number of haulers and the seals on the visible goods. “What kind of hides?” he wheezed up at Tycho.

“Schaef, northern ox, white-fish, great-hauler, greyback, and northern moss-eater.”

The old man wrote everything down. “Ought else?”

“Two carved white-fish teeth, yellow dye wood, knife handles of bone, honey and sweet-leaf ointment.”

“Ought else?” The scribe peered from Tycho to the load and back.

“No, sir.”

“If you do not declare your beasts and wagons, you cannot sell them here,” the scribe creaked, just as he had to everyone else in line. When Tycho did not add the wagons and animals, the scribe tottered past to the next wagon. Why was he doing the work of a younger man? He should be inside totaling the numbers, if working at all.

The city guard following the scribe must have read Tycho’s expression, or he was just tired of hearing the same question from everyone who came through the gate. The dark-skinned soldier nodded toward the ancient creature. “He’s the only notary mage able to work. Only two survived the illness, and they are both still too weak to take up the gate-watch again. One of them is a law-court notary, and once he’s outside the city walls he can’t tell his ass from a wagon wheel.”

Tycho knew the type. “The illness. Cramps, shaking like fever chills, then other sickness?”

“Yes.” The guard tipped his head to the side, curious. “You’ve seen it up the road?”

“A beast mage came with us as far as Gheelford. He had a mild case and some of the other men were ill as well but still able to work.” Tycho shrugged a little. “Whatever causes it, it was in Platport four months ago, before I reached the city.”

The soldier stared into the distance. “Huh. Good to know, not good to hear about.”

“Aye.”

Only when the scribe had returned to the gate house just outside the wall and had spoken with the chief guard was the caravan allowed into the city. As before they followed Hardrad’s wagon to the market, then scattered out to their various confraternity or city buildings to let their arrival be known. Tycho paid a quarter silver ring to a boy who showed him and his four beast-handlers to the mixed-goods warehouse.

Before Tycho could open his mouth, a clerk bustled out, quill in hand, glaring at him. “If you need spells, take your wares across the river. We don’t have no mages now.”

Tycho counted to three before speaking. “I do not need spells. I need space for five days.”

“Six days, Meester Tycho,” the man behind him corrected. “Meester Hardrad wants another healing day.”

“Thank you. Six days. Hides and a half-load of mixed goods.”

“Tycho. Tycho Rhonarida?”

“Yes.”

The clerk spun on his heel. “There are messages for you in the office.” He waved toward the scales as he trotted back into the shadows of the building. “Use those if you need to.”

“You think his mistress is waiting in there?” one of the beast-handlers sneered.

The man behind him snorted. “Neh. He’s one of those who likes goods but doesn’t want to dirty his hands doing the work to get goods.”

A third voice drawled, “Probably scared a bird will shit on him.”

Tycho would have been more worried about getting bitten. He raised his right hand and beckoned for the others to follow. They bypassed the scales and waited until one of the men on watch waved them into the maw-like open doors. It smelled dry, with an under-scent of spices. That boded well. The manager approached and called, “Welcome, Tycho Rhonarida, to this fair city.”

“May the gods smile on your fair city and may your trade prosper,” Tycho replied. “I only need space.”

“Oh good. Did you bring any mages with?” He sounded over eager, almost desperate.

Tycho shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Very few were leaving Platport because of the illness.”

The watchman’s eyes bulged and he gasped. “That far north?”

“Aye.”

“You’re the first northern caravan down,” the door watcher said. “We heard rumors but nothing firm.”

One of the great-haulers started scuffing the dirt floor, and the manager yelped, “Oh no you don’t, not in here! Jos, Ty, Bree, unload these wagons so the birds don’t take a dump on my floor. Now!” The men went to work with more speed than Tycho had seen in a while, and the five wagons were outside the doors again almost before he could blink. Could they train one of the birds to do that on command? It would certainly make life faster if not simpler. As they left the warehouse, Tycho made a little note in his memory to ask a beast mage once he returned to the north. Since his confraternity’s building stood on the same road as the warehouse, he left his possessions there with the sister-lady before seeing to his beasts and wagons.

Tycho and the others retraced their path to the market, then turned south and found the area where the beasts were kept. The caravan already had several pens set aside for them, so Tycho paid his share, saw that the animals would be taken care of, and dismissed the men. If they got in trouble, he could hire more locally. The beasts cost money and had to be returned.

Tycho leaned on his staff and considered what to do next. Go to the beast market, he decided. He needed to see how much good great-haulers were selling for in case one of his remaining spares died, and to hear any local news. The farmers and beast-men in the south had looser tongues than others he’d worked with. Tycho slowly walked that direction, studying the city and considering matters. He stopped once to refill his waterskin. The sun poured heat down from a hazy sky and the dusty street and light grey stone walls seemed to add to the warmth. It didn’t feel like a storm, but he didn’t know how such things worked this far from home. He dodged a beggar, and three children playing hoops. The beggar glowered at him and muttered what might have been a curse. Tycho pointedly dropped a silver ring into the collection box at the temple two doors from where the beggar stood, and the man spat but didn’t say more.

He found the beast market by ear as well as nose. Goats bleated, a great-hauler hissed at someone or something, and the pungent odor of powdered dung cut through the other city smells. He came into the market near the small-animal pens as a woman in a servant’s apron lifted a coney, checking its glands and pinching it lightly to see how fat it was. She set it back down in the wooden pen and began dickering with the farmer standing behind the pen, beside a stack of cages. Rilika had wanted to raise coneys until she learned that they would all be eaten when they grew large enough, no exceptions. The tears that followed that news had surprised him, but he was a man. Far be it for him to make sense of little girls. A stocky woman bustled past carrying a large, half-covered basket over one arm. A table-bird poked its head out of the basket, glaring at the world with little red eyes.

“Hsssss!”

“ArrrreeEEEEEEEEch!”

“Grab her!”

“Look out. Look out!”

“Damn it, who brought an intact male?”

“Loose bird!”

Shit! Two great-hauler males kicked at each other, circling and snapping as a female tried to escape their attentions. Both males broke off the fight and lunged for her, but she dodged and ran toward Tycho. He ducked out of the way and she swerved, skidded, and tried to cut through the table-bird cages. Feathers flew, cages fell off tables, and people scattered to get clear of the melee. The males followed, then remembered their battle and began kicking again as several young men edged closer, trying to catch one of the lose ropes and drag the combatants apart.

“Maaa! Ma!” Tycho froze as a child tottered into the open market. He still had leading strings and a baby cap, and pattered toward a group of women, arms out. “Maaa.”

Someone had caught the female great-hauler and two boys struggled to push her down, out of sight of the males. The larger male saw the motion and pivoted, lurching toward his intended mate. Tycho saw the bird, saw the child, and lunged forward. He raised his staff over head to ward off the thing’s bite, leaned down, and grabbed the boy, snatching him off the ground and staggering as he dodged a bird kick and a clerk’s table. Then he ducked behind the table to safety. Tycho set the child down, leaned on his staff and gasped for air. Where was the boy’s mother?

“Niki!” a young woman shrieked, wild-eyed, her head whipping back and forth. “Josta, Where’s Niki?”

A girl in a straw hat started crying. “I don’t know, Ma, I left him with the table-birds.”

“Right here.” A farmwife called back. The motherly woman bent down and picked up the boy, balancing him on one hip. “Yon stranger got him ‘afore ‘t birds could.”

“Good work, man,” a farmer said, clapping Tycho on the shoulder. Tycho nodded his thanks, still a little short on breath. He wasn’t meant to move that fast anymore. “How many you have?” Tycho held up one hand, fingers splayed. “Thought that might be.”

“What the damn it all were you thinking you fool? No intact males are allowed on open market days!” A big man, bigger than most of the people around, shook his fist at a sallow-faced boy in a smock and leather breeches and wooden shoes. “You’re old enough to know the rules. Damn near killed a child, upset the entire market, you did. You want to pay blood money so bad?”

“Neh! They was sold me as gelded.” The birds’ owner shook a crook-headed staff right back at the market master. “How’m I to know if theys gelded or no?”

“Who doesn’t know?” the master roared. “Even the temple-bound priestess of Lamorva of the Skies knows how to tell if a great-hauler’s intact!”

That didn’t sound good, and Tycho straightened up from his lean on the staff and began edging away from the commotion. The crowd’s attention had shifted to the beast-handler and market master, intent on the show. Tycho eased along a wall, dodged a woman sticking her head out the open doorway to watch the commotion, and stepped around a stack of small animal cages.

“He swore they was gelded so I bought them as gelded.”

“And what did he swear on?” The market master snarled.

“Swore to the notary, so his paper said. Here,” the farmer shoved a page to the market master.

“Was he under a god chain?”

“Read it!”

Tycho ducked behind a second stack of cages. One of the table-bird sellers shook her fist at the two men arguing, then went back to checking on her birds. They seemed rattled but not dead, unlike one bird. It’s head lolled out of the cage, neck broken. The farm wife was talking quickly and quietly to one of the men who had helped catch the female great-hauler, probably trying to find out who she could demand compensation from, and if the man in the smock had any money. “If we had our beast-mages and notary-mages, this wouldn’t have happened,” she hissed.

“If ye know how to stay the gods’ anger, ye go talk to the priest. And yon should have known—if the seller don’t swear under the god chain, he’s lyin.’” The man hissed back.

She adjusted her floppy white head cover and frowned, bending down to move a basket back under the table. “That boy has less sense than a headless schaef. Less useful, too.” Tycho memorized her face and clothes, in case he saw her again. He didn’t want her turning that tongue on him.

He stopped at the food market and bought a small-beer. It tasted different than northern beers, a little lighter with a hint of fruit. It wasn’t bad, especially not for midsummer-like heat. Then Tycho continued on to the trades and merchants’ offices at the Sign of the Whiskery Fish on Weaver Street. Before going inside, he stopped and contemplated the sign. The artist either had a strange sense of humor, or had not been paid on time and had decided to get even. The blue-grey trout sported one of the fullest, lushest beards Tycho had seen on man or beast. The fish appeared to be eyeing the wares in the knife-grinder’s stall across the street with longing. The long black beard probably itched, Tycho decided. He’d want a shave too if he found himself with that much beard.

He stepped inside the building and stopped for a moment to let his eyes catch up with the shadows. “No, still no messages Meester Tavy,” the clerk at the counter blurted. “The caravan master from Platport brought nothing for you, sir.” His words ran together in one fast burst. Was this the scribe who had written the letter, the one with the tiny script?

The merchant said something in a voice so quiet that Tycho could not hear it. “I have not heard, sir. Jan Vlaaterbeda is ealdorman. He’s at the confraternity of Gember’s sheaf.”

Tycho stepped out of the way as the other man bustled out, shoving letters into a bag and grumbling under his breath. The clerk sorted other papers and put them away with fast, jerky movements. After he finished but before he could sit down, Tycho approached the counter. “Tycho Rhonarida.” He removed his seal from its pouch and handed it to the clerk. The skinny man blinked at Tycho, peered at the seal, and ducked under the counter. An ink-stained hand appeared and slapped letters onto the wooden surface. The hand disappeared, then reappeared with a fatter packet that looked like documents, and a pouch that clinked.

“Letters, sir, document from Rhonari, document from Platport, currency from Rhonari.” Had the clerk even left spaces between the words? He popped back up from behind the counter like a jumping fish.

“Is there any news from the south?”

“No trade from Liambruu and no trade to it, sir. King’s orders, closed the roads to traders until his letters are honored.” The clerk twitched.

“Thank you.” Tycho gathered his letters and the pouch, wondering as he did how the gods could have made the king of Liambruu so blind. Trade meant taxes. Taxes brought silver to the crown. No trade meant no silver from outside the kingdom. But the factor in Gheelford had said that silver was still leaving Liambruu. It made no sense. In fact, it made Tycho’s purse flinch when he considered running his own business that way. Maarsrodi would smite him with his staff for the sheer stupidity, and Tycho would deserve it.

“Oh, yes, before I forget. You will be working with Maartin Corwinda’s factor in Milunis?”

“Yes.” He sounded grumpy to his own ears.

The clerk didn’t notice. “You’ll want a secondary letter, showing that you passed through here and confirming that you can pay. That’s what your agent in Platport sent the silver for,” he poked the bag with a knobby finger. “It is Rhonari silver so there’s no question.” Tycho opened his mouth but the man continued, digging out paper and ink as he did, “It’s standard for every merchant from the Free Cities who wants to work through Maartin Corwinda. He’s very particular about being paid, he is.”

Since he’d never paid anyone on time, at least as far as Tycho had heard, Tycho wondered why Maartin bothered. Because that’s in part how he’d succeeded, by paying late but collecting promptly, along with slipping shoddy in with good and avoiding taxes. He could give an eel lessons on dodging and squirming, Tycho grumbled to himself. Just having his own name on the same page as Corwinda’s rankled. “Do you know if he trades much with Liambruu?” Tycho handed the man his seal.

“Some say he does, but I wouldn’t know, sir.” The clerk pulled a strip of metal out of a roll of pens and dipped into ink. Tycho stared as the smallest letters he’d seen in his life appeared on the page. Maybe the man really did fear paper disappearing. Could a true quill be trimmed that finely? Probably, but who would bother? The man had a fair hand, Tycho admitted, and once Tycho got the page close enough to his nose in good light, it was easy to read. How did he keep from smearing that small of script? He held his hand in an odd way, tipped slightly up instead of resting it on the page. The clerk did not bend closer to the page than most scribes did or Tycho himself did. Was he far sighted? Or just eccentric?

The next day, Tycho sat reading his letters in the common room of the confraternity’s hostel. All at once he heard wheels, raised voices, and a commotion arose outside the building. The loud voices moved into the warehouse. He looked down through the wavy diamonds of glass and saw several soldiers in blue and green livery standing around the door of the warehouse, and part of an elaborately decorated carriage pulled by six matched great-haulers. That must be Count Saba, the lord of Moahnabrig. Did he want to step outside and watch the goings on? No. He’d learn the damage soon enough, and he did not like the way the guards carried themselves. Were the people here so hostile to their count that he needed so many guards? Tycho had seen no sign of it, but he did not go around asking people what they thought of their rulers, either. It was bad for business.

“I said, show your respects!” Thump. Tycho looked again and two of the guards had pushed someone, a boy in an apprentice’s cap and worn shirt and breeches, onto his knees in the dirt beside the carriage. Tycho retreated back to the table. He did not want to watch. That sort of thing raised his hackles, as well as reminding him why he thanked Maarsrodi every day that he’d been born in a Free City and had citizenship there. He heard a door open below him, and voices, one the sister-lady. The man sounded arrogant and whiney both, a combination that set Tycho’s teeth on edge. He loathed men who whined. It suggested that they were not really adults and could not be trusted to act like proper men. The sister-lady responded, arrogant whining grew louder, then the door opened and slammed. Tycho waited until he heard the carriage leave before closing the ink jar, cleaning the quill, and heaving himself off the bench with a quiet groan as his back reminded him of the previous day’s folly. He walked down the stairs to the ground floor offices.

The sister-lady, a small, retiring woman who seemed to be Tycho’s age, turned to greet him. “Sir?”

The door opened and the warehouse supervisor grumped in, setting a wax-board on the sister-lady’s work table. “Here’s the list. We’re going to find ourselves as flat as Corwin if he doesn’t see reas—” The sister-lady’s frantic small hand waves finally caught his attention and he stopped. “What?” She pointed to Tycho, her eyes wide, lips pursed. “Oh! Ah, your pardon, sir, I was—”

Tycho waved him off and walked up to the work table. “I understand. How bad?”

The supervisor handed him the tablet. Tycho skinned down the list, stopped, and felt his heart miss a few beats and his stomach clench. His eyes went wide. The bastard had taken both white-fish teeth and six prime hides as well, just to rub salt into Tycho’s wounded trade balance. Maarsrodi damn him to the deepest hell! Tycho felt his face flushing and struggled to get himself back under control. He set the tablet down with great care, not making a sound. “Count Saba knows quality,” he observed.

The supervisor removed his flat cap and finger combed black and grey hair back from his sloping forehead. “Aye, that he does, Meester Tycho. Market talk this morning was he had his cooks go through a spicer’s wares and select only the best and most expensive, instead of going by weight alone.”

The sister-lady raised her right hand. “He did. I heard it from Halm the baker’s delivery boy, because his lordship claimed spices Halm had ordered and paid half down on, not just speculation wares.”

Tycho’s fists clenched and he made himself relax. “I see why you are concerned about his lordship angering merchants.”

“Claims it is so he can pay for rebuilding more of the city.” The sister-lady bit the words off the way a tailor nipped threads. Tycho only nodded. He’d heard like justifications from other greedy-guts.

“He’d best be mindful. Radmar’s temple has not been finished yet,” the supervisor observed, looking sideways toward the door and raising on eyebrow.

“Indeed.” Radmar moved the wheel when men least expected it, and often just as they reached their greatest heights.

Tycho did not vent his anger on the furnishings, or on the supervisor and sister-lady. He did, however, leave a larger than planned offering to Radmar, and one to the Scavenger. Those teeth would have brought at least five vlaat each.

* * *

“What is that thing?” the glover finished counter-signing his letter of payment and gestured to the white-fish hide.

“White-fish hide, tanned. I’m not piecing it out.” At least not yet. It was not going back to Rhonari if he could help it.

“Umf. Big fish.”

“Very big fish. Teeth like so,” Tycho held up one hand and measured from fingertip to wrist. “I don’t want to see what it eats.”

The glover shook his head. “Whatever it wants to would be my guess. Maarsdam smile on your trade.”

“And Yoorst be generous to yours.” They pressed palms and the glover’s journeyman heaved four of the great-hauler hides onto his shoulder and staggered off behind his master. The glover had seen them and almost leaped over the table to claim them. Apparently great-hauler skins were thicker in the north, or so the glover had proclaimed to anyone who could hear. Tycho had also traded most of the honey and sweet-leaf balm for ten gaalrund-weight of fire-seed and a single gaalrund of mandarohn. Normally he avoided spices, but Gerta had written that fire-seed had become very popular, driving up prices, and was now fetching a vlaat per tenth of a gaalrund. If prices stayed above a vlaat per quarter-gaalrund, the profit would cover the initial cost of the mandarohn. A fiftieth-gaarund of mandarohn was worth a vlaat and a quarter, if a baker or dyer needed it, and if it were fresh enough to give good color and strong flavor. Gerta’s letter had reported that brilliant red was coming into style again, and that this year’s crop of carmine-stem from Chin’mai had been severely limited by a late-season storm that washed the color-stuff out of the plants. At fifty pooz to one gaalrund. and with no mandarohn coming from Liambruu, Tycho had decided it was worth the risk and difficulty of keeping it from going stale. The loss of the carved teeth still rankled, though.

Tycho put the glover’s letter of payment into the appropriate bag and tidied the stack of hides. He turned around and nodded to a man and a woman as they approached his booth. Both of them wore dark brown tabards over simple medium-brown clothes of sturdy fabric. Leather trimmed the woman’s headdress and both of their sleeves. Or was that just trim? No, those were protective cuffs of some kind. Tycho wondered what they meant. “Frandry was right,” the woman said.

“Yes, he was for once,” her companion agreed. “Maarsdam be with you.” He spoke with a strange accent, dragging some of the sounds the way children often did.

“And with you. How may I be of service?”

The man pointed with his chin. “The fleece-on hides. How much for both?”

Tycho moved some of the counters on his bead-board. The conversion was too complicated for him to do quickly in his head. “Six pfund four ouz.”

The woman blinked, then squared her shoulders, lips compressed. The man gasped a little, also blinking, but nodded to himself. She rested one hand on his arm. “We last purchased fleece-on eight years ago.”

“And those were salvage, and smaller than these.” He braced and nodded again. “We’ll take them. We must replace the ones we have, and these are the first that have come so far south in some time.”

Tycho could imagine why. Unless the winters were far colder than the summers, he could not imagine wearing fleece-on leather here, and these were too mottled for decorative hides. “Do you need them bundled, good sir, madame?”

“Yes, of your kindness.”

He lifted both off the display rack and draped them on the table.

The woman bent a little to look at the hides edge-on. “Oh, these are thicker than the old ones! Bilett be praised that Frandry saw them.” To Tycho’s mild surprise, she did not reach out and stroke the fleece, as most people did. Her companion counted out the silver and Tycho weighed it, then gave them a receipt before folding each hide into a tight square and tying the bundle closed with stout leather thongs.

He began handing the hides to the man when someone called, “Dalman! Dalman, Grif’s started passing blood.” A girl of ten or so, also in a dark brown tabard and brown dress, peltered up to the couple. “It’s worse this time, sir, and there’s green bile with the blood, or so Wilm said.” The man turned away from Tycho and hurried after the girl, almost running. The woman reached for the hides, arms held level for him to stack the bundles on.

Tycho gave them to her. She said, “Thank you. May Maarsdam bless you and Bilett grant you and your family good health.”

“You are most welcome. May Bilett grant healing to those most in need, and guide your hands.” He guessed that was the local goddess of healing.

“So may it be,” the woman and a passing day-worker both replied. As the laden woman walked into the market crowd, Tycho noticed how people moved out of her path without seeming to, and nodded to himself. No one wanted to delay a physician, medico, or his assistants.

Tycho re-stacked his wares and wondered if he’d been foolish to come so far himself. He was getting old enough and had enough contacts to delegate some of this, perhaps change to a middle-transit trader? Let someone else worry about great-haulers and local markets and nobles who abused their tax rights.

The smell of fried fruit pies tickled his nose. He really shouldn’t. The scent grew stronger.

Just one, he told himself. Just one wouldn’t hurt.

10

Over the River and South

The injured great-hauler did not die. The wound healed clean, and Tycho congratulated himself that he’d saved a few jars of the honey and sweet-leaf salve back for his own use. And he decided to buy more if it he could. Great-haulers got scratched up on a daily basis. As did their handlers. After much consideration he decided not to purchase another beast to replace the deceased bird. He still had two spare, and the others were healthy and rested. Still, just in case, he made a small donation to Yoorst’s temple before the caravan left.

The bridge at Moahnebrig fascinated Tycho. As he walked beside his lead wagon, alert for crest-flashes, wing-flipping, and other warnings that the great-haulers might be about to bolt, he admired the stone work. The masons had alternated colors, grey, pale cream, and tan, making column-like stripes in the walls with a solid grey roadbed. The bridge was wider than some roads he’d travelled, wide enough for two wagons to pass without crowding, and still leave room for people on either side. He’d actually gone down to the water’s edge, near the washing flat, to look at the bridge from water level. Eight arches crossed the Moahne. Stains on the grey and brown stones showed how high the water could reach, and he decided that ice smashing into bridges was not a problem here like it was elsewhere. Who had built it? And how much had it cost? More than the council of Rhonari wanted to spend on anything, that much he could guarantee. Stone walls on either side of the roadway rose as high as his shoulders. Even a great-hauler would have trouble escaping and plunging over the side, although he’d learned long ago never to underestimate the amount of chaos the birds could generate if they were determined to. Little holes at the base of the wall every few strides allowed water out, or so he guessed. Turning the city’s main source of income into a giant water trough would not be good for business or for the safety of the bridge.

Nothing untoward happened as the caravan passed over the river. “Too bad the river’s no good for shipping,” Jens sighed, peering left and right at the waters and the thick forest on the banks.

“I know about the mountain at the mouth, and the rocks there.” Tycho said. “Why not put in just upstream?”

“Because of rocks and cascades. Donwah must have taken everything she scooped out to make the seas and moved it to the riverbed. There’s a rapid or a cascade every three or four leagues. One of my agents married a woman from down here.” Jens frowned. “You’d have to unload and reload so often that no one bothers. Even the summer flood is not enough to float kooge, and then you still have the cascades.”

That would indeed explain why no one tried to ship goods by water. “Does anyone try to ship goods downstream?”

“Once a generation. Then he is used as a horrible warning for twenty years or so, until the next young fool decides he can do it right this time.” Jens and Tycho both chuckled.

Tycho smiled. “Some things are found in every land and clime.”

Jens gave him a conspiratorial look and half-smile. “Gember’s ovens?”

“But of course. Doesn’t every boy?”

“Korvaal’s orchard.” Jens winced and mimed rubbing his back side. “His priests are very, very good with sling-shots, should you ever wonder about such things.”

Tycho winced a little at the thought. He’d been hit with iceballs on the rump for sneaking into the port once. “I will avail myself of your experience and not attempt to rediscover the knowledge for myself,” he intoned.

“Wise man.”

They’d reached the end of the bridge and Hardrad stood beside the way, his wagon pulled off the road on the flat. “Do not stop until we pass the second stream, and do not let the birds drink from the first stream. Don’t drink from it yourself, either. It’s cursed water.”

“Second stream and don’t stop at the first,” Tycho repeated with a nod.

The sun had passed mid-sky, or so Tycho guessed from what little he could see of the sky, when they reached the first stream. They smelled it long before they reached the banks, and Tycho wondered just how large an animal had died and how close to the road. The great-haulers acted as unhappy with the stench as their handlers, and Tycho stopped worrying about trying to keep them from lunging for the water. The trees thinned out, then stopped, leaving an area of bare ground with only a few stunted and scraggly-looking bushes and tangled clumps of grey grasses that reminded Tycho of a month-dead long-haired schaef.

The stream itself flowed through yellow stained banks. Someone had built up the ford so the men and beasts could go dry-shod, and they hurried the birds to keep the wagons from sinking. Deep ruts warned what happened if someone left the ford. “This looks made,” Yergin said.

“Aye.” Whoever it was had done the traders and others a great service. One of the great-haulers tried to balk, but Tycho kept the lead bird moving and the others followed. They did not run across the ford, but they certainly moved quicker than before. The birds continued on, up the long slope on the opposite bank and well into the woods before Tycho and the others slowed them back to a steady walk. He heard squawks and cursing, and the sound of wheels dragging and a strange crunching sound, and exchanged worried looks with Jens. What was that?

“Blast it, someone got off the road and broke through,” Hardrad called from his lead wagon. “Keep going to the next stream, and stop there. Our night camp is not far beyond the stream.”

They’d watered almost all the birds before the missing wagon caught up. It was one of the grain merchants’ vehicles, and the great-haulers looked exhausted as they slowly dragged their load to the water. “Let them through,” the lead beast-handler called. Yellow and white clung to the wagon’s wheels and the beasts’ and men’s legs as far as their knees. The colored mud streaked up the men’s sleeves and shoulders as well, and Tycho’s back ached in sympathy. Pushing a wagon out of the mud ranked very, very low on his list of favored activities.

They camped, and Tycho noted a few new faces among the guards. And more guards as well, which he’d expected. That had been part of the agreement at the beginning of the journey, given the troubles with Liambruu. Tycho checked on his wagons, and his hired beast-handlers, then went to the pen and studied the great-haulers. The birds acted normal, aside from the three that still bore traces of mud on their legs, and on their chest and belly feathers. The birds drooped, eating but not jostling or making the usual noises. Given that the men pushing and pulling the stuck wagon drooped as well, Tycho didn’t worry too much about the birds. Several had already lumped up for the night, and he nodded to himself. Yes, he could have hired cheaper beasts, but that too often proved to be vlaat wise and kog foolish. He waved to the guard on first watch and returned to the fires.

“Were there any mages left in Moahnebrig?” Tycho couldn’t see the speaker, one of the mixed-goods traders.

“Not that I heard, although there may have been a few physician-mages in the temple.” Yergin gestured toward his wagons with the hand not holding a bowl. “You see what the price of grain is? That worries me. High’s good, but too high and people will start trying to claim trade grain as leb-grain.”

Hardrad spoke from the shadows beside his wagon. “If they do, call for a priest of Gember first, before anything happens. Might not be a bad thing to visit the temple a soon as we reach one, so her priests can tell you what is leb-grain and what’s luxury, and give you markers for that.”

This might be a good time to ask, Tycho decided. “Sir, does anyone claim hides as a leb-good here?”

The caravan master shook his head. “No. Law of the region is that hides are not leb-goods, since there is so much fabric, and since hides come whenever a beast is killed for meat or dies of accident.” He rubbed his crooked nose. “My grandfather’s day there was a bird plague, killed over half the great-haulers and table-birds both, and the priests of Yoorst declared great-haulers as leb-birds for farmers and for those as lived by wagons, so they could not be claimed for debt or dues until the priests lifted the ban. Lasted four years or so, but its over now.”

“Well, I’m more worried about finding a light-mage and preservation mages,” one of the other men grumbled. “Candles and rush-lights are fine when there’s no fire danger and you have young eyes, but I need mage-lights to work and to show my goods. And the heat-shift cantrips are starting to weaken. Wax and earth-resin are no good if they melt in the wagon.”

Tycho shivered and made the horns. He wasn’t the only one, and a few men murmured things under their breaths, or reached inside their shirts and vests to touch luck talismans and god-medallions. How could you trade without magic? Some things could travel, but trying to keep vermin out of grain? Or away from his hides? What about other food stuffs, like those hams in his wares-house? And without beast-mages, they’d need more animals to replace the injured and ill that couldn’t be healed. And fire! How would they protect houses and towns from fire without shield-mages? And notaries to certify that documents and seals were valid, and to test coins, and to confirm quality? Having no mages would certainly make trade much, much riskier and would raise costs and prices everywhere.

“Ask in Milunis how they do it in Liambruu,” Hardrad said. “They have no magic there, never did, at least not since the end of the Great Cold.” He stood up, stretched. “Long day tomorrow. We need to be out of the river forest by midday, sooner would be better. The next stopping place is at the foot of the Radlam Plateau, and we’ve got a hard climb after that.”

Thus warned, Tycho finished his food, washed his bowl and spoon, and went to sleep under one of his wagons after running an abbreviated set of sword and staff patterns. Dawn came early. Twilight came even earlier.

The group pushed as hard as possible the next day. Tycho had rotated to the middle of the group, and he started to wonder if the dust ever settled south of the Gheel River. The tan canvas covering his goods matched the tan of the dust rising from the road. The grass along the edges of the path bore a thick coating of tan as well. Beyond the brown strip, he saw lush-looking patches interspersed with clumps of twisting trees and stripes of grey-green hedge or stone walls. The sky had turned darker blue, and the few clouds that formed by late morning blazed hard white, almost painfully white, not the soft, hazy cream he was used to. At least the air moved, although it kept the dust from the wagons and men on the road, blowing into their faces. He missed the shade, although he did not miss worrying about trees that could poison you if you touched them.

The farms seemed farther apart, not clustered in the middle of the fields as they did in the north. The villages all had walls, and the road passed by the gates instead of going through as he’d expected. A few people working the fields watched the caravan, then turned their backs and returned to work. The grain, if the brown stuff was grain, seemed poor, with smaller heads than wheat or barley. Instead of a midday stop, they watered the birds near a village and two of the men went into town to see if any bread were available. They returned empty handed. “They won’t sell unless we have coin from Liambruu or one of the southern cities. They have not seen any bad coin yet, but they’ve heard stories and don’t trust anything north of the Moahne.” The guard shrugged.

The mood of the caravan tumbled with the news. Tycho and the others grumbled a little. And where were they supposed to find that much silver? The smiths in Moahnebrig had refused to exchange currency, because the count kept all he could scavenge and they didn’t have enough on hand for all the caravan’s merchants. That was if they’d take all the different coins the men used, although most had at least a hundred vlaat of the new Platport currency. “Just how much bad coin has appeared here?” Tycho thought aloud.

“Does it matter?” Talman wiped his face, smearing the sweat and dust blend, and adjusted his hat. “To us it does, but to the farmers?” He waved toward the land around them. “They see coin so rarely that they probably don’t want to get caught with any coin they can’t be completely certain of. For us a bad coin is a problem. But if you only manage to find three or four coins a year, and you have to pay taxes in coin instead of kind?”

Tycho knew that in his head. He still had trouble imagining it.

Talman squinted up at the empty sky, then asked, “Speaking of coin, have you found anything for your collection?”

Tycho nodded. “One I’ve not seen before from Ulb, and one I’m not certain about. It’s old, but use old or years old?” He half-shrugged with one hand. “I think it is from Milunis, so I plan to ask at the temple if they have ever seen the like. Some of the archive priests know old coins, in case a buried pot of them turns up when someone’s digging around.”

“How much interest does a pot of buried coins earn, anyway?” Talman winked.

“Did you bury them in the garden so your wife doesn’t spend them, or did you bury them and forget where?” Tycho riposted. “Because I’d say negative one hundred percent in the latter case.”

“Same as extending credit to Liambruu’s crown, then,” one of the other men called.

“Better than that. Losing the coin doesn’t mean losing your trade rights,” Talman responded.

“True that.”

Talk faded away again. Tycho plodded along, thinking about coins and other things. He had a feeling that the old coin was age old, perhaps even from just after the end of the Great Cold. If so, where would he put it in the case? Perhaps he should have a new case made, just for those coins. One of the birds squawked, pulling his attention back to the road. And perhaps, Tycho warned himself, he should pay attention to his surroundings, and to his great-haulers, in case of trouble.

As the sun passed into afternoon, a lump he’d first noticed on the horizon before they entered the river forest on the Moahne grew larger and larger. Tycho assumed it was related to a heat-lake, like the ones they’d seen before reaching Moahnebrig, but this didn’t shimmer. As the time passed, it darkened and widened, starting to look like a table. Was that the Radlam Plateau? They dipped into a stream bed, then up again. The land seemed more closely settled and greener, and the thing ahead loomed wider and higher. A pale strip cut up the side of it, and he decided that he was seeing the road. Why did they have to go over it? It looked as if the road could go around it with ease. The he looked again, and saw brown stone and green dots extending on either side of the plateau, fading into the blue distance. Was all of that the plateau? How wide was it? Large rocks dotted the side of the steep approach ahead of them, interspersed with bushes that seemed glued to the rocks behind them. More rocks spilled in a dark scatter at the base of the plateau. The boulders looked very large indeed, and Tycho wondered how much noise they had made when they fell.

The sun almost touched the horizon by the time they reached a caravan lodge. “You’re the first of the year, so you can take your pick of quarters,” the manager’s wife said. Her light brown head-cover extended down around her chin, almost covering her mouth. Her tan and cream dress hung lose from her shoulders, hiding her figure. She was taller than Tycho, and he wondered if she were as strong as her face looked. Probably, since inn-keepers and taverners tended to marry women who could help them keep order. “The pump for bird water’s in the pen. And you’d best pay in new silver or coin from south of the Gheel.”

They could do that much, but Tycho added a few more torments to his list of what he’d like to do to the counterfeiters who had made trade so difficult. He unhitched the great-haulers and led them into the pen. Hardrad stood near the pen, looking from the wagons to the caravan inn and back. His frown-lines had deepened until Tycho couldn’t tell if he was scowling or just exhausted. After a few more back and forth looks, Hardrad made up his mind about whatever it was and limped over to where Jens Vlaaterbeda leaned into a wagon, rearranging something under the canvas. Hardrad spoke to Jens. The canvas lumped up as Jens stood, then leaned out, answered, and then ducked under again. Tycho decided he didn’t need to worry about it until he was told to worry. He had more than enough to keep his mind occupied.

“Tomorrow we are climbing the plateau in shifts. Three great-haulers are not enough to get up the road,” Hardrad warned that night. “We are going to move the heaviest wagons first, with at least six great-haulers per wagon. Then the birds come down and hitch to the next wagons, and so until all of us are at the top.” He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “Half the guards will go up with the first wagon.” Tycho heard rustling and looked over to see elbow nudges and grins among the soldiers. “Don’t be too happy. There are a bunch of rocks and trees at the top of the cliff, and the road bends hard not too far from the form-up meadow. At least one caravan gets robbed at that spot every year, and I don’t plan to be this year’s sacrificial schaef.” The grins faded. “And you may have to pull some of the wagons up, too, so don’t find a nice rock and nap.

“It will take half the day to get up. Then we move farther on, away from the trees and into another grass region. The plateau’s drier than the lowlands for the first few leagues, so I want waterskins filled here, and we’ll morning water the birds as well. It’s not a dry camp but close to it, and the birds get first rights.” It was Tycho’s turn to stop smiling. Hardrad pointed with his whip. “You, you, and you and yes, you Yergin, hiding by the wheel. No sleeping late. That’s what winter’s for. You are the first four up. Make damn certain your endgates are up to a load shift. And the beast-handlers and I will pick which birds pull first. I need the calmest, most docile beasts as leads.”

Tycho listened, went to his bed roll, and decided that he’d not come this far south again unless Donwah took the debris out of the river or he made so many profits that he could hire a carriage for himself and ten birds per wagon. And bring lots of other people to do all the work.

The first four wagons and the guards set out before dawn. Instead of the usual one and two hitch, they arranged the birds into three Vs, with two more on the long sides of the V. The guards went first, followed by the heaviest wagon. Tycho watched as the birds walked slowly, heads bobbing forward with every other step. The beast-handlers did not rush them, instead keeping their whips low and just encouraging with their voices. It took a very long time, or so it seemed, before the fourth wagon disappeared over the top of the plateau. The first birds reappeared within moments, walking down the road. They acted calm, as best Tycho could tell. He returned to writing some letters, since he’d be close to the end of the group.

“Oh no! Yoorst stop them,” one of the beast-handlers gasped some time later. Tycho and the others still waiting rushed to watch. His stomach clenched, then churned as he watched seven birds starting to panic, wings flapping, kicking blindly. Some tried to move forward, others jerked to the side, and as he stared, the wagon lurched to the edge of the road, teetered, and fell off! One of the handlers fell with the wagon, screaming as it hit him, then going silent. The birds screamed too as the red-smeared wagon pulled them with it, twisting and tumbling, raising a shower of rocks that followed the wagon and birds down the cliff. Cargo spilled out with each tumble, dumping sacks and bales that also rolled. Feathers puffed, dust rose, and the whole thing crashed to a stop near the base of the long cliff. The beast-handlers raced to see if any of the birds had survived intact. Tycho did not watch. He did not think any of the birds were his, but he’d learn soon.

After that, each bird had a handler. They managed to salvage some of the goods, but the grain sacks had torn, and the wagon shattered. Two birds had balled up as they fell and might be useful after they recovered, so the handlers blindfolded them and led them up alone. Tycho prayed hard, very hard, as they hitched six birds to his wagons and started off. He walked with one of the wheel birds, leaving the lead to someone with far more knowledge and much stronger than he was. He leaned on his staff, feeling his legs starting to protest before they were half-way up. They passed the site of the run-away and he let himself breathe a little more easily, but he did not glance down to see where the handler’s body had stopped. The top of the cliff seemed impossibly high, and Tycho did not dare look north, to the plains stretching to the river. The land and water were supposed to stay below his feet, not disappear into nothingness. The birds, wagons and Tycho all crested the top of the plateau together and unharmed, and he wanted to fall on his knees in thanks and praise for his deliverance. Instead he kept moving and helped unhitch the birds once they reached the meadow.

After the last wagon reached the top, Hardrad called the beast-handlers together. They spoke for a while, long enough for Tycho to place a private wager if they’d be spending the night in the meadow. He hoped not, because trying to keep the birds away from the edge of the cliff might be rather more challenging than he liked. The conference ended and the men scattered out. “We’re moving, but not farther than an open area past the bend in the road.” One of the hired men said as he fastened the lead great-hauler’s breast strap. “The birds are all either too tired or too nervous, and we need to bury Zon.”

Something about the woods bothered Tycho, although everything looked and sounded like woods ought to sound. Was he just too used to open skies under the sea and on the coasts? The birds did not act uncomfortable or overly alert, although as tired as they were he didn’t want to depend on them to notice trouble first. Tycho kept his thoughts to himself. If Hardrad and the beast-handlers had discussed it and agreed, then he was not going to complain. The air under the trees moved only a little, and the hot afternoon brought a smell like incense out of the needle-leaved trees, sweet and sharp both. After they found a large-enough area to pull to the side of the road and maneuver the wagons into a box formation, Tycho took care of his birds and beast-handlers, then walked over and inspected one of the trees. White sap oozed out of small holes in the smooth bark, and he sniffed it. That was the source of the smell, and he wondered if anyone gathered the sap to sell. If not, why not?

“The wood burns hot, so be careful until you know what it’s going to do,” one of the beast-handlers cautioned Yergin.

“Thanks.” The trader concentrated on lighting a small pike of kindling and fluff, then nursing it gently until he lit some twigs to use on the larger pile of gathered wood.

A passing guard kicked away some round, brown things. As he did, the beast-handler exclaimed, “And do not toss on the seed balls! They explode.”

Just what they needed, flames bursting out of the fire when no one expected it. Tycho passed the word to the other merchants. “Is there anything down here that doesn’t want to kill us?” one of the grain merchants snarled as he re-loaded his wagon.

They had not encountered any large beasts aside from the potodont yet. Tycho started to mention that, then decided against saying anything so bold. Then he began inspecting the loads in his own wagons. Some of his goods had shifted, but he’d managed to pack hides and bales well enough that the fragile and expensive items were in the middle of one wagon, hidden by great-hauler and northern ox hides. He didn’t like how the nails on one of the end gate hinges had pulled loose, however, and he hunted around in the tool chest until he found a small hammer. He re-seated the nails, then returned the hammer to its proper place in the box.

The ealdorman walked up as Tycho finished his task. “Can you take some of Waltan’s goods? We saved more than his remaining wagons can safely carry.” Jens did not look happy.

“How many gaalrund?”

“A hundredweight, five bales of fine cloth.” They both looked at the wagon. “How tightly packed are those?”

“As tight as I could manage. If we split it two and three, I can fit them into two other wagons.”

Jens looked over his shoulder, then back to Tycho. “We’ll do that. I have no idea how his birds have managed to pull those weights. Even with five to a wagon it would be an overload.”

“Maybe some of it is more bulk than bite.”

Jens snorted, then moved on to speak to someone else. As he passed, he added, “Oh, do not attend the burial. Zon’s confraternity brothers are burying him per their rituals.”

“Understood.” It made sense that the beast-handlers’ confraternity would have the proper rituals for burial away from a temple and priests. And no one wanted outsiders poking into funeral rites or other confraternity secrets. Tycho offered his own prayers. Zon had been one of the younger beast-handlers, but seemed to be learning quickly. Wagon crashes, drowning, plague, wounds that went rotten, being kicked by a great-hauler, or crushed by a load that shifted as it was moved, and robbers, all the ways people died on the road. And farmers and the nobles grumbled about merchants doing nothing but sitting in their wares-houses and offices, growing fat? That courtier from Harnancourd who Tycho had collided with as a journeyman should have come along on this trip. “Pampered money counter my ass,” Tycho hiss-whispered as he re-tied the cover on the wagon.

He didn’t sleep well that night. The trees blocked some stars, but not all of them, and he stared up as the glittering hosts crossed the clearing. He kept seeing the wagon fall and hearing the birds’ screams, hearing the crunch of breaking bones and wood. The trees had begun to hiss a little as wind moved their pointed tops by the time he finally dozed off. Even then he was awake well before sunrise. He gave up sleeping and rolled out of his blanket-pack, dressed, and pulled on his boots. He crept to the edge of the camp and watered a tree, then eased back and added a small piece of wood to the fire’s dim red glow. What was that? He froze in a crouch, listening. The whispers. Those were not tree sounds. His heart began beating faster and he walked as silently as he could to his wagon. He considered for a moment, then pulled his sword out of the wagon box and buckled it on. He picked up his staff as well and went looking for a guard.

He found one. The man, one of the soldiers they’d hired in Platport, seemed to be asleep. Tycho nudged him with the butt of his staff. Nothing. He poked again. No sign of movement. “Oh shit.” He crouched and felt for heart beats. As he did, he saw something dark and wet on the man’s face, like blood from a scalp wound. “Wake up! Robbers!”

“Damn him!” someone called from the woods, and a dark shape surged toward Tycho. He raised his staff, blocking a sword. Tycho switched hands and drew his own blade, twisting his wrist to catch the sword loop. The robber swung overhead, a cleaving blow, but Tycho blocked and deflected it, then smashed the staff into the man’s face. The thief staggered back, uninjured but off balance, and Tycho followed up with a thrust at the belly. The sword connected but something stiff part-deflected the strike and Tycho twisted, using the staff to ward off the robber’s blade as he backed up. “Merchies can’t use a sword,” the attacker yelled. He sounded confused.

Tycho saw motion—a shadow off to the side—and ducked a blow, swinging the staff low. It connected with something, probably a knee, and he heard a yelp. His first attacker hesitated and Tycho used the staff like a pole-arm, jamming it into the man’s abdomen just above his belt. “Oork.” The robber doubled over. Tycho closed and sliced up, catching the throat. The sword cut flesh. As the robber clutched his throat, making bubbling, gasping sounds, Tycho turned, dodging to the right in time to avoid a stab from behind. Instead the long knife slashed the dying thief. Tycho slammed his staff down onto the second man’s shoulder. The robber twisted away, exposing his back, and Tycho jammed his sword home. The man screamed, then dropped, almost pulling Tycho off his feet. Tycho heaved the sword free and turned, looking for more trouble. There! He hurried to where they’d left the great-haulers penned.

No time. Tycho let go of the blade, trusting the sword knot, and brought the staff up over his head like a club, slamming it down on a scraggly man’s metal scull cap. Thunk, thief and staff descended together. The thief did not move. The guard he’d threatened nodded his thanks, shook a little, and went looking for the next target. Tycho turned, his back to the temporary pen, and took a staff-fighter’s stance, heart racing, panting.

No one approached him. Red and yellow light flared brighter as someone fed the camp fire. The sounds of fighting tapered away and three guards and a merchant finished one last robber. “If you’re dead, speak up,” Hardrad called.

“Not dead but I need a drink,” came from the edge of the trees.

“Doesn’t count.”

Tycho tipped his head up, trying to ease tight shoulders. The stars looked fainter, and the black sky seemed more gray. He rolled his head back and forth, then looked down at his sword. Dark splashed the metal. Similar dark and what might be hair stuck to the iron bands and cap on his staff. He needed to clean both before the metal started to corrode. Since the attack seemed over, he set the staff down and wiped the sword on the prone robber’s tunic, then removed as much detritus from his staff as possible. Was the man dead? Tycho sheathed the blade, drew his kidney knife, and felt for heat beats. Yes, there they were, but slow. The man’s chest didn’t seem to be moving much. In the growing twilight, Tycho observed an enormous dent in the man’s skull, surrounded by blood and bone. The robber wasn’t going to live unless someone removed the metal skullcap from his brain, then kept the exposed wound clean and removed all the bone bits.

A guard walked up, looked at the flat robber, then gestured to Tycho’s knife. “He’s not going to wake up.”

“No, he’s not.” Tycho crouched down, considered finishing the job, then stood. The man would die without ever waking, so why bother? He’d brought death onto himself by trying to rob the caravan. He wasn’t in pain, so he didn’t need a mercy stroke.

Dawn broke and the rising sun softened the darkness under the trees. The sun had almost reached midday before the caravan began moving once more. They brought the dead guard, three injured men who had to ride, four who could walk, and certain bits of the dead thieves with them. “This one said merchants can’t use swords,” Tycho told Hardrad, tapping the body with the toe of his boot.

“He was wrong.” Hardrad looked around. “Something’s strange about this.” He wouldn’t say anything more, and Tycho returned to sorting out great-haulers and beast-handlers. None of the birds had escaped, Yoorst be praised, and the two that survived the wagon accident could walk and keep up with the others. The men who had not been in the fighting dug a pit and they piled the bodies of eight would-be robbers into it, after stripping them of anything useful or valuable. Several looked as if they might have recovered from their wounds, aside from their throats having been cut to the spine. They made their choice, Radmar had turned the wheel against them, and that was that. Everyone knew what happened to thieves who failed to get away, especially this far from a city or village.

They buried the guard in a deep grave beside large rocks at the edge of the forest. The caravan stayed on the move, for the rest of the day, hurrying past their previously planned camping spot. As they rounded a bend beyond the camping meadow, they found the ashes of a campfire, quite cold, and the remains of a butchered and cooked animal, although what kind Tycho wasn’t able to tell. The head guard looked from the fire’s ashes back up the road, eyes narrowing, one eyebrow coming up to brush his hair and then settling again. “Keep going. We need to be away from this meadow.”

They didn’t stop until the sun lacked a hand-width from setting. Hardrad and the guards conferred, then had the merchants form a tight camp, easily defended. It would be much harder for someone to sneak up on them in the open grassy area, but no one wanted to take chances. “We were blessed. And lucky,” Hardrad said as they gnawed road-biscuit that night. “We stopped too early and they attacked too late. If they’d been more patient, we’d have walked into an ambush and probably have lost the last few wagons.”

“Fools,” the chief guard spat. “Instead of waiting, it seems to me that they came to get us, but so late that we were awake. Or some of us were. Whoever yelled about robbers, please thank your bladder for me. I’ll buy it a beer.” Much laughter followed, and Tycho laughed but didn’t volunteer. “We’ll turn the evidence in at Panvoor. I have no doubt someone will miss at least one of the thieves. Mail doesn’t grow on armor trees, even as ill fitted and patched as that set is. I just hope they were not friends of anyone we’ll cross paths with.”

Tycho silently and fervently echoed that hope. One man’s thief might be another man’s hero and provider, and who hadn’t heard ballads about noble sons turned road-robber?

11

Claims and Coins

“I recognize it. The armor, not the other bits,” the leader of the town guard snorted. “Silman Rat-gut, or at least that’s what we called him. Son of someone in the duke’s court. Got himself disinherited and then declared out law at least once, did some bully work for the duke’s youngest before he lost a race with a horn-tusker. Rat-gut won’t be missed, least of all by his kin.”

That made Tycho feel much better. The grain merchants were also happy, because the priestess on duty at Gember’s temple had a scribe write out affirmations that most of what they carried was not leb-grain. “We don’t eat much wheat here,” she explained. “Some of our people came from the east, and they vowed not to eat wheat for some reason. Their children follow the same vow. We grow more barka and hairy oats.” She’d written out several pages for the traders.

The guard leader continued, “I’ll keep my ears open for anyone missing relatives. The only other man that sounds familiar might be Nobuk from the farm the other side of the big ponds, but a lot of men have dark hair, square faces, and bad teeth. Any scars or other marks on him?”

“Not that I noticed, and none of them were wearing fancy clothes. We left their boots with them.” Hardrad said.

“Thank you. I don’t want them haunting someone. Although they’d probably foul that up as badly as they fouled up the attack on you.” The warrior did not sound impressed. He spat, shook his head again, and grumbled, “I could have done a better job with a group of temple novices of Moha the Blind.”

“Have you had any problem with false coin?” Tycho thought Hardrad sounded a little too casual.

“From where?”

“Platport, Marshburt, Vlaaterbe, a few other places. Showed up in a few cities last year.”

The soldier nodded slowly. “Marshburt and Platport. Coins stank and the metal’s no good for anything. You know where they’re coming from?”

Hardrad shook his head. “Not yet. Platport has changed their coins. They are all new, good silver, with a different mint mark. Here,” he showed one to the gangly guard.

“Aye, that’s different.” He squinted at the coin, sniffed it, and returned it. “Are they faking gold too?”

“Not that we’ve seen or heard. Who has gold coin enough to fake?”

The guard snorted again. “Point. Oh, if you find anyone claiming to be from Liambruu, send ‘em to me or tell one of the other towns’ watch. The duke doesn’t trust them, since they are supposed to stay south of the mountains, per their king’s orders.”

“Will do.” Hardrad and Tycho returned to their business as the men dickered with some of the guards over something, probably the coat of mail and padded gambeson. The king of Liambruu really was foolish, Tycho mused, if he thought he could keep people from crossing borders. Did he not have shepherds and flock watchers? They went where the grazing was and Yoost take the rest.

The caravan moved ever south, across land almost as flat as the sea. Hardrad’s caution about the lack of water proved true. They found very few streams, and the caravan rests all had pumps and troughs. “Don’t drink pond water, unless it has been raining for a few days and you boil the water,” one of the men at the second caravan rest said. “There are places with salt in the soil, and something else, bitter white stuff that looks like salt from a distance. All it will do is give you the runs.” He snorted. “Just what everyone wants, a case of the shits in a place with no trees or water.” The only trees seemed to grow in clumps, and a cluster of trees became the sign of houses and towns. Had the gods made the place without trees? Why? Had there been a terrible fire, or were the trees all cut down during the Great Cold? Tycho shrugged a little and walked along, glad of the shade under his hat.

At the noon halt that day Tycho walked over to the edge of the road for a closer look at some of the plants growing between the public way and a farm field. Some looked like grain, and he picked one of the seed heads and rubbed it. It stung his fingers and he dropped the grains without even trying to smell them, then brushed his fingers against his leg. Not anything he’d care to eat, and he studied the plant, trying to memorize it in case the leaves burned even worse than the seeds. Since no one was looking his direction and he didn’t see anyone in the field, he relieved himself. Then he saw a disk in the soil at the edge of the plowed field, not far beyond the stinging plant.

Tycho picked up the disk and discovered three coins stuck together. He rubbed the dirt off and smiled, rubbed a little more, and studied his find. They looked very, very old, with a pattern he’d heard of but never seen, a sun and something else. He vaguely recalled the archive priest he’d once talked to about old coins saying that some of the religious books proclaimed the sun design as ill-omened and that’s why it was not to be used on coins. “Things changed with the Great Cold, and perhaps someone thought that the sun-pattern had angered the gods and so they’d taken the sun away,” the priest had said with a chuckle. “I’ve never seen a coin with a sun on it, nor heard of many being given to the temples, even in the south.” Tycho slipped the coins into his special purse-in-a-purse, brushed his hands on his tunic, and returned to where the others rested.

They’d been on the plateau for five days when Hardrad announced, “We’re two days from Milunis. That’s the good news. The not so good news is that we have a long descent ahead, and a dry day before we reach the next water.”

“How long is long?” Jens asked.

“All day. The land slopes back down to the city, although we’re still above where we started.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Have any of you seen the great cataract on the Moahne?” Head shakes, but two of the older guards raised their hands. “That’s why the road doesn’t follow the river.”

Why was a dry slope a problem? Did it make the road rough after rains? Tycho practiced blocks with his staff, pairing off with Jens for a few exercises, then stretching out on his bed roll. He found a rock in the small of his back, moved the rock, and listened as the camp settled down for the night. The great-haulers made quiet grumbles and gurgles, occasionally fluttering their wings and scattering dust and bits of the tiny white rocks that seemed to be everywhere. The sound turned his thoughts back to the slope. If it were too steep, the wagons would push the great-haulers and possibly overrun them. So they’d use the brakes and drag-logs if they could find any. Or was it the water at the bottom of the slope that Hardrad worried about? Tycho rolled over, his left shoulder still unhappy about his exertions during the fight. If anything the last stretch should be easier because the great-haulers would want to go to— Oh! They wanted water, they were being pushed by the wagons, and they might run. With the wagon uphill behind them, if the birds tried to stop, they’d be run over and dragged. Tycho shuddered. No, that would not end well for anyone.

Farms grew more numerous as the caravan plodded along, and Tycho saw some dairy goat herds. Did they make hard cheeses here? If so he might see if they were worth buying to take home. Although transport in the heat… Well, hard traveled better than soft, like that soft green crumbly thing from Corwin that some people claimed was what the gods had intended when they created cheese. If so, the gods had at best a most unusual preference in cheeses. And you couldn’t make melted cheese things out of it, or batter and fry it. The lead great-hauler tossed her head, dragging Tycho back to the moment. He had a list of things he wanted to acquire provided they were not too dear. And provided Maartin Corwinda did not demand too high a percentage of interest.

He also needed new boot-soles. Both pair were starting to show wear, and to let him feel wear, although that heavy hide had lasted well thus far.

“So, Tycho,” Waltan started. “How much money will we lose with half the market being gone?”

“You mean Liambruu not allowing any trade?”

“Aye.” The stocky cloth merchant, too short for his legs or so it struck Tycho, pointed ahead with his whip. “No herbs, no silver-silk, no exotic woods and incense, no gauzes and fine cambrics.”

Since Gerta’s had spent half of her last letter fulminating about the havoc fine cambric blouses were wreaking on public morals among the younger and immodest set, their absence sounded to Tycho like a boon rather than a woe. But aloud he said, “I’d worry more about higher prices and short supply because of spoilage if preservation-mages and others are scarce. And if the grain problems from the north are as bad down here. Dear grain means less buying of anything else.”

“I was wondering about that. Have you see ought besides wheat that had those seeds in it? I thought I saw some barka but its hard to tell since the grain hadn’t been hulled, just threshed and sacked.”

Tycho sipped from his waterskin and thought. “I have not, but I‘ve not gone looking, either. That bread we had north of Gheelford. Was that just wheat or was it wheat-n-rye?”

“Too long past for me to recall. Hey, now, what’s bothering you?” Waltan let the great-hauler have a little rope as the gelding shook his head, then tossed it twice. Tycho sniffed the wind but didn’t smell anything other than dust and something sour that stung his throat. Sour? “I see smoke, over there,” Waltan pointed under the great-hauler’s neck with his whip.

A thin wisp of dark grey rose from a field in the distance. Were they burning stubble? Stubble of what? Tycho looked left and right, and saw a field that seemed to be green fallow, with tall weeds that had grey fuzzy flowers. That’s what was in the grain! The priestess of Gember had said it was plants that grew in fallow and were collected for the fluff that gave mages such headaches. And oil-seeds burned dark, not white, any oil-seeds. “That’s what it is. They are burning fallow, or burning the trash from those tall plants there,” Tycho pointed to the right side of the road, his side. “They use the fluff for padding but the seeds are oily and they burn them. Priestess of Gember told me back before we crossed the Moahne.”

“Can they spin the fluff?” Waltan’s eyes narrowed with speculation.

“They do, but into other things, not on its own, or so she said. Anyone with mage-blood has to leave the seeds alone because the seeds gives them headaches.”

“Oh.” Waltan dropped a little. “I’m not touching it then, even if the fluff is safe.”

“No.” Tycho added, “Last thing we need is angry notary-mages with headaches.” Notaries tended to be touchy enough as it was.

That evening Hardrad warned them about the descent into the city again. Tycho had noticed the easier going that day, and guessed that the faint blue in the distance ahead of them marked the mountains that separated Liambruu from the lands of the Great Northern Emperor. The manager of the caravan rest stood near Hardrad, arms folded, nodding his agreement with the warning. The manager’s bald head and strong arms reminded Tycho of a miller, or the man who ran the Ox’s Horn in Griklant. Tycho had seen the innkeeper pick up a table with one hand, lift it clean off the ground. No one started trouble in the Ox’s Horn. The caravan-rest manager had the same air of quiet watching. After Hardrad finished, he nodded to the manager, who brushed his hands on his apron before taking a step closer to the merchants.

“I have good news and bad. There are almost no mages in Milunis. Expect to pay three frein for the most basic of preservation spells, if you are in the city long enough to reach the top of the list and the mage casts for you. Yes, there are waiting lists.” Murmurs and groans swept the group. “Northern silver is suspect, so every coin will be weighed and tested, and do not protest or you will be arrested as a counterfeiter. The duke and the trade council have no patience for that sort of thing right now. They’ve got other, larger problems. If you have grain, you’ll sell it easily, especially wheat. The priests of Gember and Korvaal had to burn at least a tonne of corrupted wheat. And it will be checked. Do not protest, or you’ll be arrested if you are lucky. With the border closed, hides are also in demand, and if you have wax or lamp-oil, you can name your price within reason.”

He took a deep breath. “There are market stories, and I have not been within the walls for several weeks, so I don’t have the latest, but there are stories that the king of Liambruu, Sanchohaakon the Munificent, is claiming lordship of Milunis and the lands south of the Gheel.”

A hubbub arose from Tycho’s companions. “What?”

“Is he god-smote?”

“That’s why you wear hats in the sun.”

“How can he? The Emperor is our overlord, has been since the Great Cold!”

The manager raised a very large hand. Tycho wondered how he found gloves that fit. He’d need a whole great-hauler hide per hand, almost. The protests and grumbles faded. “As I said, rumor. Pure rumor as last I heard. But be careful, and no, no one is taking credit letters from Liambruu, and no merchants are allowed in or out of Liambruu.”

“Good to know, and thank you for the words,” Hardrad said after a moment’s quiet. “Is the curfew still in effect?”

“No, but gate open is at sunrise and gate close is when the last sliver of sun crosses the horizon.” Tycho nodded. That was how everyone did it unless curfew was in effect. “Oh, and there’s rumors of spotted fever west, about ten days travel west of the city, but it’s probably the usual summer fever in the swamp.”

“There’s always rumor of spotted fever,” Hardrad sighed, and a few of the guards and beast-handlers rolled their eyes.

That finished the meeting, and Tycho fell asleep easily for once.

The next day, he wondered if the gods had truly wanted him to travel so far south, or if perhaps he had misunderstood. The road to the river traveled straight, far straighter than most roads. “Supposed to be old, but I think the builder was just lazy,” one of the beast-handlers grumbled. “And no drag-logs. We’ll need new brakes on the wagons before we return to Platport.” Tycho was too busy setting the brakes to reply. He needed both hands—and preferably a third one to brace with—as well as lot of muscle to force the C-shaped wood and metal blocks against the axel. At least it wasn’t so steep they needed to tie the wheels and use drag-logs too. He had not seen enough trees to waste, which explained the lack of drag-logs, or so he guessed. Could you make some sets and rent them out to those who needed them? Probably, but then they’d have to be carried back up to the top of the hill. Tycho mulled over the idea, trying to sort out how to make a profit from loaning out drag-logs. Nothing simple came to mind before it was time to start down.

As before they’d sorted by weight, with the heaviest loads in front, in case they had a run away—there’d be fewer people at the bottom of the hill for the wagon to crash into. Tycho wondered if they ought to warn the other travelers walking toward Milunis, but decided that if they didn’t know what “clear the road, runaway!” meant, they needed far more aid than mortals could provide. The great-haulers ruffled their feathers and pawed, eager to get moving. At least the wind was from the north, pushing the scent of water away. That might help. Tycho thought he heard a sound like wind, but did not see any storms or signs of wind in the grass around them. The wagon in front of him groaned into motion, protesting against the brakes. He waited until it had rolled a wagon-length down the road, then nudged the lead great-hauler beside him into motion.

The sun had almost reached the mid-point in her journey before Tycho’s first wagon drew close to the river. The wind-like sound had grown louder, perhaps. He couldn’t hear over the squalling of the wagons as axels drug against brakes, loud and unceasing. None of the other men tried to speak, resorting to pointing and hand-signs to communicate if they had to. The slow trip gave him plenty of time to study the land, and the stone and wattle walls around what looked like kitchen-gardens and goat-pens. A few farmers worked in the fields, great-haulers pulling some kind of plow, or so he guessed. It turned the dirt at least. Women wearing floppy straw or rush hats over their headdresses worked up and down rows of pale green, leafy plants in some of the gardens, gathering large baskets of some kind of bean. Tycho smiled as he noted that the orchards stood well back from the road. Korvaal had declared that all fruit on the right-of-way belonged to any who picked or gathered it, so long as they did not use a crook or damage the tree. Apparently the farmers disagreed. A white goat bounced up onto the wall, bleating “Beeeeeeh!” Having thus proclaimed her supremacy to all who might hear, she jumped back into the little paddock and resumed eating.

Yoorst blessed the caravan. As he hammered the very hot brakes off of the axel, Tycho gave thanks. No wagons had run away. The birds had not tried to race to water until the wagons reached the bottom of the steepest part of the slope. His loads had not shifted. The beast-haulers unhitched the birds and watered them at a series of stone tanks connected by wooden pipes, away from the river proper. As men walked around and around, pushing large wooden poles, a pump brought water up from the ground and into the pipes. Tycho couldn’t see the river proper for the trees, but it smelled like swamp. The wind noise had turned into a roar. That must be the cataract, he decided, and if it was as large as it sounded, he preferred to stay well away.

After all had watered their birds and had eaten a little, Hardrad led the caravan into Milunis. They passed through the woods, and the road felt different under Tycho’s boots. It seemed higher than the land, but that couldn’t be, could it? He walked on the inside of the birds and the row of wagons, so he couldn’t see if they traveled on a raised path or not. The wagons ahead of him slowed down and he tugged the lead bird’s rope. “Road narrows, we have to go one at a time. They’re replacing the piles,” the beast-handler with the wagon in front of Tycho called.

“Understood.” They’d planned for things like this, and so he stopped, waiting. The wagons would alternate left row, right row, left row until all were past the obstruction. He wiggled his shoulders and bent over, easing his back. Now they had a south wind, and it felt cooler, but also wet. The marsh smell had grown stronger and stronger, rotting but rich, with mud and water and plant scents all rolled together. Which of the three rivers had the marshlands? Or was it all of them? If it was, that explained the fever warning. Sweat dripped and Tycho knew he needed a bath, and to wash his clothes. And resole his boots. The wagon beside him slowly began moving, angling across the road to take its place behind the previous vehicle. Once it had passed well clear, Tycho nudged the great-haulers and they stepped ahead.

To his great surprise, the road indeed sat well above the ground. Men worked on half the road, and he could see clear air between the path and the lush greens tens of feet below. The men ignored the travelers, instead struggling to lay heavy, rough-cut timbers into place on top of even larger pillars—no, entire trunks—of wood. “At least its not raining,” one of the men said, panting.

“At least you’re not pounding that base-log into the riverbed,” an older man with a walking staff snapped. “More to the left. More, yes, now forward again.” Tycho elbowed the great-hauler as she tried to nip a piece of shirt or hair off the closest man. She squalled and he twitched the rope on her halter, reminding her not to eat people. Especially people who were working far harder than Tycho wanted to.

The caravan reformed into two rows on the other side of the construction and repair. The birds slugged their heads as they pulled, and Tycho wiped more sweat. The wind had dropped away, and gnats swarmed, getting into ears and eyes. Just a little farther, he told himself, and he was not going to complain about the winds on the coast for quite a while. The dapple of shade grew thinner, and Tycho heard whistles ahead. Then he emerged from the trees and despite himself, his mouth dropped open.

Milunis shone white in the sun. Behind it, a row of jagged teeth snarled at the sky, pale blue against darker blue. Those peaks were four days’ travel away? They seemed much closer. A moat or canal flowed around the base of the city, below the walls. The walls did not have large towers, but the ones he could see warned that anyone trying to attack the city needed to reconsider. Pastures and gardens filled the space between the woods and the city, providing no cover. And floods wouldn’t ruin as much. He thought he saw a mill of some kind off to the right, where the wall and canal both bent to the south. This was a proper city. Which meant it had proper baths and inns and places to stay.

The guards studied each wagon, and made note of where all the men came from. Neither of the men appeared happy to see the caravan. They frowned even harder when they heard “Rhonari” and “Vlaaterbe.”

“You a mage?”

“No, sir,” Tycho tried to sound polite and respectful.

“Damn.” The soldiers moved to the next wagon and Tycho wondered what was going on. He’d probably learn soon if it were his business, and if it wasn’t then it wasn’t. Bad enough that he had to go grovel to Maartin Corwinda’s factor. He did not need any more trouble.

Milunis did not have a lodge specifically for his confraternity, but there were inns for traders from the Five Free Cities. He’d been told that the Blue Sea-fat also offered storage facilities and beast-lodging, so Tycho listened carefully to the inner-gate guard’s instructions on how to get there. On the way he passed a rather striking fountain in front of the temple of Gember and Korvaal. It seemed to be either a fish or a four-footed animal with a ridge down its back. He had difficulty telling which. He and his wagons continued past the fountain, turned left twice, and found a large inn with an even larger building behind it. A fat blue bird graced the hanging sign. “Yes, yes, I know. And you know that we do not take credit from Liambruu even if you are here on a diplomatic mission. And we are expecting a caravan. Either pay good coin or take yourself elsewhere.”

The words came from a plain-looking woman who spoke over a half-door to someone in a loose-fitting robe or vest over loose trousers, and a white shirt with long sleeves that came to a tight cuff at the wrist. What Tycho could see of the man’s boots suggested an eye for looks rather than quality, but he could be wrong. Several other people waited behind the speaker, all in similar loose clothes although much drabber. The man sniffed. “Oh. A caravan. I was told this was an inn for men of quality.” He spun around and called orders in a dialect Tycho barely understood. The men with the noble picked up bags and urged great-haulers into motion. The birds were paler than northern birds, but almost as large. Fortunately Tycho had ordered his men to follow in a single file, leaving most of the street open for the noble’s procession. Even so, they tried to crowd Tycho’s wagons.

“Oh he’s quality,” the woman said after the last of the great-haulers disappeared around a corner. “Just what quality, though,” she snorted.

Tycho approached and nodded. “Good afternoon, madam. I am Tycho Rhonarida and I seek lodging for myself and my birds, and storage for my goods.”

“Be welcome in the name of Maarsrodi and Maarsdam,” she enunciated. “We have rooms. Meester Corwinda’s man sent word through earlier travelers that your group had passed Moahnebrig.”

“Thanks in the name of Maarsdam,” he replied.

“You may pull in through the gateway,” she leaned over the door and pointed to the side. “We do not have any other beasts and wagons yet, so you may pick your section and pen.”

Tycho and the beast-handlers led the great-haulers under an arch, through a covered passage and into sunlight again. Tycho decided that close to the door was better. “Here.” A half-dozen boys appeared and began unloading the wagons, carrying the bundles of hides and other goods into the large stone building. It lacked windows, and Tycho wondered why. Perhaps to keep light from fading textiles? He oversaw the unloading and noted which pen the beast-handlers put his nineteen birds into. They pushed the empty wagons over into a corner, out of the way. “You will be at the inn near Yoorst’s temple?”

“Aye.”

“Your rooms have been paid for,” or so he hoped. He’d check after he visited Corwinda’s factor. “I will pay board every six days.”

“Thank ye, sir.” The men gathered their personal goods and left. Tycho checked on his goods once more, confirmed that his coin-chest was hidden under the wagon canvases, and picked up his own bags. He walked through the courtyard and gate to the half-open door. The woman unlatched it and stepped back into the shadows. She seemed to be shooing someone or something, and Tycho opened the door carefully, stuck his leg in and then followed it, latching the door behind him.

A crawler-baby and a little girl in a walking pen looked up at him from the floor. Tycho stepped around them and went to the counter. The sister-lady presented him with the guest book, and he signed, then paid with good coin. “Thank you, sir. Your room is on the third floor, blue-and-white stripes.” She studied him from hat to boots. “Would you like to use the baths? We have an on-site bath that can be ready after you inspect your room.”

“Thank you. I would like to wash.” He’d better wash, before someone accused him of selling half-tanned hides based on his smell. He went up the stairs to the third floor and found his room. The window opened to the street, and he had a small desk and stool as well as bed and storage chest. The chest smelled of aromatic wood, and the bedding appeared clean and free from surprises. Tycho carried his smallclothes back downstairs.

“This way, please sir.” The sister-lady led him through two rooms. “This is the dining common, and the meeting room. We have a notary on call should you need one. We do not allow goods exchanges on the property, and that is true of all the inns. Should someone attempt to sell to you from their inn, tell the market master. The duke’s rules,” she added, pulling open a door. He smelled a faint sort of metallic scent, and heard water. “This is a natural bath. The inn was built over it. If you will leave your smalls there,” she pointed to a basket. “They will be washed and returned to you tomorrow next. Towels are up there. The bath women are bath women, not prostitutes. If you would like social company, I will arrange an introduction.”

Bath women? “Very good, thank you sister-lady.”

“You are welcome. I leave you to your bath.” She departed. Tycho did not see anyone else, so he stripped, picked up a towel, and walked toward the sound of water. He blinked, covering himself as two women looked up from pouring water into a large wooden tub, like a laundry tub. They nodded to him and left the room. He found the soap and a wooden back-scratcher near the tub. He left he towel on a stool and climbed in. The water felt quite warm and very good. He soaped, using the scratcher to loosen any dirt on his back. He ducked his head under the water and scrubbed his hair. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

The water level began dropping, and hot water splashed into the tub! He froze, not daring to move until the water covered him once more and he heard footsteps moving away from him. So that was what bath women did. He rinsed in the fresh water, then stood. The towel had been moved onto a rack at hand-level, and he dried and climbed out of the tub. He found his cleanest smalls waiting on the stool. After he’d put them on, one of the women returned. She crouched down and removed a plug from the end of the oblong tub, allowing the water to flow out into a brick channel on the floor that seemed to run into a wall. “It goes to the washing house, sir,” she explained before he could ask.

“Ah, thank you.” Feeling a bit lost and confused, he waited until she left, dressed in the rest of his clothing, and found that his boots had been dusted. A man could get rather used to such service, although he shuddered to think what Gerta would say. Or worse—she would become accustomed to it. And they did not have a warm spring in the ground floor of the wares-house, so it would require fuel, which cost money.

Tycho collected his documents from his room, including the funds for the factor, and left to visit Maartin Corwinda’s office. He asked direction from the sister-lady.

“At the sign of the Leaping Hare on Water Street, sir?”

“Yes.”

The sister-lady closed one eye as she thought. “Go down towards the river. The roads all slope that way, so you cannot go too far afield. You want Water Street. It is not on the river, but two above the river, and is the highest we have had water thus far into the city. You will find the temple of Donwah. From there turn, ah,” she blinked. “Left and follow the street until you see the sign of the Leaping Hare. They serve beer and food, as well as having offices. Don’t eat the fried fish.”

Had Gerta written to her? “To Water Street, left at the temple of Donwah, the Leaping Hare, and no fish.”

“Don’t worry about the fish stew or steamed fish, sir, but they use leftovers for their fried fish. At least they taste like leftover fish.”

Tycho’s stomach warned that it would not tolerate twice-served fish. “Thank you.” He departed, walking slowly. As he went, he memorized landmarks, and made note of where the cobblers had their shops. He passed by the main market square in front of an elaborate town palace with a portico on the ground floor. A small wooden building with an open ground floor faced the palace on the opposite side of the square, set in front of the other buildings far enough that a wagon could pass between them. A metal sign with scales on it hung from the side of the small building. Ah. He also saw a number of the so-called town-carts he’d heard about, man-drawn two-wheeled carts that could navigate the streets more easily than wagons.

Tycho plodded along, watching the people. They watched him as well, angry looks that cleared after a moment. The first few times he wondered what he’d done wrong, but after the fifth or sixth time, he started to think that they were mistaking him for someone else. As he walked, he noticed that the buildings on the corners of the streets had little pictures on them, just above head height. He’d been walking past schaef hides. He stopped at a crossroads when he saw the road steepen abruptly ahead of him, dropping away from the building beside him. He looked to the left, and saw that that building had waves painted on it. Ah! Water Street, so had he been on Hide Street? Tycho turned left, since there was not much on the right unless he wanted to inspect the city wall. After another crossroads he found the temple of Donwah, painted light blue with waves carved into the walls and steps. He kept walking until he saw a sign with a hare stretched out as if in mid-leap. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he needed the letter of credit and that only a fool did not put business before personal feelings.

Tycho ducked into the doorway as two men left, deep in conversation about the price of millstones. How did they get millstones here? He hoped they had a quarry not too far away. He stepped to the side of the door, looking into the shadows. “You are looking for Corwindes?” a young woman asked as she hurried past with five beer tankards.

“Yes.”

“Back corner, knock twice then go in.” Tycho walked between tables and benches and saw the door with the colors of Corwin on it. He knocked twice, then pushed. The door remained closed. He pulled and it opened. Feeling like a fool, he ducked under the low lintel.

“Come in, come in good sir, in Maarsdam’s name. You must be Meester Tycho Galnaar Rhonarida,” a cheerful voice called. “Back this way, please. I apologize for not greeting you at the door, but I do not move as well as I once did.”

A pale man with curly hair waved from behind a large desk near a large open window. Rows of low shelves extended left and right behind the desk, filled with papers, sacks, ink-pots, and other items of a scribe’s trade. “I am Aloro Malraand, Maartin’s factor here in Milunis. I also take care of conversions and keep a list of special orders, should someone need them.”

Tycho held out his seal. He wanted to growl, but it was hard to stay angry with the clerk’s cheerful smile. The clerk leaned forward, stretching to reach it, and Tycho met him half-way. “What is the current conversion rate?”

“It depends on the currency, and if the king of Liambruu continues pouring silver into the city. At the moment, being this morning when the eight-day rates were set, the market rate was two vlaat to the frein for tested northern coins. Four vlaat to the frein for the new Platport silver, if you have any, and four liamb to the frein.”

Tycho set the pouch of coins onto the counter, marveling once more at how much faster information and rumor traveled than men did. “I have these for coin down against the letter of credit.”

Aloro opened the pouch and counted. He made the conversion on a bead tally and wrote something down with a white lump on a piece of black-painted wood. “Excellent! I will be able to send a letter of reference to the market master giving you a good balance.” He turned on his stool, removed three pieces of paper from two stacks, and presented one to Tycho. “This is the letter of credit your agent in Gheelford said you required.”

“Yes, since I can’t carry enough coin to do what I need.” He read over it. Forty kog, or two thousand vlaat, that was the correct amount. Three percent interest, due in fourteen days, then the principal due as soon as possible before he left the city walls. Ugh, he hated seeing that. “Is this at the northern vlaat or Platport?”

“Northern vlaat, sir,” he wrote something, sealed it with his seal, then with Tycho’s, and puffed on the ink. “Ah, your agent said that you had a most unusual and large hide that you had brought along, and some white-fish teeth?”

“Yes, a white-fish hide, tanned, but the teeth were claimed by the count in Moahnebrig.” Just saying the words set his teeth on edge.

“His grace Duke Malnaan asks that we inform him of any true exotics. He pays,” Aloro said quickly. “He prefers not to lose trade through greed.”

“He is wise.”

“He has been blessed with any number of bad examples to learn from,” Aloro said to the page as he wrote. “If you would counter-sign, please sir?” He passed the contract to Tycho, who read carefully to make certain that everything was the same as the original letter. It was, and he accepted the quill and ink and signed. “Thank you.”

“You said that the king of Liambruu has been spending silver here?” That sounded strange.

“He has and yet he has not. His agents have been giving silver to the temples and to the beggars, and paying their bills, wonderful to relate, but not paying on the king’s debts. And,” the pale man shook his head, then stopped. “He is claiming all the land south of the Gheel. And says he has proof that his claims predate the Great Cold. I do not take them seriously, but some do.”

“Hum. I heard the same on the road.” The mention of the Great Cold reminded him. “Is there a priest of Korvaal who is an archivist?”

Aloro blinked, frowning a little as he looked to the side, one eye narrowed. “Yes, I believe there is,” he said, slowly. “Brother Arnolfini in the main temple.”

“Thank you.” He would ask the priest to look at the coins that day. It was too late to do much business.

12

Troubled Markets

Tycho stopped in the market to get something to eat and to watch and learn how the locals had arranged things. The next large market, not quite a fair, would begin in four days, and he wanted a feel of the place before he set to work. He bought toasted cheese on bread and stood in the shade of the weigh building to eat, then strolled between the tables, looking at the fruit and breads and some local weavings and wood-carvings. Nothing caught his eye, at least, not until the man he’d heard at the inn raised his voice.

“What do you mean four liamb to the frein? That’s good silver coin, not the debased garbage from the north.” Tycho was not the only man who drifted closer to the sound of an argument.

“His grace sets the rates in consultation with the smiths, sir, and it is four liamb to the frein.” The man, a fine cobbler by the looks of his wares, stuck his lower jaw out. “This quality leather is at least ten frein per hide if I can find one good enough, so the shoes cost in proportion.”

“Leather is leather, and shoes cost ten liamb when I buy them.”

Tycho got a better look at the man’s boots and decided that either he was lying or hides fell from the skies in Liambruu. He wagered on lying.

So did the cobbler. “Then show a payment page and speak to the priest of Yoorst and the market master if you believe these are too high. I charge cost plus a living, like any honest man.”

“How dare you claim honesty? May Maarsdam strike you for lying.”

The cobbler jumped to his feet, looked past the obnoxious noble, and pointed to Tycho. “You! Merchant! You are of Maarsdam, are you not?”

Tycho lifted his staff. “I am a merchant and follower of Maarsdam of Rhonari, yes.”

“What say Maarsdam’s priests about just price?”

Tycho stood straight and planted the staff into the stones of the market square with a firm thump. “Maarsdam holds that necessities, grain and leb-bread, fuel in winter and other times of cold, foods of necessity, clothes to cover nakedness, and life medicines are to be sold at cost plus effort, no more than ten percent above cost. The priests of Gember, Yoorst, and Maarsdam may declare other items to be life necessities as time and place demand. Luxuries are cost plus transport plus a reasonable increase for life and quality.” Those were the basics all agreed upon. After that it became complicated indeed.

“Are shoes a necessity?” the cobbler demanded.

“They are to the traveler,” the noble snapped, reaching for the cobbler’s wares.

Tycho moved faster, putting his staff between the men. “Not if one is already well shod.” Everyone looked at the stranger’s boots, and snickering and growls began rising from the gathered people.

The noble turned and moved closer to Tycho, who kept the staff between them, just in case. He would not attack the fool, but he would certainly defend himself, especially with this many witnesses. “You. I will remember you, northern scum,” the noble hissed. He spun around, waving his hand in a curt summoning motion. His guards shoved a clear space open for him to leave. The people growled, and more than one made the horns at the foreigner’s back.

“ ‘E makes the Scavenger’s priests look friendly,” a woman in the crowd said.

“Truly a noble representation of his lord and master,” a tinner avowed. That raised more laughter, and everyone returned to their business. Tycho turned to leave for the temple when the cobbler stopped him.

“Thank you for your witness. Maarsdam smile on you and your trade.”

“Maarsdam and Yoorst be with you.” If that man was supposed to be an agent or ambassador for the king of Liambruu, he certainly seemed to be winning his master little or no favor among the people of Milunis, at least thus far. Tycho strolled back to the temple of Gember and Korvaal, thinking about the market and how he was going to present the white-fish hide to the duke if the noble decided he was interested.

The priest on duty blinked a little at Tycho’s request. “Ah, one moment, good sir.” Tycho took the opportunity to make a small gift to both Korvaal and Gember. Both had aided him in the past. “I hope those were good coin,” a cranky voice said.

Tycho turned to see one of the oldest men of his acquaintance thus far approaching, the duty priest in tow. “Only a fool gives false coin to the gods,” Tycho replied. “I am often foolish but not a fool.”

“Good answer,” the age-hunched priest allowed. “I’m Brother Arnolfini.”

Tycho decided that he liked the priest’s approach to things. “Tycho Rhonarida. I found old coins at the edge of a field and was curious to know if the temple records showed their marks.”

“Hmf. Maybe. Come with me. I don’t work well standing.” Brother Arnolfini led Tycho around the main sanctuary of Korvaal, down a short hallway, and through a room full of writing men. “Of the making of books there is no end, and much weariness of the flesh thereunto.” The stooped man opened a door, turned right, and opened another door into a well-lit room lined with papers and books, scrolls, and cases of what seemed to be coins. “Seal bases from the surrounding temples,” Arnolfini waved at the cases. “We are the master house. Sit, sit, and show me what you found.”

Tycho opened his pouch, fished out the three coins, and set them on the top of the archivist’s table. He’d rinsed them a little but not truly cleaned them.

“Hmm.” The priest poured a little water onto a flat glass dish and peered through it at the coins. “Hmm.” He turned the coins over. “Ah. Interesting.” He set the dish down and leaned back a little. “What do you think they are?”

The priest must have been a teacher, Tycho sighed. “I suspect that they are old, given how thick they are and that the designs were cut deep enough to still be clear. I have some old and unusual coins, I collect them, and a priest in Gheelford told me that ancient southern coins used a sun pattern but no one else does or did that he knew of.”

“Correct.” The priest leaned back a little and met Tycho’s eyes. “The sun pattern. Some manuscripts, documents that I don’t entirely trust but that are all we have, say that just after the Great Cold the sun sign became anathema because the lands north of the Comb Range gave their allegiance to the Great Northern Emperor. Since the empire began during the Great Cold, or so other sources claim, the sun-sign disappeared. I agree that the coins are old. I suspect the design belongs to a kingdom that came before the Cold, but have no way to know.”

Tycho fought off an enormous smile. He’d guessed right. He was having a new case made. Unless, “Ah, Brother Arnolfini, is it banned to have the coins because of the design?”

“No. They were made before the design was prohibited, so what harm, so long as you do not try to use them for coin magic.” He scowled. “I trust that is not your intent?”

With a pure and clean conscience and straight face, Tycho said, “No, sir, not at all. I just do not care to have difficulties simply for owning them.”

“Good,” Brother Arnolfini snapped. “I’m sick and tired of coin magic and false coin.”

“Ah, sir, have the mages found a way to determine the false coin?”

The priest glowered past Tycho’s shoulder. “I’m told they had, shortly before the illness struck this spring. Now we have no mint-mages, one preservation mage, two healing-mages but one of them is not well herself, and a single beast-mage. No light-mages, no fire-mages, no notary-mages,” he thumped a knobby fist on the table top.

“The farther south I’ve been the fewer mages survived,” Tycho thought aloud. “As if there was less of the contaminated grain or whatever caused the illness in the north.”

Brother Arnolfini leaned forward, bright blue eyes skewering Tycho. “Repeat that.”

Tycho gulped. “Ah, I began in Platport. Half their mages and fewer mage-blood had died or were so ill and weakened that they could not work. That was before the equinox. The caravan first encountered the bad grain north of Gheelford, and it made our beast-mage ill, three guards and one merchant as well, but they all recovered. Only a few healers had not been affected by the mage illness in Gheelford, and we saw some of the bad grain there. It was wheat, intermixed with a grey seed, sour smelling that burned grey. Supposedly it had been river salvage. I asked a priestess of Gember a few days south of Gheelford and she said the grey seed might have come from that fuzzy grey topped plant that is used for stuffing and grows in fallow.”

“Go on.”

“Sir, it looks a little like fire-seed—the spice—but the priestess said that even being around the weed seed gave mages terrible headaches, so the seed is burned after the fluff is picked off, and the fluff is used as stuffing or spun in with other fibers, never on its own.” Tycho took a deep breath. “She said that she had heard someone from farther south claim that people in Liambruu used it to make a sour bread, but she was not certain if it was the same seed or something that looked close.”

“They don’t eat it. They have something very similar, bred out of fire-seed, but it grows in fields and has no fuzz. We use it here as well, if there is a…shortage…” The old priest’s words trailed off. “You said you first saw the contaminated grain in Gheelford?”

“Ah, well, yes and no, sir. That is,” Tycho said quickly. “Last winter I saw a sack of grain in Rhonari that had a seal without any magical element in it and that smelled odd, like the false coin of last year. But the sack was sea-salvage, so any magic may have washed off. The sack in Gheelford, the seal was the same as the Rhonari sack, and stank when you rubbed it. One of the bags was opened and it had vermin because it lacked preservation spells.”

“Smelled like the bad coin?”

Tycho had begun to sweat a little. “My hand to Maarsdam, yes. If you rubbed the false coin, they stank. There were rumors that the coins only appeared after the first ships from Liambruu appeared, but no one had proof, and the coins were easy to find as soon as you rubbed them. Ah, or if you put them in vinegar.”

“If you what?” Brother Arnolfini blinked. “You put them in vinegar?”

“I do it to clean some of the coins, sir, if the white dirt is too sticky. The false coin made lots of bubbles in vinegar, like white rock does, and got brighter, not cleaner, but more polished.” It sounded silly and Tycho hunched his shoulders a little.

“Korvaal strike me for a fool.” Brother Arnolfini smiled, showing several missing teeth. “Tycho Rhonarida, you are a most unusual and observant man. However,” He raised a finger that lacked a first joint. “I would suggest you keep those observations to yourself for the moment. I will speak to my colleague on the other side of the wall and see what she knows about the grains.”

The other side of the wall? Oh, he meant the priestess of Gember. That made sense. “I will keep myself to myself, sir. I am a northern foreigner here, and not known, and the false coin did appear to come from the north.”

“Good thinking. Keep the coins as Korvaal’s gift in exchange for your knowledge.” Tycho put the three coins back into his collecting pouch. The bent-over priest led him back through the writing room to the main temple area. The priest raised one hand. “Korvaal’s blessing be upon you, may your land prosper and harvest be heavy. Go in peace.”

Tycho bowed. Only after Brother Arnolfini turned to go back to his territory did Tycho straighten up and depart. He certainly had a great deal to think about, and these would be the oldest coins in his collection!

The next morning Tycho went to the weigh-building in the market to present his seal and letter of credit. Several other merchants already waited outside the market master’s office, and Tycho nodded to Yergin and Waltan. A light rain had fallen overnight, washing the air. Women and apprentices bustled past with baskets and town-carts of various things.

Waltan turned to Tycho. “Have you heard any more about bad coin?”

“No, although they are charging a higher rate for Platport new coin and are not accepting old.”

“What’s the exchange then?” Waltan’s forehead wrinkled under the short brim of his hat.

“I was told four Platport new vlaats to the frein, two vlaats per frein otherwise, and four liamb to the frein.”

Yergin winced. “I dearly want to get my hands on whoever made that bad coin.”

“There are a lot of people who have the same desire,” Waltan chuckled, without humor. “Perhaps, if he is caught, there will be a lots drawing to sort out who gets him first.”

“Whoever he is, he certainly wasted a lot of metal. Platport, Marshburt, a few other places,” Yergin listed.

Tycho held up a finger. “And Chin’mai. I kept that one because it is so strange.”

Waltan blanched. “Chin’mai? Oh, that was deathly foolish.” The other men looked at him, and he swallowed hard. “I was not there. My cousin was. He sails, and on a voyage to Chin’mai, while he was in port, a man was convicted of selling false goods under the royal seal. Ah, the king of Chin’mai is considered part god. So not only was he cheating customers, he blasphemed by using the seal. My cousin said they put him in a kind of cage with his arms and legs hanging out of it, and lowered it into the sea just off the end of the pier. Where the butchers and fish-wives dumped offal. Slowly. They lowered it a little at a time.” Waltan swallowed again. “The healers kept him alive for four days as the fish and sea creatures ate him. My cousin said no one on his ship dared touch any food with fish in it until they got back to Bushmakk.”

Despite the sun, Tycho felt the need for a hot drink, preferably one with a large dollop of spirits of wine in it. The man needed to be punished, indeed, but slowly eaten alive? Tycho didn’t want any fish either, and they were far from the sea. “Next!” Yergin ducked into the office.

Tycho was glad when his turn came. The market master peered at him, as if the man were short sighted. His grey-flecked hair, what little of it appeared out from under his skullcap, failed to hide his large bald area. “I’m Sabo. You are?”

“Tycho Rhonarida.” He presented his letter of credit and the addendum.

Sabo read over it. “Maartin Corwinda. I’ve worked with him. He never spoke of you.”

“We are not on speaking terms outside of business.” Tycho tried to keep a bland expression.

He failed, and Sabo demanded, “He steal your wife?”

“Insulted my wife at our wedding feast in front of the confraternity and the city council of Rhonari. Claimed he had kin-right to do so.” Tycho spoke through gritted teeth. It still rankled after twenty something years. “I knocked some sense into him and tossed him out the door. Even if he was drunk and my wife’s brother, there’s no excuse.”

Sabo’s eyebrows rose to meet his missing hair. “Ah! And yet he vouches for you?”

“And I for him. He is a solid businessman and good money manager.” And the back-end of a schaef.

Sabo appeared to be fighting not to laugh. “All the more reason to trust this, then, since it is based on business reputation and not friendship.” He made notes on a long sheet of paper. “Seal?”

Tycho gave it to him. He studied it closely, compared it to something in a slender book, and nodded. “Do you trade in stones?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. There is a stone trader who has a similar pattern, but without the ship. I’ll make a note that this is you, and so long as you don’t try to do anything with stones except purchase, you will have no difficulties.” Sabo made a few more notes. “The scales will open tomorrow at the second hour after gate-open. Main market the next day. The booth map will be on the wall tomorrow, back of the scale house. All coins are weighed, and we are not allowing any old Platport coin. The city looks to Donwah.” He looked up at Tycho.

“I have found her temple.”

“Good. Show me your receipt before the market’s second day if you do not have it with you now. All disputes are handled in the ducal court, which will meet twice, once in the second week, once on the day after market close.” Sabo returned all the documents, with an additional two. “Keep the narrow one on the side of your sales space, so all know that you have credit here. And no selling out of an inn. If someone tries, tell me. Duke Malnaan’s orders. He doesn’t like dealing with bad contracts signed by drunken fools.”

That made sense, of a sort. Who got drunk during supper? Perhaps it was a local custom. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” The market master looked down at his papers again. “Shoo. Maarsrodi be with you.”

“Maarsdam grant you profits.”

Once back in the open air, Tycho moved out of the way of people coming and going near the market master’s office and debated what to do next. As he was thinking, he saw the man from Liambruu speaking with someone in red and white livery. The younger man seemed irritated, moving his hand with a chopping motion before turning and walking toward the market master’s office. Tycho decided that he did not need to be noticed and started easing farther to the side, trying to stay in the shadows and out of the Liambruu man’s sight.

“Hold, sir,” the man in livery called, pointing to Tycho. Tycho stopped, although it was most rude to use a single finger like that. But perhaps customs differed here. The women certainly showed more calf and chest than they did in Rhonari. “Are you Tycho Rhonari the hide trader?”

“I am, sir.”

The young man nodded. “His grace Duke Malnaan wishes to look at your giant fish hide. The warehouse manager at the Blue Sea-fat said you would be here. May I see your papers?”

Tycho showed him.

“Excellent! His grace will send a cart for you and the hide at your lodging at midday.”

What to say? “I thank His Grace for his interest and I will have the hide ready to show.”

“Good.” The duke’s messenger hurried off. Tycho glanced around and noticed the man from Liambruu watching, a deep scowl on his face. Tycho regarded him mildly, then turned and went on his way. He did not have long to visit the temple of Donwah and then move all the hides that had been stacked on top of the white-fish. Of course it would be the one on the bottom that the customer wanted to look at first, he sighed a little. It always was.

Tycho was not the only merchant summoned. Waltan was there with northern ox wool dyed the blue of the southern sky and woven so lightly that you could almost see a hand through it. A spice trader had some incense of some kind. Tycho was not pleased with the smell, but he’d never had much sense as far as perfumes and incense. Ewoud did much better.

Duke Malnaan was tall, taller than almost anyone Tycho had seen before, and lean but not skinny. Though that could just be the cut of his clothing. He did not wear many gems, but the material and dyes in his light blue shirt, white leather vest, and dark red trousers would have paid for several great-haulers. He had good taste in leather as well, and the belt and boots were high quality but not showy. Tycho approved. Malnaan had a moderate voice, neither high nor low, and moved like an acrobat more than a noble, graceful like a woman but not effeminate.

At last they got to Tycho’s hide. The duke had not purchased anything thus far, making Tycho wonder a little. “And this is?”

“ A white-fish hide, your grace, from the north coast. It was caught at sea, not beach-death salvage.”

“Unfold it, please.”

Tycho and one of the pages carefully unwrapped the bundle and began spreading the hide. The pale leather expanded until it seemed to cover half the floor. Tycho had to remind himself that it was not as large as it looked. The tanners had preserved the pale grey-white color and faint sheen of the smooth hide. They’d trimmed the fins and flippers, but the tail remained intact more or less. The duke’s eyes bulged as he stared at it. He blinked several times, walked around the hide, then crouched down and felt it, picking up an edge and squeezing.

“By Donwah’s grace, I must have this!” He stood and nodded to Tycho. “How much?”

Did he dare go high? His gut suggested not too high. The duke looked like a man who should not be underestimated. “Three hundred fifty frien, your grace.”

“Three hundred fifty.” The duke looked up, as if studying the little flop of medium brown hair that fell onto the side of his face. His lips moved as he calculated. “Three hundred fifty it is. Horna, write out a receipt for Meester Tycho.” The duke nodded. “Meester Kalpor at the Silver Falls will pay you on the last day of the market. Show him the receipt to confirm that you are you. It is safer than paying you now and tempting the weak to follow you to your lodging.”

Tycho had done similar at the great trafelds, and bowed his agreement. “Your grace is most wise.”

“No, I just do not care to adjudicate an assault. Judicial proceedings try my patience.” He crouched down beside the hide again. “Thank you for bringing this so far. It is a true treasure.” That seemed to be a signal, and Tycho bowed again, took his receipt from the woman clerk, and walked back to his inn. Should he celebrate? No. He glanced at the temple of Radmar as he passed. The low building bearing Radmar’s great wheel seemed to loom without being large, and Tycho shook his head again. No celebrating.

13

Mage or Merchant?

Tycho felt a small pang as he pressed his seal into the weigh-seal on the first bundle of hides. The others saw the shimmer as the set-spell worked, confirming that he was Tycho Rhonarida and a true son of Rhonari, but there was no weigh-mage to affirm that the scales had not been tampered with. No notary-mage waited around the corner to test documents or to draw them up. No preservation-mage could spell-seal Tycho’s goods for their buyer if they were taken on the road. How were the mages’ families faring? Probably not well.

Strong men heaved the bundle off the scale and the next bundle onto it. Tycho had looked at the list of booths and had found his, not far from the weigh-house. However, it was only three down from where the food sellers began, and he foresaw trouble for his self-control if the wind came from that direction. He would allow himself one fried thing per six days. And those required coin payment. The meals at his inn had already been paid for, he reminded himself.

Once his last bundle had been weigh-checked, Tycho gave his donation receipt to the market-master’s clerk. Then he oversaw the hired porters moving the bundles to his sales area. Even though it was early in the season, at least for this fair, a large number of traders had come and the price of labor reflected the demand. Tycho was not pleased, but as he watched, one porter “accidentally” dropped something belonging to a cloth merchant who had been arguing with the market supervisor about portage rates and insisting that he would only pay three-quarters of the going rate. It appeared that he was going to get three-quarters of the service as well. The fabric landed perilously close to a puddle of great-hauler waste and the merchant yelped, broke off his fight and raced over the save his goods. Tycho got the message. He tipped the two senior porters a half silver ring each, “So you can get your men something to moisten their throats. Porting is hard work.”

“Thank ye, sir. It is indeed. Maarsdam be with ye.”

“Donwah bless your ways.” Tycho noticed a wooden frame affixed to the side of his booth, exactly the right size for the receipt Sabo the market-master had given him. Tycho took the hint and tucked the certification into the frame. Then he began sorting through the various hides, setting some forward for retail sale and display, and shifting some back for wholesale job-lot-only sales. He kept one ear tuned to the comings and goings around him. People walked by, several town carts rumbled and thumped as they bounced on rough spots. The market was paved in river cobbles. It looked as if it would drain quickly following rain, and not get muddy, but wheels bounced and thumped on the surface. A few children raced to and fro. “Beeeeh!” “Baaaaaah!” He twisted and looked to see two nanny goats with collars on being led through the market. The woman with them had a small stool hanging from her heavy belt. A milking stool?

“Poor Agnil,” a woman said to her companion as they too stopped to watch. “Her milk isn’t coming so they had to hire goats.”

The other matron made a sympathetic noise. “She had trouble with her first-born for the same reason’ didn’t she?”

“Yes, and he was a winter baby.”

“Oh, no wonder… May the gods be with them.”

They used goats as wetnurses down here? But how did they—? Surely not. The picture that came to Tycho’s mind could not possibly be how the nurse moved the milk from the goats into the baby. Surely not. He went back to confirming all his wares, arranging things for ease of access and visibility. Then he sat on the stool provided by the market and began working currency conversions on his bead frame, running through the different combinations and possibilities. The Platport vlaat and liamb to frein were straightforward unless he had to go to halves and quarters, but what if someone had a Moahnebrig mark? The beads clicked on their wires as he calculated it, memorizing the three most probable rates. Since he was going to weigh every coin anyway, it seemed like a bit of a waste, but he never knew.

“Ahem.”

He’d seen the craft-master walking toward the booth, but had pretended not to notice. “Yes?”

“Are you the one from Rhonari? The one who knows just price?” The man’s hands had tool-callouses on them, and he wore an elaborately carved belt with chains and flowers cut into the stained leather.

“Yes, I am.”

The craft-master smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Delauro. Master Conciato, the plain cobbler, said you were a fair trader.”

Tycho pressed palms with him, then rested one hand on his merchant’s staff. “Maarsdam as my guide, I try to be.”

“That’ll do. Do you have any of those heavy northern hides? A few blemishes are fine, but no holes or cuts.”

“I do, some baled and some by the measure. But I can’t sell today.”

“No, you can’t. But I’ll be by to look at your stock. The last good northern hide that came through made superior hard-use gear, and I’ve been looking for more since then. Are they dyed already?”

“Two are, with sample colors. The others are natural, but they are dark brown by nature. I’m told it helps them stay warm to have dark skin under pale hair.” As soon as he said the words, he bit his tongue. A woman in a low cut green dress with her skirt kirtled up to show a considerable amount of leg and fine stocking walked past. She had dark brown skin and her bleached-red hair showed from under an elaborate but none-too-large headdress. Had she heard him? Probably, but she didn’t stop or respond.

Delauro looked from the prostitute back to Tycho, smiled, and winked. “So it would appear.” The journeyman with Master Delauro coughed and turned pink as he bit his own tongue. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Maarsdam be with you.”

“And with you.”

Tycho was not satisfied with his speed on the conversions until the sun passed the noon mark. Only then did he cover everything, put away his bead counter, and leave his goods. Guards already watched the people coming and going, studying faces so they knew who belonged where among the strangers. He strolled to the fountain and filled his waterskin. The water tasted of minerals, not river. Hardrad had said that the fountain water came from pipes that began at springs above the city, and it was certainly cold enough to be spring water. Tycho sipped and wondered if any other inns had been built over warm springs as his had been. The washer women had certainly gotten his clothes clean. Did all spring water do that for clothes? How much money would he save on fuel if they had a warm spring in the wares-house in Rhonari? Not so much on cooking fuel, but what about heating? Ah, but would he spend more on preservation spells because of the damp heat?

He topped off his waterskin, then eased out of the way as several women in servants’ clothes marched up with buckets on shoulder yokes. Speaking of cleaning… Tycho got well clear of the maids.

“What do you mean you don’t trust it? It was given to the temple and they gave it out as alms!”

“I don’t trust any coin but ours, not now. They say the mages, gods give them rest, could tell good from bad but died before they could tell the rest of us how.” The tradesman folded his arms. “There’s no way to tell good from bad unless it has the duke’s mark on it.”

The other, smaller man sounded hesitant. “His grace says these are good at four per frein, so they are good.”

“And I say I’ll take the frein if people want to go have those coins changed.”

A third man, round-faced, chinless, and carrying a tray of something, stopped and peered at the coin in question, then straightened up. “You’d better accept that. King of Liambruu may be our new overlord soon, and you’d do well to have all of his coin that you can find.”

“Pah! Who says that?” the small man spat. “The same king as can’t pay his bills is going to do what?”

“He has an army. That’s why his ambassador is here, to give his grace a chance to swear allegiance so we don’t have war.” The delivery man nodded. “If he’s got enough coin to give to the temples so much, then he probably does have an army. And when’s the last time the Great Northern Emperor was seen, eh?”

Tycho himself wondered, and tried to remember what he’d heard. Five generations? Yes, that was it, the year that the storm opened the port at Maans’hill and forced everyone to move onto the hill because of the flooding. Not his problem, Tycho shrugged, and started on his way.

“You, northerner, come look at this. Please,” the tradesman said. Tycho glanced around, did not see anyone else, and with a private sigh walked over to where the three men stood. The tradesman held up a coin. “What say you?”

“May I?” Tycho held out his hand. The tradesman put the coin in his palm and Tycho looked at it. It was a liamb, very shiny, with crisp die-marks and the three stars and crown of Liambruu. Tycho hefted it, rubbed it, and sniffed. He rubbed and sniffed again. Did it stink? A little, but was that just his imagination? The scent was very faint indeed. Better not to say anything. He returned the coin. “It seems good silver.”

The tradesman nodded, opened his purse, and presented another one. “This?”

It was a Platport coin, new. Tycho rubbed and sniffed, but smelled nothing. “That’s good. The council called in all their old coins, sorted out the counterfeits, and issued new ones with a new mint-mark on them.”

The delivery man had been watching with narrow eyes. “Huh. How do you know this?”

“I was told it was so when I was in Platport, sir.”

The smaller of the three men nodded. “So the liamb is good coin. And new Platport is good, and farther north is better.”

“Aye,” Tycho agreed. The delivery man gave him another odd look, then went on his way.

“Don’t pay him no mind, sir,” the tradesman sighed. “He thinks everyone from north of the river is a counterfeiter and claims that Liambruu is the greatest place ever made by the gods. He’s been like that for years.”

“Aye,” the small man agreed. “His grandfather lost everything on a bad trade in Gheelford. The confraternity turned over his table in the market, seized his books, and declared him bankrupt. Spaspi grew up on the story and it turned his mind, so they say.”

“Radmar’s wheel crushes everyone and lifts everyone,” Tycho sighed. The story sounded dreadfully familiar. When the confraternity or his home-city merchants’ council turned over a man’s trade table, that was the end of his days as a merchant until he paid all his creditors off in full and started over.

The others made blessing signs, as did Tycho. “Thank ye,” the tradesman said. “I’m still not comfortable with all that silver from Liambruu,” he sniffed, returning to the original topic.

“So? His Grace has said its good coin, so it’s good coin and you have to take it.”

Tycho decided that was his signal to leave and reversed course, back past the fountain and turning right toward the river, intending to go speak with Aloro Malraand. He was almost to the corner of the market square when he heard fast steps approaching and a voice called, “You! Yes you. Stop.”

Tycho spun around, staff up and on guard. It was the delivery man, Spaspi, now without his tray, and two soldiers. Tycho relaxed and moved the staff so the guards could see his hands better. “Yes?”

“This man says you are a coin mage.”

What in the name of Maarsrodi? “I’m sorry, sir but he is in error. I am not a coin mage.”

“He’s lying, Sergeant. I saw him say a charm over two coins and then say they was good. Rubbed them as he charmed them, he did.” The delivery man pointed with one finger. “That’s coin-magic.”

Of all the foolish… “No, sir, I rubbed them, sniffed to see if they stank like the bad coin last year stank, and then gave them back. No magic.”

“He’s a northern mage, I tell you! I saw him whispering a charm.”

The guard sergeant looked from the delivery man to Tycho and back. “Come with us, sir,” he ordered. Tycho shrugged and followed the sergeant back along the edge of the market, around a corner that had a balance scale painted on the building, and to a door with the duke’s colors on it. He was old enough to know when a fight wasn’t worth starting, at least not yet. “In here, please.”

Once inside, the delivery man pointed at Tycho again. “He’s a coin mage. I saw him do a charm.”

“Really.” The speaker stood. He wore a dark red padded vest, sword-belt, and had heavy leather wrist guards. Scars on his cheek and a nose that bent in the middle warned Tycho not to bluster or cross the man. “You are—?”

“Tycho Rhonarida, sir, hide merchant from Rhonari. I came in the caravan that arrived three days ago.”

Dark eyes studied Tycho. “Rhonari. And not a mage?”

“No sir, Maarsdam as my witness, I am not a mage.” It would have been funny if the guards did not seem to be getting closer and angrier.

“But you worked coin magic. The law is that all mages must declare themselves.”

What was going on? “I did not work coin magic, sir, and I am not a mage.” Should he tell them? No, but, “Ah if you will have a priestess of Donwah examine me, she will vouch that I am not a mage.”

The guards moved before Tycho realized it. They grabbed his arms, twisting them up behind him and forcing him to bow. Something in his right shoulder tore, or felt like it was tearing, and tears of pain blurred his vision. “You work magic, lie, and them blaspheme? Oh, a priestess will see you, whoever you are,” the officer snarled. “Search him and lock him up. Move any goods assigned to him into his grace’s storage building.”

“But I’m telling the truth! I’m not a—” One of the guards slammed the heel of his hand into the side of Tycho’s head.

“You’ll shut it if you know what’s good for you, foreigner.”

By the time he recovered from the blow, the guards had taken everything but his clothes, and those they’d searched. They shoved him hard into a cell and locked the heavy door. He heard a bar drop on the outside after the key turned, and footsteps going away. The cell had no windows and no mage-light. Tycho considered yelling, but the ache in his head discouraged him. Instead he patted the floor, feeling rushes and dirt. At least the rushes smelled mostly fresh. The wall was stone, gritty and rough, and almost solid feeling. Was it a single slab? Or was it just an unusual sort of plaster. Part of his mind wondered how much the plaster, if it was plaster, cost and if it were better against fire and mice than the usual northern kind. The rest of his mind hissed that Radmar had heard him exulting over selling the white-fish hide.

Tycho sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. Why did they not believe that he wasn’t a mage? And who was the round-faced delivery man that the guards believed him instead of Tycho? All they had to do was look at Tycho’s seal. What was wrong with asking for the priestess to examine him? She could see Donwah’s touch and verify that he was not a mage.

As his head throbbed and he considered the loss of all his goods and gear, Tycho decided that he’d misunderstood the gods’ desire. He was not supposed to have come to Milunis.

Maartin Corwinda would never let him forget it, either.

At least the cool stone eased a little of the pain. Very little.

14

Donwah’s Daughter

Tycho found a slop bucket in one corner of the cell, but no cot or other furnishing. Time passed and he napped, prayed, and grew thirsty and hungry. His tongue felt fuzzy and dry. His stomach grumbled. The ache in his shoulder and arm made him flinch when he moved the arm too much. He could bend at the elbow, and move the arm sideways, but when he tried extending it straight out in front of him the pain brought fresh tears to his eyes. How was he going to show the hides if he couldn’t reach forward?

Had the duke claimed his hides? Tycho froze, cold sweat breaking out all over, heart pounding again. Was it all a false accusation to claim his wares? The counts of Sinmartin had done that, two generations ago, falsely accusing traders of blasphemy and then claiming their goods. No. The duke did not seem like that kind of man. But appearances deceived. Tycho closed his eyes, not that it made any difference in the darkness of the cell, and recounted his meeting with the duke and the sale. Nothing in the memory even hinted that Duke Malnaan was that kind of man. But what if he’d been pledged to the Scavenger despite his high station of birth? Could that even happen? Why not? The gods claimed who they claimed, and Tycho had been born for Maarsdam but marked by Donwah, so who was he to say?

Tycho had no idea how much time passed before the door opened. He was light-headed with thirst and hunger when he heard footsteps, the door bar scraping, and keys jangling. He got onto all fours, and then managed to stagger to his feet, leaning on the wall for balance. He did not care to have the guards rip his shoulder out of its socket pulling him off the floor. The door opened and a thin man stormed in, carrying a torch. Two other soldiers followed, grabbed Tycho, shackled his hands behind his back and half-dragged him out the door, never saying a word. They hauled Tycho back to the main room, then forced him to his knees in front of a veiled woman, Master Sabo, and a black-masked priest.

“This man claims he’s not a coin-mage. A witness says he saw ‘im working coin-charms over foreign coins. We found cursed coins in his purse. He’s an undeclared mage, and he blasphemed the River Lady,” the bent-nosed officer said. “Any of you recognize him?”

“He’s Tycho Rhonarida. His seal tested true on his registration and on his goods,” Master Sabo replied.

“He a mage?”

Sabo opened his hands in a sort of shrug. “He did not claim to be a mage, Lieutenant.”

The priestess held up a graceful hand. “Cursed coins, Lieutenant?”

“Aye, Sister. Here.” He lifted a box from an altar at the back of the room, brought it to her, and opened it. “The three with the sun sign.”

She reached in, picked one up, and studied it. The Scavenger’s priest also took one, turned it over and over, then set it back down. “There is no curse and the coins are not prohibited,” he intoned, his cold voice hollow and almost distant behind his mask.

The priestess stepped closer to Tycho, studying his face through her thin full-veil. “What is your name?”

It took three tries to get water into his mouth enough to speak. “Tycho Rhonarida family Galnaar, ma’am.”

She looked up, then glanced over her shoulder to the officer. “And you say that he blasphemed the goddess?”

“Yes, ma’am. Claimed she would prove he wasn’t a mage.” The soldier sounded smug.

The priestess turned back to Tycho. Her eyes unfocused, looking into something—his soul? She went still, not frozen, but concentrating, for four breaths. Tycho held his own breath. She exhaled in a long sigh, straightening up as she did. “Tycho Rhonarida is not a mage. He is under the hands of both Donwah and Maarsdam.”

“Tycho Rhonarida is not a mage. He carries mage-blood seed, but is not a mage himself.” The Scavenger’s priest sounded almost annoyed. He gestured to Tycho. “The sun coins?”

Tycho croaked, “Brother Arnolfini of Korvaal’s temple blessed them. Said they were Korvaal’s reward. Found on edge of plowed field, north of the river, along the road.”

“Get him some water,” the masked priest ordered, anger in his voice, and the soldier closest to the water bucket jumped into motion. Tycho drank from the dipper, grateful. The priest said, “Lieutenant, this man cannot cast coin magic, preservation magic, water-magic, or any other sort of spell.”

“Ah, sir, but the witness said the prisoner claimed to have a way to tell bad coin from good, and vouched for good coin after charming it.” The lieutenant sounded angry, confused, and whiny, and looked a bit like a great-hauler faced with too many food choices, head turning back and forth from Tycho to the other soldiers to the priest and priestess.

The priestess studied Tycho again. “Did you so claim?”

“Yes, ma’am, at least the old false coin from last year. They stink if you rub them. The new Platport coins do not smell. I thought I smelled a little something from the new Liambruu silver, but I was not certain, ma’am, so I said that it seemed good to me.”

Both priests turned to face the lieutenant. “That is common sense, not magic,” the veiled priestess stated. She sounded irritated. “No more magic than weighing coin.”

“Did you look at this man’s seal?” The Scavenger’s priest held out his hand.

“Ah, um, no, because if he was a mage he could re-make it to hide his magic or to pass as a merchant.” The officer hunted through a different box until he found the bag with Tycho’s seal in it. He gave it to the Scavenger’s priest. The man opened the bag, lifted out the seal and studied it. He passed it to the priestess who also inspected it, and showed it to Master Sabo, who nodded his agreement with something, folded his arms, and glowered at the lieutenant. While attention was away from him, Tycho rocked back and forth just a little, to take the weight off his knees. The brick floor made them ache, despite the thick fabric of his trews.

The priestess’s deadly quiet voice inquired, “Who told you he could falsify the seal?”

“Everyone knows that mages can do that.” The priestess leaned toward the lieutenant and he writhed a little then rubbed his hands on his trews. “The witness, Spaspi, and the ambassador.”

The black-hooded priest drew himself up and the room seemed to chill and darken. Or was that just the man’s personality? Tycho shrank away from the dark shape, as did the guards around him. “You are a fool and doubly a fool for imprisoning an innocent man and for listening to market rumor. The way seal-magic works cannot be masked or falsified. This man did not blaspheme when he pleaded for my sister to come as his witness.” He seemed to loom over the taller officer. “Release him.”

“Release him,” the priestess echoed. “Release him with all honor who is innocent of all accusations.”

“He has done service to his brothers-in-trade, here, in front of witnesses,” Sabo said. He unfolded his arms and cracked knuckles on rough-looking hands. “Release him.”

One of the guards undid the shackles on Tycho’s wrists and carefully helped him to his feet. Tycho put his belt and pouches back on, replaced his seal pouch in its place, accepted his staff and hat, and followed the clergy and market master out the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, the two speakers for the gods stepped aside for a hurried, quiet conversation. Sabo looked Tycho over. “You need food and drink. Your goods are untouched. I’ll explain later. Come.”

Now very lightheaded and still sore, Tycho followed him.

After water, tea, and smallbeer, and two luscious meat-in-bread-pockets, Tycho felt more like a man, albeit a sore and confused man. And more than a little scared. The Scavenger had vouched for him? He shivered. Or was the priest just very angry at being disturbed for a market rumor.

“The lieutenant is an idiot,” Sabo said as he settled into a chair in his office, across from Tycho, and helped himself to a piece of cheese. “He never checked with me, never asked anyone else about you, just took Spaspi the Shrew’s word that you’d done magic and locked you away, tried to confiscate your goods before you even had an initial accusation hearing in his grace’s court, and then called the priests to judge you for supposedly having ‘cursed’ coins.” Sabo ate the cheese, then sniffed. “I’m not sure if he even thought about what the priest and priestess were supposed to do. Have Donwah send a flood through the guard-station and drown you? Then the would Scavenger claim your remains and goods?” He shook his head. “That boy is dumber than a tie-post and less useful than trews on a great-hauler. He was a decent fighter and man-at-arms, but should not give orders.”

A clerk offered Sabo a mug of smallbeer. He took it, drank, then explained, “Master Conciato’s apprentice saw them take you into the guard station and came and asked me what was going on. I did not know, and as market master, it is my job to know if a trader is arrested and on what charges, in case his goods need to be impounded or if it is something else.” He drank a few more sips of the smallbeer, while Tycho tried the cheese. It was rich, not too soft, and had a nice little bite. “One of the guards said you’d been caught cursing the market and were a mage, and had blasphemed the gods.” Sabo leaned his head back against the chair and rocked it back and forth. “No one quotes Maarsdam’s Law and then blasphemes. Conciato’s apprentice told me how you stood up for him.”

Tycho felt better inside, although his shoulder still ached terribly. “Thank you for the news. I did not lie and I certainly did not blaspheme. Especially not Donwah.” Tycho shivered as he remembered fishing the man out of the sea. “No one who travels on Donwah’s greater waters dares take her name in vain.”

Sabo nodded. “So. You are fed and watered. Your goods are untouched, because several apprentices and journeymen, ahem, gently reminded the guards that you had not been tried and convicted yet. I’d suggest going to your inn and resting. It is late afternoon. The market opened at midday today, so you have not lost any early sales. Start fresh tomorrow and I’ll spread the word that you are vouched for and to quit telling stories.” Sabo cracked his knuckles again. “And I would not be surprised if a certain Spaspi no longer has a delivery job tomorrow. I’d be even less surprised if he is found with two black eyes and some story about tripping.”

Tycho started to protest, then caught himself. He hurt. He needed rest, and soaking in hot water sounded very good. And if Master Sabo told everyone the truth, they would not pester him. “Your words are wise, sir. I believe I will rest today, and open for sales tomorrow.”

“Smart man.”

The hot water, indeed, felt wonderful and eased some of the pain in Tycho’s shoulder and arm. He drank more water, then went to sleep before the sun set. He moved slowly the next morning, his muscles felt dreadfully stiff when he woke, and his muscle bruises ached, but his head no longer throbbed. That alone was enough to inspire him to say prayers of thanks to all the gods, including the Scavenger. As he dressed, he found that someone had brushed his clothes, removing the road dust and some of the stains. And had washed his used smallclothes.

Hot tea, boiled eggs, egg custard, and bread with cheese and cold meat served as a good start to the morning. “Ah, what’s this?” he held up a miniature crockery pot of something creamy and yellow with silvery lumps in it.

“Fish spread. Mustard, fire-seed, two kinds of pickled fish, a little river-grain flour and an egg, all simmered until it is thick, sir.” The sister-lady spooned some grain-cereal into the baby boy’s mouth. “Family recipe.”

Tycho considered, tried it, and decided that they absolutely had to make that at home, no question. He made a mental note of the ingredients so he could write them in his next letter to Gerta. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, sir.” He heard a quiet little “Thhhhhtpt,” from the baby and the sister-lady sighed. “No, it only makes you grow if it stays inside you,” she told the boy, who seemed determined to splatter the cereal across the room. Tycho ate more fish spread on bread and told himself not to smile. Gerta had not appreciated it when he’d laughed at their boys doing that same thing.

He walked slowly to the market, staff in his left hand. If he had to defend himself he’d be in trouble, but he’d trained off-handed. No one pestered him. A few people, merchants or apprentices and journeymen, nodded to him and he nodded back. One thing that seemed the same from place to place, the trades stood together against outsiders. They might fight each other, and rather often did, but not if a complete outsider dared interfere in someone’s business, especially unjust interference.

A priest of Maarsdam walked past and Tycho removed his hat and bowed. The priest raised a hand in blessing, then continued on his way. Tycho reached his stall and began uncovering things. As he did a memory struck him so hard that he almost staggered. The priest and priestess had told the soldiers and market master that Tycho could not create magic. They had not revealed that he could not see magic or activate pre-set spells. Why not? They had to have seen his inability. Perhaps it was a kindness, although one rarely contemplated describing the Scavenger as “kind.” After a moment Tycho reminded himself that the gods’ ways were their own, and who was he to complain about their preserving his secret? He nodded to one of the other men from the caravan as he passed by and continued working.

Tycho opened his stall and waited. Soon, he’d sold a fine great-hauler hide, and one bale of northern-ox hides. The bone knife-handles also traded briskly, and Tycho made a note to tell Corwinda’s factor of the observation. Those were not something he cared to deal in on a regular basis, at least not so far from home. To his mild surprise a leather tailor purchased one of the dye-test hides, to be collected at the end of the market. “I know someone who will pay top price for a heavy jacket or vest with a pattern on it, and what he doesn’t know…” the tailor winked. Tycho nodded sagely. As one of the older traders had put it once, after too much distilled spirits had made him truthful, “If he wasn’t a schaef, he wouldn’t ‘a gotten fleeced.”

The wind blew the food smells away from him, and Tycho managed several good bargains that day without being tempted to spend his own coin. He did negotiate for some of the incense sap and the medicine that came from it. He also purchased a half-hundredweight bundle of cloth made from the wool of a mountain creature. The cloth felt wonderfully soft to the touch and had a rich burnt-sugar color. He eyed dried fruit but opted to wait until he could sample a piece and check the flavor. If it were too much like the northern kinds, it wouldn’t sell well enough to justify bringing back. He also contracted for a bundle of jumping-goat hides, tanned. Without preservation mages, he just could not afford the risk of raw hides, unless they were the stiff great-hauler hides for making wood patches and self-sealing wrappings. Tycho spoke to a dealer in the thin southern cream-horn skins and they agreed to meet again in a few days. The southerner had a contract to fill first, and that man also had first refusal on other hides. Tycho was neither pleased nor displeased with his business.

However, the gossip and whispers he overheard bothered him a great deal. The ordinary people seemed reluctant to do business, to the point that they did not even stop to finger the hides and ask about prices. Everyone kept murmuring about Liambruu, and the silver that had been poured into the temples, and an army.

“I heard one of the shepherds said that he’d seen the dust of the army south of the mountains,” a full-figured young woman standing beside the market fountain said. Tycho had gone to fill his waterskin and waited as she filled two large buckets.

“Shepherds will see anything if they are alone long enough,” another woman in her later years snorted. “I want to know what sort of proof the king of Liambruu has that we should be in his kingdom and not under the Great Northern Emperor. ‘Sides, armies have to eat, and get paid. If he can’t pay his bills, how can he pay for an army.”

“But we don’t have battle-mages anymore if he does have an army,” a third woman in servant’s clothes whispered.

The matron snorted again. “Neither does he. Last I heard, battle-mages disappeared with the end of the Great Cold. And your buckets are full, Arlie.”

The younger lady sniffed but collected her buckets and strode off. Tycho filled his skin and returned to his stall.

“One of the castle sculleries told my sister that she overheard an upper-servant saying that the duke is going to allow the ambassador to present evidence about the king’s claims tomorrow,” a passing baker’s boy told another apprentice.

The apprentice shrugged. “I got more important things to worry ‘bout. Donnie got kicked in the head this mornin’ and I’m havin’ to do all his work too. If we’d a had a beast-mage he could have gentled the bird before it got to attackin’ people.”

Tycho sighed a little to himself as he settled back down among his hides. For him personally, magic was a nice additional protection but nothing vital. For his business and for everyone else, magic made life possible or at least far safer. Tycho had urged Gerta to send plant wax and regular wax, any oil she could find, and horn for safe-lights to Platport to ship on to Gheelford—wax to seal jars and crockery to protect potted meat, to coat cheese to protect them, all things that the preservation-mages had done. Wax for food had been an emergency stand-by, in case a mage was unavailable. Now it had become a necessity. That reminded him, he needed to speak with the man selling those herbs used to flavor hot water. Without well-mages to sweeten water, people might start drinking more flavorings in it, as well as drinking more smallbeer and wine.

The first day felt successful, so Tycho allowed himself a small fried fish treat. The next morning, however, when he reached his stall he discovered a priestess of Donwah waiting, along with the market master. “Well met, Tycho Rhonarida,” Sabo started.

Tycho bowed.

“Meester Tycho, the Daughter of Donwah and the Son of Maarsdam have need of your knowledge and observations,” the priestess said. A smile touched the brown eyes above her half-veil. “Please do not faint, and be assured that no one will touch your stock in your absence. Everyone is so wrapped up in gossip this morning that a red and purple great-hauler could fly through the market while singing fishing songs and no one would notice.”

Tycho bowed and followed her and the market master. His shoulder still hurt so he carried his staff on the left side. He was glad to have the support, because the climb up to the duke’s audience chamber remained as steep as it had been when he had shown the duke the white-fish hide. People stayed out of the priestess’s way, clustering in whispering clumps here and there on the side of the street, around doorways or in front of shops, all talking quietly and glancing around as if worried about who might hear what.

Meester Sabo shook his head. “There’s some who think because the king of Liambruu has been pouring so much silver into Milunis, and since the emperor does not, that having the southern king as our overlord would not be so bad. The rest of us prefer a duke close at hand and an emperor far away. Especially since the southerners hold magic anathema.”

Tycho did not stumble with surprise, but he came close. “Your pardon, sir, but magic anathema?”

“Yes. Unclean at best, but the southern priests are the only ones who do any magic,” the priestess said. “Most consider magic to be evil, and any merchants who trade north of the mountains have to pay the crown a fee on order to be examined by priests to ensure that neither they nor their goods have any taint of magic on them.” She sounded irritated, and he wondered if this was a source of friction between the priestesses here and their sisters south of the Comb Mountains.

As they walked, Tycho’s mind turned the information over and over. They had no magic. They considered it anathema. The false coin supposedly had arrived with ships from Liambruu. The stuff in the grain looked like a spice but made mages ill even to be around.

“Could the southerners have put the grey-fuzz into the grain deliberately? To get rid of our mages, in case the king’s claim holds merit?” Tycho asked, as quietly as he could.

“Since most of the wheat from south of the Gheel comes from below the Comb Mountains, it is possible,” Meester Sabo replied slowly after they had walked past a group of beggars. “Possible. But I would not speak of that.”

“No, sir. And possible does not mean it truly happened that way.” But too many coincidences seemed to be accruing that pointed to Liambruu’s column in the ledger. Tycho mulled things over as they stopped outside a smaller door set off to the side of the main gateway into the ducal keep. The priestess spoke to the guard on watch and he opened the smaller entry. The trio ducked under a very low lintel, turned immediately to the left, then ducked through another open door and entered a courtyard with a fountain. The priestess waved, and a second women in Donwah’s veil beckoned. The embroidery on her robe of office and the sea-blue gemstone she wore around her neck marked her as Donwah’s Daughter, the senior priestess in the city. Tycho bowed very low indeed.

“Well met, Tycho Rhonarida,” the senior priestess said. “I will be brief. Ambassador Netuno says that the Kingdom of Liambruu once extended to the Gheel, and that the Great Northern Emperor’s claims to this land are without merit, because Liambruu’s claim dates to long before the Great Cold. His evidence, he says, comes from a book and from coins.” She locked eyes with Tycho and he shivered. “Brother Anselmo suffers from a recurrence of an illness he developed some years ago and is too ill to leave the temple. He and others have recommended you, Meester Tycho.”

Tycho desperately wanted a drink, preferably a strong one. “Ah, um,” he cleared his throat and tried again. “I will do what I can, Honored Sister.”

“That is all the gods require, Meester Tycho. The hearing has already started, beginning with the written documents, because the temple of Maarsdam still has a notary-mage, although she is— I will say that she does not move easily.” Tycho bowed again and she led him, her junior sister, and Master Sabo through a door, up spiral stone stairs, down a hall, and stopped at a guarded double door. One of the guards bowed to her and opened the door just enough for them to slip inside.

The long, well-lit room could have held twice as many men and women as stood around its edges. At the head of the chamber, Duke Malnaan sat on a small dais, leaning on the arm of his chair and seemingly quite relaxed and calm. A small muscle on his cheek twitched, revealing his tension. Ambassador Netuno stood on the other side of a table from His Grace, his back to the rest of the observers. His relaxed stance suggested that he was confident that he had the upper hand in all things. On the right side of the room, a group of men that Tycho guessed were the city council stood together. They looked none too happy, scuffing the stones of the floor and murmuring as a priestess of Gember studied a book, her nose almost touching the parchment. She turned a page, her lips moving, and the gaudily-dressed ambassador moved four steps farther away, sneering but also making the horns with his left hand. Tycho frowned at the man’s disrespect. A set of cases or boxes sat on the table between the duke and the ambassador, although Tycho couldn’t see what they were. The priests and other observers clustered on the left side of the room, with a very well-dressed priest of Korvaal standing between the other clergy and the table. “He is acting as archpriest,” the junior priestess whispered in Tycho’s ear. “He speaks for all clergy. The seniors of each temple take turns from year to year.” Other ducal servants and observers stood watching as well. The priestesses eased toward their fellow clergy, and after a nudge Tycho followed.

The priestess of Gember straightened up, lowering the book back onto the table. “The city book shows no claim from Liambruu. It shows that the city gained independence under the Great Northern Emperor after the Great Cold, when His Grace’s ancestor purchased self-government for Milunis and four smaller settlements.” She patted the table until she found what she wanted and held up a black-sealed page. Tycho wondered who had died—or been cursed by the Scavenger—then caught himself. Liambruu’s king used black wax for his seal. “This, from King Sanchohaakon, claims to be a copy of a document concerning taxes paid by Moahnebrig to Liambruu. Without a mage-seal, I cannot determine if it is a true copy. And documents can be mis-copied, or damaged by time and paper-worms, or only discovered when it is convenient, Your Grace, Ambassador, gentlemen. And tax can refer to many things, including goods taxes that were held and then sent in a single coin shipment,” she added.

Ambassador Netuno turned a little red. “Are you saying that His Majesty has stooped to forgery?”

“No, Ambassador, I am saying that the document as a copy cannot be the only evidence for such a grave matter.”

“Thank you, Sister, for your wisdom and expertise,” Duke Malnaan said. She nodded and one of the other priests took her hand, leading her back to the larger group. Tycho had met a few people that short-sighted, but very few, and he understood the priestess’s comment about her sister not leaving the temple except at times of great need.

“Since you choose not to believe His Majesty,” Ambassador Netuno snapped, “Here is solid proof. Very solid. These coins are from Liambruu. They were found here, and north of here, along with other pre-Cold coins, with marks showing that they were made within Liambruu lands north of the Teeth.”

“The Comb,” Master Sabo hissed in Tycho’s right ear.

“The document says taxes were paid from these lands to the crown. These coins were minted here, by permission of the crown, in crown offices, in order to relieve a shortage of currency. Thus these are Limabruu lands, and you have a duty to accept His Majesty Sanchohaakon the Munificent as your lord, despite the northern usurpers’ claims.”

One of the councilors raised a hand and the duke waved for him to speak. “Ambassador, what do we gain from King Sanchohaakon that the emperor does not provide?”

“Stable currency. His Majesty’s coin is good, unlike the debased trash from the north. All know that the northern cities have released false coin and the so-called emperor has not stopped them or punished anyone.” The Ambassador looked down his nose at the council. “And protection. His Majesty’s army is already at the mountains, ready to come through the passes and secure the roads from bandits and ensure that no one is harassed by their neighbors.”

A worried murmur raced through the room. Tycho noted it, but he was fighting himself to keep from challenging the bastard’s accusation about the coin. The hand on his staff had turned white and he felt every bit of grain in the wood under the varnish and wear. He closed his eyes and counted, trying to calm down before he brained the arrogant popinjay.

“Your Grace, there is a man here who can confirm at least the age of the coins, if not where they were found,” the archpriest said as Tycho opened his eyes.

The duke sat up and Ambassador Netuno glared at the priest before regaining control of his expression. “Oh?”

“Yes. Meester Tycho Rhonarida is familiar with current coins and old coins from many places within the empire.” As the archpriest spoke, the priestess of Donwah elbowed Tycho in the ribs and shooed him forward a little. He took two steps toward His Grace and bowed.

“Really. A hide trader.” Netuno’s eyes half closed.

“A hide trader and a man of honor and knowledge, and a warrior in his own right,” Meester Sabo answered.

“You are the one who threatened me in the market!” Netuno’s eyes flashed wide. “I ought to thrash you. I will have my men thrash you if you dare to lie here as you lied there.” Tycho felt certain that the man would do just that, and decided right then not to be on the streets after dark, or in a place where he could be easily ambushed. Not that anyone honest went out after dark in the first place.

The senior priestess of Donwah stepped forward and pointed with her hand at Netuno. “Tycho Rhonarida has spoken nothing but true words, even to his own injury.”

Netuno backed up one step, sniffing, “Let him look, then.”

“Please, Meester Tycho,” the duke waved to the table. “Your opinion is welcome.”

Tycho bowed again to the duke and approached the table. It sat across the width of the room like the bar in the council chamber in Rhonari. On it were the books and sealed documents, and twelve or so coins, some old, some the new Liambruu silver. Four of the old coins Tycho recognized and moved to one side with his finger. They had the sun and rays pattern, which was not that of Liambruu, or was it? He turned to the ambassador. “Sir, a question of your experience. Has the crown of Liambruu, to your knowledge, ever used the sun as a sign of kingship?”

“No. The three stars of Liambruu were given to us by the gods,” Netuno snapped, glaring at Tycho.

Tycho bowed a little. “Thank you, sir.” That solved that. He picked up the old coins in turn, studying them closely, comparing their weights and thickness against the suns and against the new coin. They just did not look quite right. He sniffed his fingers and caught a faint whiff of sourness. Or did he? There was one certain way to tell. He prayed quickly to Maarsrodi, Korvaal, and Donwah.

Tycho nodded toward the row of coins. “My lords, men of the city, these coins, these three, are indeed from the southern lands, near the mountains. I have similar that I found and that were inspected and blessed from a priest here, and by a priest who travelled.”

The councilors frowned, as did the duke. Netuno smiled and folded his arms. “Thus His Majesty’s claim is proven,” he stated.

Tycho held up his hand. “The three are from the southern lands. But coins move, do they not?”

“Of course, trader,” the ambassador sneered, all but rolling his eyes, “and permission to coin them was sent north from His Majesty’s family lands so that the people of the mountains might have coin to use for supplies and goods.”

“Then His Majesty’s family was indeed wise and generous, as is said. However, coins move. And coins are hidden. These were found together, sirs?”

The senior councilor, or at least the one with the most silver chains of office, frowned. “I do not know, Meester Tycho. We have no coin-mages to tell their age, so they could well be from the same place and time, or not.”

Tycho picked up one of the most worn of the Liambruu coins, one that looked as if it should be old but that seemed strange. “Your Grace, do you have vinegar?”

“What?” Duke Malnaan leaned forward and blinked.

“Do you have vinegar? To remove the dirt so I may see the design more clearly. I do not want to make a judgement based on dirt and in so doing err.” A murmur and a few chuckles passed through the crowded chamber and the bailiffs glowered at the observers. His Grace leaned to the clerk closest to his seat. The young man bobbed a nod and stood, working his way between the chairs and out a small side door. Tycho continued looking at the coins. They didn’t appear to be from the same place. The dirt did not all match. And the newer coins seemed more worn than the old ones. Well, if the old ones had been buried since the time of cold, then they would not had passed through as many hands. But if the other coins, the Liambruu silver-bits, were as old and had been hoarded as well, they should not be as worn. And they had the exact same mint mark as the shiny new Liambruu silver that Netuno had been scattering like snow in winter.

Tycho glanced at the king’s agent, then back at the coins, then at the closest book. The open page in the city’s book showed no claims from the south. Instead they maintained that the cities had been on their own since Duke Malnaan’s five-greats-grandfather had bough their freedom, ten years after the last ice melted and the Kingsway Pass first opened to trade, or so the page said.

“Excuse me.” The smell of vinegar hit Tycho’s nose and he frowned a little to himself before straightening up. How bad was the stuff the clerk had found? Tycho saw the bowl and blinked. The young man had tapped the finest white. Oh dear, that was dreadfully wasteful. His Grace’s cook would have a spectacular fit when he or she learned about it. The clerk also had a towel, which Tycho spread onto the table in front of the bowl.

“Thank you.” Tycho set the bowl on the table, picked up one of the true coins from before the Great Cold and dipped it into the bowl. A few bubbles appeared on the coin’s surface but nothing else. It was true coin, as he’d known. Tycho removed the coin and set it on the cloth. Then he untied his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. “So you see that I am adding nothing, Maarsdam as my witness,” he told the councilors, Duke Malnaan, and king’s agent.

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” the ambassador growled.

Tycho picked up the first old Liambruu coin and put it in the bowl. The vinegar bubbled and fizzed. Murmurs rose from the watchers. The second and third did as well, making a grey foam on top of the clear vinegar. When Tycho pulled the first false coin out, it shone like new silver. He rubbed it. “It stinks.”

He passed it to one of the priests, who rubbed and sniffed. The priest held the coin at arm’s length with two fingers. “Meester Tycho speaks true. It stinks. And not of vinegar, but as the false coins of last season did.”

Tycho swallowed hard and held up the second coin, watching it gleam in the sunlight through the windows into the council chamber. “Your grace, Ambassador, men of the city, the three true coins are old. They were minted in the years before the Great Cold. But that is all they are. No one uses that sun-and-rays pattern because it is thought to be cursed. They are not from Liambruu of today. The coins claimed to be from Liambruu of then are not true silver, but the same stuff as the false coin from last year.” Without another word, Tycho snatched up the new coin from Laimbruu and dunked it. The foam overflowed the bowl, and he quickly removed the coin, shifted the towel to catch the mess, and sniffed the coin. Same stench.

The ambassador stared, mouth open. His face flushed, then went white, as white as the fine fabric of his shirt.

One of the town council cleared his throat. “If it is not silver, then it is not old coin, for none of us have seen anything like the stinking coin before last year, and they are not found in temple holdings or known buried coin pots,” the senior counselor stated, getting to his feet. “They weigh as pure silver, but pure silver does not make vinegar foam and it does not grow purer when you soak it in vinegar for so short a time.”

“Quite true,” Duke Malnaan said. He sat very straight indeed, one clenched fist resting on the arm of his chair.

“Which means His Majesty’s claims are no more valid than the legends of the time before the Great Cold recounted in our books of record,” another counselor added.

Ambassador Netuno slammed his fist onto the table. “That is not true! His Majesty’s coin is good, as good as his word, and it proves his claims to these lands.” Howls of laughter erupted and Tycho covered his eyes with his hand. Could the fool have picked a worse argument? Probably not. He backed a step or two away, keeping his staff close just in case. He’d have to block left-handed, and he never had been good at weak-hand blocks.

The priests and the bailiffs all thumped the floor for order. “Hear us, men of the city, your Grace.” The chief priest of Korvaal called, looming over his associates. Had he been a smith before the god called him, Tycho wondered? “The coins are no more proof than is the written word. His Majesty’s claim is denied, so long as he bases it on these coins.” The priest pointed at the royal agent. “It is worth less, because it suggests that His Majesty or someone from Liambruu planted the other false coins last year, either to buy without truly paying or to discredit the cities for reasons we all can guess. And the penalty for knowingly passing false coin is death.”

Tycho froze. The silver the ambassador had been pouring into the temples was false. So he could be tried for passing false coin. Oh, the king would not like that, not at all.

Ambassador Netuno shouted, “His Majesty’s family ruled these lands before the Great Cold and they have every right to return to what is theirs!” The man had turned red again, clenching his fists at his sides and shaking with rage. “These lands belong to Liambruu!”

All the priests and priestesses moved as one, closing the spaces between themselves until they stood in a solid block. Tycho ducked out of the way, mimicking the rest of the watchers. They must feel magic building, and he wanted no part of the gods’ anger, even if it were aimed at someone else. Especially if it were aimed at someone else! “You deny your own sworn oath?” the senior priestess of Donwah asked, her soft voice caressing the words. Tycho felt something in the room shift, and the hair on his arms began standing on end, as it did when sea-fire danced on a ship in a storm. He dropped to one knee and covered his eyes, terrified by what he heard behind the gentle tone.

“The coins are real and His Maj—”

One moment a man in fine garb stood at the table, shouting at the priests. The next moment, Tycho heard nothing but gasps and a few quick-muffled shrieks. When Tycho dared to open his eyes, he saw a heap of expensive clothes and nothing more. Then fine grey ash settled onto the rich fabric and leather.

Donwah’s Daughter observed placidly, “The gods take oaths seriously. It would be wise for others to do likewise.”

15

Rumors of War

“King Sanchohaakon, or as some are calling him King Josya, will not be happy,” Sabo observed the evening the market ended. At His Grace’s request, Tycho, Master Sabo, and the archpriest dined together at his grace’s table. Duke Malnaan would have been there, but he’d come down with a “stomach ailment,” as his man delicately phrased it. However, the duke insisted that the planned evening continue even without his presence.

Tycho winced at the disrespectful name. Josyas ate anything they could find, and then pissed on the leftovers so whatever they did not want would be ruined for other animals. If josyas got into a cupboard or grain bin, they could ruin every bite of food before the householder knew they were there. Tycho sipped chilled fruit juice and wondered when he’d stop smelling vinegar and bad coin. The combined stench had haunted him since the council meeting.

“The king’s unhappiness is not my concern,” Acting-Archpriest Glaar stated. He looked into the small fire in the hearth. “My concern is what they are teaching beyond the mountains that they are so willing to deny the gods their due.”

None of those present felt inclined to challenge or question the statement. Tycho ran the fingers of his free hand over the carved arm of the chair. “Will you spread the account of the council meeting, sir?” The market had been boiling with rumors, but His Grace had only sent word that the gods had denied the king’s claims and that the ambassador had been found guilty of knowingly spreading false coin. That alone was enough to distract most people from other speculation for a few days.

The priest sighed a little before replying. “No. We will let it be known that the false coin seems to have come from Liambruu—No. We will let it be known that there appears to be a connection between the crown of Liambruu and the false coin, and to avoid trade with them. And we will spread the word that the king made a claim that cannot be proven by law.” Glaar looked up at the ceiling beams. “Yes, that we will do. Those coins that come to us—and they will—will be destroyed, quietly, so we do not shatter the market further. The late ambassador’s goods covered most of his lodging, so the injury is not what it might have been.”

After another sip and glancing around for servants, Tycho asked quietly, “Father, what say the priestesses of Gember about the tainted wheat?”

The dark-haired man took a deep breath, then exhaled and drank before answering. Candlelight flashed on the grass-colored stone in his ring of office. “They believe that your theory is correct. That it was deliberately contaminated, and false seals used to spread it through the usual market channels. By whom we do not know, so do not speak of this. We will tell our brothers and sisters, those who can be trusted to remain calm.” He shook his head. “Whoever did it, it does not change that life will be much harder until more mages are born and trained.”

The men drank and thought their own thoughts as the fire burned low. “So, Meester Tycho, do you return north?” the market master inquired at last.

“Yes.” Tycho shifted in his seat. “I have finished my contracts and compleated my business, paid my debts. To linger means risking delays when the autumn rains start. Donwah’s grace, but the winter storms will begin sooner than I prefer to imagine, and I do not want to be out on the marshes when the wind and ice-rains begin.” And he missed Gerta terribly, and his sons and daughters. Wiebe would be apprenticed by the time he got home. Gerta’s last letters had suggested that her health was changing, and Tycho did not care to think about what that might mean.

“You do not sail?” Glaar inquired, a hint of amusement in his sober expression.

“Not this year, noble Father. Pardon me, Father, but I fear Donwah’s lingering anger.”

The priest turned the silver-gilt cup in his left hand. His eyes half-closed, and he nodded. “You are wise, Meester Tycho. The Lady of Waters is long of memory and at times wide of wrath, but you know this, who live with one foot in her realm and one in Korvaal’s.”

“Indeed, Father.” And if he did not get the great-haulers back and replaced, he’d have to pay triple!

Three days later, monies collected, birds hitched, and goods secured, Tycho saluted Hardrad. The caravan master nodded back, turned in his seat in his wagon, and flicked his whip in the air. The wagons grumbled into motion, forty in all, sixty men walking and one riding. They set out into the still dawn air, their shadows stretching long toward the west. The roar of the river seemed fainter, or was that just Tycho’s imagination? No, the spring rush had eased, or so the priestess of Donwah had said. The seasons were passing, as they always did.

* * *

Tycho Rhonarida’s caravan creaked into Rhonari shortly before port closing. He stopped at the land-gate and bowed. “Hail Rhonari, free and proud city!” He bowed once more. “Maarsrodi bless you and Donwah prosper you.” Tycho leaned a little more on his staff. He’d re-injured his right shoulder trying to hold onto a great-hauler when the herd panicked in a storm, and the cold and wet raised new aches from his back and knees. The return had been so uneventful, aside from one bandit attack south of Moahnebrig and a few broken carts and rain-sick great-haulers, that he feared that he would find the city burned down or equal disaster awaiting him.

Instead all appeared to be well. Several other merchants saluted Tycho as he led the six wagons through the streets to his dwelling. The gates opened and a journeyman bowed, welcoming him in. As he began walking in through the great open wares-house gate, Gerta rushed out, almost knocking him off his feet. She hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder. “What?” Had a child died?

She smiled and waved behind her. “Your son.” A maid brought him a loud, green-wrapped bundle.

“Mistress Gerta, you are not supposed to be out of bed!” an unfamiliar woman in a midwife’s apron and headdress rushed out of the wares-house door. Tycho looked from his wife to the bundle and back. The boy squalled rather loudly for a newborn.

He kissed her again, then gave the baby his finger to suck on. That did not seem to be what the child wanted, and he fussed. “I think you need to get out of the cold, my lady,” Tycho ventured.

The midwife scowled and shook a plump finger at everyone. “Yes she does! Back inside, Mistress Gerta. You are not twenty anymore, ma’am.” The maid and bundle followed the two older women. Tycho blinked and realized that he had a very foolish smile on his face, and a lot of goods to unload and men to pay and great-haulers to deliver to their new owners.

“You, pull in and start unloading before the constable charges me for blocking to way. You, boy, what are you staring at? Lower the hoist.” The apprentice ducked and obeyed as Ewoud and Bastian appeared, smiling, to help.

He was home.

Afterword

The people and places in this novel are based on the merchants and cities of the Hanseatic League and the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nations. Information about trade in the Middle Ages abounds in German, Dutch, and Polish, but is harder to find in English unless you look at academic papers and sort through dissertations. The museum of Hanseatic History in Lübeck, Germany and the International Maritime Museum in Hamburg, along with the museums in Bruges, Belgium provide a wealth of information. The city museum in Stade, Germany (near Hamburg) has a magnificent floor dedicated to the Hanse trade, because it was a member of the Hanseatic League. However, you must read German to get the full benefit.

The Hanseatic Museum in Lübeck has a great deal of material in English, with the caveat that unless you are really, really fascinated by trade and business history, you might grow bored rather quickly.

The following books have been useful. Some are only available in German at the moment.

Giesela Greichen and Rolf Hammel-Keisow. Die Deutsche Hanse. A German popular history about the Hanseatic League with really good illustrations.

Johannes Schildhauer The Hanse: History and Culture For a while it was the only English general-history book. It is a little outdated and has some East German quirks (obligatory Marxist commentary) but is a good basic introduction.

Brian Ayers. The German Ocean: Medieval Europe Around the North Sea An excellent relatively new work that draws heavily on archaeology as well as traditional documentary sources.

Michael Pye. The Edge of the World: A Cultural History of the North Sea and the Transformation of Europe. He goes back to the Romans and focuses on Fresia and how trade developed because of the Fresians’ inability to farm.

Brian Fagan. Fish on Friday: Feasting, Fasting, and the Discovery of the New World. A popular but very-well researched history of the fishing economy’s effects on ship development and society in Medieval Europe. You’ll never look at a cod fillet the same way after reading this book.

Edwin S. Hunt and James Murry. A History of Business in Medieval Europe, 1200 – 1550. Just what it says. It is detailed but might be a little dry for the general-interest reader.

Phillipe Dollinger. Die Hanse This is the classic work on the Hansa. The German edition was updated in 2006 to include discoveries since the 1960s. I read it in German, in part because the only English translation is both scarce and very expensive. I do not know if the updated edition is available in English yet.

About the Author

Alma T. C. Boykin Lives in the flat, dry part of the world, near a river that served as a major trade and communications route from the Rocky Mountains to the eastern plains. She has traveled and studied in Germany and Austria, and never met a wurst she wasn’t willing to try once.

She blogs at www.almatcboykin.wordpress.com

Also by Alma T. C. Boykin

Language of the Land

A steampunk fantasy of engineering and lost words.

In the Vliets: A Steampunk Adventure

Hamburg in 1892, as it might have been.

Alexander, Soldier’s Son

Urban fantasy with a Russian twist.