The Sorcerer's Plague

Chapter 13

The skies above her had turned grey days ago, blotting out stars and sun, the red and white of the moons and the blue Harvest mornings. Occasionally it rained on her. Most times it was merely cold and windy. And grey. Color had vanished from her world, or so it sometimes seemed. But no, there was color still. The primrose yellow and fiery oranges, the lavenders and larkspur purple, the berry-stain reds and that startling indigo she'd found the previous year. And so many shades of brown-earth, straw, pale gold like the sunbaked grasses of the plain, warm brown like Mettai skin, flax and bay and chestnut and dead leaves and all browns in between.

Yes, there was still color in her world. Not in the sky or in the villages or in the people she encountered. But there, in her baskets. A world of color, a lifetime of color, in the weaving she had done, in the spells she had cast, in the damage she had done thus far and would do again.

She had gone farther west, beyond the Companion Lakes, deeper into Qirsi land. Always she remained to the north, though, because this was where the Y'Qatt had settled. It was hard land. Uncompromising cold during the Snows, stubborn winds that swept down off the mountains during the Harvest and the early Planting, and during the Growing a relentlessly hot sun that sucked moisture from the earth, just as the Y'Qatt believed magic sucked life from their bodies. The storms, when they came, their rain like mercy, were fierce, violent affairs. There was no sympathy in this land, no respite from its cruelty. How well she knew. This was the land that was left to outcasts. Of course the Y'Qatt would settle here. Their white-hair brothers and sisters to the south would think nothing of ceding this land to them. Just as the Eandi had ceded the land near the eastern Companion Lakes to the Mettai.

It should have occurred to her long ago, as she prepared for this last great undertaking of her life. But only after leaving Kirayde had she started to understand what should have been so obvious. She'd seen only the differences-Y'Qatt and Mettai were to each other as wraiths of the night were to creatures of day, as death was to life, as bone and dust were to blood and flesh. But as she spoke to the man in Runnelwick, the one who'd called her "Mettai" the way he might have called another woman "whore," it had come to her like lightning on a steamy day. Y'Qatt and Mettai-opposites yes, but as two edges of the same sword. Both were outcasts from their own races, but also they were bridges to the other race: Eandi sorcerers, Qirsi who rejected magic.

There were days in the darkness of the Snows when it seemed that Morna was offering a glimpse of the Planting to come: warm breezes and sunshine that melted the ice on the lakes and began to coax buds from trees that yearned for the Growing turns. Sometimes there would be several of them in succession and Sylpa would call it a false Planting, as if the winds and the sun were trying to trick them into putting in their crops too soon. There were similar days late in the Harvest, when the warmth would return briefly, like a memory of the Growing. Sylpa had a name for these as well: the shadow Growing.

False Planting and shadow Growing. They were separated by more than half the year, and yet the days were the same. They didn't belong- warmth when there was supposed to be cold, clear skies when there should have been grey and wind and snow. So it was with the Y'Qatt and the Mettai. They didn't belong, they had been cast out of societies that had little in common other than their rigidity, and so they were much alike.

Her realization changed nothing, of course. If anything, it made worse all that had happened before, and thus made her even more determined to see this through to the end, despite how tired she had grown in recent days.

It was more dangerous now that she was so far beyond Silverwater Wash. The white-hairs who shared this land with the Y'Qatt had no particular cause to dislike the Mettai, or to shun her for being one, but they were Fal'Borna, and no Qirsi hated the Eandi more. She'd learned, though. She wouldn't be caught unaware again, as she had been by that fool of a girl near Tivston. And she was ready to take on something greater, something more than just these tiny villages she'd visited thus far.

C'Bijor's Neck. She'd passed it by heading north, because she hadn't been ready yet. The others had been preparing her for this. Now, though…

C'Bijor's Neck was one of the largest Y'Qatt settlements in the north, nearly as large as the great white-hair cities on the Ofirean. She'd been there once before, many years back, as she'd started preparing in earnest for this day. She'd heard of the place from peddlers she met while trading her baskets. The Neck, they called it, because it sat on a spur of land that jutted out into the Silverwater, just below Turtle Lake. They'd encouraged her then to sell her baskets in the marketplace there-they told her it was huge, the largest market along the northern half of the river. But she'd known then that she should wait, that to show herself and her wares in C'Bijor's Neck too soon would be a mistake. So she nodded, and she listened, and she tucked away every bit of information she could glean from them, like a beggar hoarding coins.

They liked deep baskets in the Neck, or at least those were the ones that sold best. Deep, with high handles, usually braided, because they felt best against the hand when the baskets were laden with fruit or grain. They liked bright dyes, or else earth colors-nothing in between. And they had little use for small baskets, ornamental ones with no practical use. The Y'Qatt of C'Bijor's Neck were a sturdy, sensible people, well adapted to the harsh life afforded them on the northern plain.

So early that morning, in the cold, dim grey that precedes a cloudy dawn, as Lici prepared to make her way into the village, she gathered all her small baskets and hid them in her cart. She left her horse and wagon within the shadows of the small copse in which she'd bedded down the night before. Then she dragged the blade across her hand, as she had so many times before, and cast her spell on the baskets that remained with her. These she packed up and carried to the city, arriving in the marketplace with the first of the peddlers. Without her cart she was left to spread out her blankets on the ground. She arranged the baskets in neat rows; sturdy, sensible rows. She almost laughed aloud at the thought.

Before she'd finished, there were people standing before her wares, silently admiring them, no doubt trying to decide what to offer her, so that they might go away with a bargain, as well as a fine basket. They didn't know just how eager she was to sell them. They didn't know that if she'd had to give them away in order to get these ensorcelled baskets into their hands and their homes, she would have. Nor could she give them any reason to guess at this. She'd drive a hard bargain. She'd leave the Neck with gold heavy in her purse, and the need for vengeance resting just a bit lighter on her shoulders.

Yellow eyes. White hair. Narrow, bony, pale faces. Did they really think they were so different from the Qirsi who lived south of here? Did they really believe that there was virtue to be found in denying who and what they were?

"You made these yourself?" one man asked, eyeing her shrewdly. "Yes, sir, I did."

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"East of here. A small village near the lakes. I'm sure you wouldn't know it."

"You're Mettai, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"And the colors in these baskets?"

She knew what he was getting at. She'd have to answer the same question throughout the morning, as buyers tried to determine the value of her work. Dyed baskets were worth far more than those colored with magic.

"Dyed by hand, sir. I assure you. Pick one up. Examine each osier if you must. Each strand of grass." Hold it close. Breathe deeply of its scent. Rub your hands over it, as if in a caress. And die well. "I do good work, but you'll see that the color isn't uniform."

He stooped and picked up one of the more colorful baskets. He eyed it closely for several moments before returning it to the blanket.

"That can be feigned. You can use magic to make it look like that."

She smiled, hating him. "Yes, I can. But I didn't. You don't have to believe me, of course. An eye as discerning as yours should have no trouble seeing the truth. And if you think there are better baskets here in this marketplace, you should buy them." Lici looked past him to another man, who'd also paused to admire her weaving. "Can I help you, good sir?"

"Wait now," the first man said, glancing over his shoulder before facing Lici again. "I didn't say I was going to look elsewhere. I just wanted to be certain that you weren't trying to sell ensorcelled baskets in an Y'Qatt city."

"I'd never do such a thing, sir. I'm quite aware of where I am and what sort of people live in your fine city."

He stared down at the basket for several moments, his eyes narrowed. He was tall and lean, like so many Qirsi, with eyes the color of pinewood, and short-cropped hair. Eventually he met her gaze again.

"How much?"

"Three sovereigns."

He laughed and shook his head. "Too much." But he didn't walk away. She'd get two. She could get more, but she didn't want the price going too high.

"I'd go as high as one sovereign, two silvers."

"The price is three."

"Come now, madame," he said. "You can't expect to get three sovereigns for a single basket."

"It's early," she said. "Look how your friends gather around my wares." There were at least ten people standing in front of her blankets now. Seeing this, the man frowned.

She was tempted now to get two and a half sovereigns, not only because she didn't like this man, but also because with so many watching, this first sale would set the price for the rest. Some baskets would go for more, of course. Others would sell for less. But all would be measured against this first one. She had to remind herself that she wanted them to sell quickly, that before the day was through, she wanted her baskets spread throughout the city. And she herself wished to be on her way out of the Neck by midday.

"Two then," he said.

She couldn't appear to give in too easily. "Two is low," she said. "But I'll let this one go for two if you'll buy a second at the same price."

"I have no need of two."

"None?" she asked coyly. "Your wife wouldn't find a use for a second basket of this quality?"

He frowned again and rubbed a hand over his face. "Four for the pair."

Lici nodded.

"Very well." He quickly chose a second and paid her the four sovereigns, before hurrying away, as if afraid that she might enchant him into buying more.

After that, she did a brisk trade, selling nearly a dozen baskets in the first hour of the morning. As the day progressed, however, business slowed, so that as midday approached she'd only sold two more, and still had ten left. She'd watched from afar as the other villages succumbed to her curse, but she had no desire to be anywhere near C'Bijor's Neck when her magic began to take effect. The city was too large; too many people would be sickened. Not that she didn't want to see, but she feared the outpouring of so much magic. Magic, the likes of which would bleed a Mettai to death. Magic that would leave this entire city in ruins.

"Slow day."

She turned at the sound of the man's voice. He was Qirsi, his white hair tied back from his face, his skin nearly as dark as her own. Fal'Borna. He was an old man for one of their kind. His hair had grown thin, so that she could see his golden scalp between strands of white, and he wore a fine, pale beard that made him appear gaunt as a mountain goat.

"Yes," she said.

"I thought you'd sell everything you brought in the first hour." "I'd hoped to."

"You did all right. Better than most of us."

"I suppose." She eyed him, an idea blossoming in her mind, like a small flame. "Is it usually like this?"

He shook his head. "Usually better. Most days it's as busy as this morning all the way through to dusk. But this weather has people scared. They think it'll be a hard winter, so they're saving their coin, in case the crops aren't enough to see them through."

"You live here," she said. Fal'Borna by birth, but now Y'Qatt.

He nodded and stepped over to her, extending a hand. "Y'Farl. You are?"

"Licaldi."

"Nice to meet you, Licaldi. I'm surprised we haven't met before. Baskets that fine would have attracted the notice of every peddler between here and the Ofirean."

"I'd stopped selling them long ago. I only began again recently."

"Why would you have stopped?"

She shrugged, looking away. This had to be done carefully. "My husband died, and it was all I could do to keep our crops going. But they're mostly in now, and my boys are doing the rest."

"So he died recently?"

She nodded, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry."

Lici shrugged and made herself smile, knowing it would look forced. He'd expect that. Then she knelt and began to pack up her baskets, gathering them together, and placing them slowly and carefully into the larger baskets she used to carry the others.

"You're leaving?" Y'Farl asked.

"I haven't any choice. I have to sell these, but I also need to get back before nightfall, and it's a walk of several hours."

"There are inns here. You could sell the rest tomorrow. You've made enough gold this morning…" Seeing her shake her head, he trailed off.

"No," she said. "I need to get home, and I can't spare even a bit of the gold I have, particularly if the rest of these baskets don't sell."

He watched her pack away the baskets for a few moments longer before walking back to his cart. He said nothing, and for just an instant Lici feared that she had miscalculated. Still, she continued to gather her baskets, and soon he had wandered back her way.

"How much for the lot?" he asked.

She looked up at him and frowned, as if not understanding. "I'm sorry?"

"How much would you sell them for? All the baskets?"

"They all sell for different amounts. How should I know-?"

He shook his head impatiently. "If I were to buy them all, how much would you want me to pay for them?"

"You…? But why?"

"To sell again," he said, surprising her with his candor. "Baskets that fine don't usually find their way to the Neck. They may not all sell today, but they'll sell eventually."

Still she frowned, regarding her wares now, as if uncertain as to whether to part with them. "I don't know."

"It would be gold in your pocket, Licaldi. Perhaps not as much as you would have gotten had you sold all of them yourself." He smiled. "I'd need to make some profit, after all. But it would be more gold than you have now."

"I could have sold them for twenty sovereigns."

"I'm sure you could have. But I won't pay that much. I'll give you ten." "Ten? For the lot?" She shook her head and went back to packing. "That's ridiculous."

"That's what I'm prepared to pay."

For a long time she refused even to look at the man, though she knew he was watching her. Finally, she sat back on her heels and sighed. "Fifteen."

"Twelve. That's as high as I'll go."

She glared at him. "You're taking advantage of me."

"Yes. I'm a merchant. It's what I do."

Lici had to laugh. "Very well, then, merchant. Twelve sovereigns for the lot."

She pulled the baskets out once more and began to hand them to him. He placed them on the table from which he'd been selling his goods-blankets mostly, though also some clothes, blades, and tools. When he had rearranged his table to fit her baskets, he returned and counted out twelve sovereigns into her slender hand.

"If you come back this way with more of these baskets, I'll be interested in them as well," he told her.

"I won't be in such a hurry then," she said. "And I'll expect more gold."

He found that amusing. The fool was still laughing as Lici walked away, her two large baskets tucked under her arms, empty save for the blankets. It was only midday. She had time to retrieve her cart and start making her way to the next Y'Qatt village. She wasn't even certain which one she'd go to next. There were so many. And she intended to find all of them.

Torgan Plye had been a merchant for the better part of ten fours. He'd traded in every part of the Southlands, from Eagles Inlet in

Aelea to the Lost Bay of Senkora Island, from Briny Point, at the southern tip of Naqbae, to these cold, isolated villages near the Companion Lakes. In the course of his travels, he'd done business with Eandi and Qirsi alike. He'd sold wine and delicacies to the Eandi of Tordjanne and Qosantia, as well as to the Talm'Orast and H'Bel; he'd sold weapons to the warriors of Stelpana, and also to the Fal'Borna and T'Saan; and he'd traded horses from the plains of the J'Balanar for fish from the waters off the Aelean coast.

He'd seen fat times and lean, and everything imaginable between the two. Early on, when he was still trying to establish himself as a merchant of some renown, he made the mistake of borrowing gold from a coinmonger in Medqasse, in central Tordjanne, near where he grew up. An older man, another merchant, had promised to sell him a shipment of red wine that he swore was coming from a place called Sanbira in the Forelands. But he needed some gold to help secure the shipment. One hundred sovereigns would do it, he'd said, and one hundred more on delivery. It would sell for three times that amount. The man swore it on the memory of his poor mother. And Torgan, ass that he was, believed him.

He never saw the man again, nor the one hundred sovereigns he'd paid up front. He paid the coinmonger the one hundred he had left, plus another thirty that he'd managed to put away for himself. But by then, with the daily fees accruing, he owed nearly three hundred, and when he couldn't pay, the coinmonger's cutthroats took out his left eye. That was the lowest of the lows.

But he survived. Better one-eyed than dead, he decided. He never borrowed again, nor did he ever pay up front for anything he couldn't see with his own eye. He left Medqasse, and spent a few years on the sea, earning gold as a merchant sailor and learning his profession. Less than five years after losing his eye, he had enough gold to quit the sea and try once more to make it as a land merchant. This time it took. He worked hard, he wandered more leagues than he cared to count, he trusted no one but himself. And he scraped by. Until at last, ten or twelve years back, he was rewarded for his perseverance.

He was in R'Troth land, in the foothills to the Djindsamme range, a lone Eandi merchant in the mining country of the white-hairs, when he stumbled upon a cache of raw gemstones. They were in an old canvas bag that had been tucked away in a shallow cave near the headwaters of the Iejony. They'd been there for years, it seemed. The bag had moldered and was covered with bat droppings. As best he could tell, they had been stolen years before, hidden in the cave, and forgotten. Perhaps the thieves had been unable to find the cave a second time. Maybe they were dead. Torgan didn't care. He sold them for over seven hundred sovereigns.

He could have quit then. He could have settled down along the Qosantian coast or in the Aelean Highlands near Lake Naaf. But he would have gotten bored. He hadn't many friends, and even before he lost his eye, he'd never had women flocking to his side, or more to the point, to his bed. And he'd never been a man to put down roots.

Torgan couldn't remember the last time he had spent more than three nights in the same city or town. Even three seemed long. After two, his feet began to itch, he began to feel hemmed in, the way a wild horse would feel in a paddock. He had no knack for words or music or swordplay, or any of the other pursuits to which wealthy men of his age were drawn. He was happiest in the marketplace. His single talent was making the sale. Some men collected blades or horses. Some collected women. He collected gold.

After he found the gems, his good fortune continued. A year later, he bought twelve carved bowls from one of the finest wood turners among the A'Vahl. Three days later, the man was killed in a sudden flood. Torgan sold the bowls for three times what he paid for them. Suddenly it seemed that every deal he made turned out well. It was as if the gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Or maybe they were merely compensating him at last for the loss of his eye. Truth be told, he didn't care why it was happening; he merely resolved to enjoy himself for as long as he and the gold lasted.

That wasn't to say that he made no concessions to his new wealth. He no longer had any need to work as hard as the other merchants did, particularly the younger ones. They kept to regular schedules, making their way from city to city, keeping to those places where they knew they could turn a quick profit. Torgan liked to wander, and so he allowed himself to range far and wide across the land. Most merchants traded with the A'Vahl and the M'Saaren, the Talm'Orast and the H'Bel, the Nid'Qir and B'Qahr. Fewer bothered with the seafaring folk of the D'Krad, though their smoked fish was the best in the land, or with the miners of the I'Prael, though their mines produced the finest grade of silver and copper. These clans were on the fringe of Qirsi land. There was less profit in roaming so far, so most merchants traded in inferior products. It made perfect sense.

But Torgan could afford to take the time to go all the way to the Nahraidan Peninsula or to cross the A'Vahl into D'Krad land. He was willing to venture north into Y'Qatt territory in search of somethinganything-that another merchant might miss. He had the time and the gold, and he enjoyed seeing so much of the land. He knew that most other merchants hated him. They resented his wealth. They thought him unreasonable and hard and arrogant, and he was all those things. Again, he could afford to be. No deal was so important to him that he had to make it, which meant that he could walk away from any sale if the terms weren't to his liking. The willingness to walk away: a merchant had no greater weapon. But though few traders liked him, all knew that he sold the finest products. If a lesser merchant needed fine wine for a wealthy client, or the best blade for a discriminating swordsman, they always came to Torgan Plye. Put quite simply, he had the best goods.

Perhaps this was why the baskets of the Mettai woman caught his eye. Torgan knew quality when he saw it. He also knew a skilled trader when he watched one at work. And however well Y'Farl thought he had done in buying the woman's remaining wares-and from the smug look on the Y'Qatt's face as he watched the woman leave the marketplace, it seemed clear that he thought he had done very well indeed-Torgan knew better.

He liked the clarity of the marketplace, the simplicity of the game. Everyone there was interested in the same thing: gaining the most from the exchange of goods and gold. Whether buying or selling, a person wanted to feel that they had done well. A buyer wanted to get the best product for the least amount of money; the seller wanted to turn the greatest profit possible. So simple. And yet, there were so many ways to achieve those ends. That was what fascinated him, what made the marketplace more than just his place of business. It was also his source of entertainment. He had been known to spend an entire day just watching others buy and sell. For Torgan it was much like watching a battle tournament, a contest between combatants of various skill levels. Actually it was better than a battle tournament, since he found watching swordplay dreadfully boring.

Y'Farl had always struck him as a competent merchant. Not the best by any means, but skilled enough to have made a living at it for several years. On this day, however, he'd met his match, and then some, in the old woman. Whatever terms they had come to had pleased Y'Farl. That much was clear. Yet, the woman had been delighted as well. Torgan was sure of it. He'd watched too many merchants and peddlers at work for too many years to be mistaken about such a thing. She'd gotten what she wanted and had managed to convince Y'Farl that he had done well. Only a skilled trader could do that. Yet, with all the different places he had visited in the Southlands, he couldn't recall ever seeing this woman before. Nor had he seen baskets of this quality, at least not for many years. It was all too curious for him to ignore.

He sauntered over to Y'Farl's table. The Y'Qatt was moving his new baskets around, trying to arrange them to best effect. Hearing Torgan's approach, he looked up. His expression darkened.

"Torgan Plye."

"Good day, Y'Farl. Feeling pleased with yourself?"

"If you must know, I am." He gestured at the baskets. "I got all these for twelve sovereigns-I'll sell them for at least twice that much."

"You seem quite sure of yourself."

"Look at them. Finest baskets I've seen here in the Neck. Ever. Even you'd be proud to sell them."

Torgan picked one up and turned it over in his hands. He'd looked at them earlier, during the morning, when so many had pressed around her blankets, eager for a look at the wares of this newcomer to the C'Bijor's Neck marketplace. He'd been struck then by how fine they were- the coloring was even and vivid, but clearly done with dyes rather than magic. The weaving was meticulous and neat, the osiers and grasses strong and free from any fraying. But now that he knew how little the woman had gotten for them he wanted to see them again. Perhaps he'd missed something before.

Even on second examination, though, they looked to be as finely made as any baskets he'd found in this part of the Southlands. The Qirsi of B'Qahr were excellent weavers as well, and their work might have been somewhat better than this. But not much.

"Well?" Y'Farl asked, sounding just a bit too smug.

Torgan returned the basket to the Y'Qatt's table. "You're right. She makes lovely baskets."

"Perhaps you'd like to buy them."

"Perhaps I would."

"Thirty sovereigns."

Torgan laughed. "Thirty? Just a moment ago you were talking about doubling your money. Now you want to nearly triple it."

"That's not nearly triple."

"It's too much."

Y'Farl sniffed. "I don't think so."

"She sold them for two each."

"She didn't know what she was doing."

Again Torgan laughed. "She knew better than you did."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind, Y'Farl." He started to walk away. "Good luck selling your baskets."

"Wait a moment, Torgan," the Y'Qatt said, hurrying after him and grabbing his arm. "I want to know what you meant."

Torgan looked down at the man's hand and then at his face.

Y'Farl colored and let go of him. Torgan was a big man. At this point in his life some might have called him fat, though not to his face. And they might have been right. But he was broad as well, and still strong. Strong enough, certainly, to take on a Qirsi, particularly one who didn't use magic.

"Please," the Y'Qatt added, rather meekly. "You seem to think that she got the better of me. I'd like to know how. You see these baskets. You know their worth, and what I paid. How can she have bested me?"

"To be honest, Y'Farl, I don't know. I'm wondering that myself. Maybe she was more foolish than I believed, and didn't know what her baskets were worth. Maybe she's mad-an old woman like that, anything is possible. But she walked away from here feeling pleased with herself, every bit as pleased as you were."

"How can you know that?"

He opened his hands and smiled. "It's my business to know. It's why I've done so well over the years."

"Then she must have been mad. I know quality when I see it, and those baskets are worth every sovereign I paid for them, and then some."

Torgan said nothing. He didn't have to. Y'Farl was doing his work for him. Worth every sovereign I paid for them… A moment before he'd been asking for thirty. Now he was trying to justify the twelve he'd spent.

The Y'Qatt wandered back to his table and picked up one of the baskets, no doubt seeking reassurance.

"Look at this weaving," he said. "Look at these colors. Of course she was "You're probably right," Torgan said with an easy smile. He returned to his cart and began to neaten his piles of cloth, and straighten the rows of M'Saaren wood planes and Naqbae leather.

Y'Farl managed to wait at least a few minutes before strolling over. He tried to look unconcerned as he stood there glancing at the cloth, but Torgan wasn't fooled.

"So, are you interested?" the man finally asked.

"In what?" Torgan asked. He knew he was being cruel, but he couldn't help himself.

"In the baskets, of course!"

"Oh, right." He frowned and shook his head. "Not really. Not at thirty."

"I was kidding about that. They're not worth thirty."

Torgan eyed him. "Oh? What are they worth?"

Y'Farl's face fell. Clearly, he knew that he had placed himself in a weak position. Now he had to name a price that was high enough to leave some room for negotiation. But he'd already admitted that thirty was too high.

"I… I don't know," he said. "What do you think they're worth?" "You paid twelve."

The Y'Qatt scowled at him. "You can't expect me to let them go for the same price. I'll do far better than that selling them here."

"You're still sure of that."

"Yes, of course. Twenty-five. They're worth twenty-five." "Fifteen."

"You want them for twenty," Y'Farl said.

"I want them for fifteen."

"Yes, yes. That's what you say. But you want me to split the difference. I won't. Twenty-two. That's final."

Torgan shrugged. "That's too high." He turned his back, pulled a few more bolts of cloth from the back of his cart, and laid them out for display. Y'Farl hadn't moved. "Was there something else you wanted?"

Y'Farl blinked. "Aren't you going to make another offer?"

"I offered fifteen."

"But surely that's not-"

"You think they're worth twenty-two, Y'Farl. At least you do now. But the woman couldn't sell them at two apiece, though she tried for the entire morning. I think that's why she was so pleased. Because she knew she couldn't sell any more of them here, but you didn't. Now you're stuck with ten of them. You want me to save you from your own misjudgment, but I won't do it. You bought them. You sell them." He walked around to the other side of the cart, ostensibly to check on his horse. Mostly, he wanted Y'Farl to think that he was done with their bargaining.

It worked.

"All right, twenty then," the Y'Qatt said, coming around from the other side.

"I thought twenty-two was your final offer."

Y'Farl opened his mouth, closed it again.

Torgan laughed and shook his head. "You're not very good at this, are you, Y'Farl?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"This. Trading. I never thought you were great at it, but I always assumed you were better than this."

"I've been doing this for more than half my life!"

"Well, all that experience hasn't imparted any real wisdom, has it? You were right about one thing-I'll give you credit for that. I did want them for twenty. But now I want them for eighteen. And I know I'll get them for that, because I know now how weak you are."

"You arrogant son of a bitch! What if I won't sell them for eighteen?"

"But you will. Because you're no longer certain that you can get rid of them. You're starting to wonder if maybe you'll be stuck with these baskets for a turn or two. Maybe longer. But mostly you'll let me have them for eighteen because you're just not brave enough not to. You don't have the stones for it."

There was hatred in the man's pale eyes. But there was frustration as well, and a certain amount of resignation. Because he knew Torgan was right.

At that moment, a woman, another Y'Qatt, stopped in front of Y'Farl's table and picked up one of the baskets.

"Those are fine baskets, madame," the peddler called to her, eyeing Torgan as he did. "I just found those today, and they won't last long. Only two sovereigns."

She smiled at him and nodded. But a moment later she put the basket back down and wandered off.

"Fine then, you bastard," Y'Farl said. "Eighteen. Take them and get away from me."

"There's no need to be nasty about it, Y'Farl. You've turned a profit today, and I've got baskets to sell in other towns, places that haven't seen the old woman's work yet. We've both done well."

"Then why do I feel like I've just come through an encounter with road brigands?"

Torgan smiled. "I really couldn't say."

"This is why no one likes you, Torgan. This is why you have no friends."

"Perhaps. But this is also why every peddler in this marketplace- including you, Y'Farl-would gladly trade places with me."

Torgan pulled out eighteen sovereigns and gave them to the man, and together they returned to Y'Farl's table to gather the baskets. It took Torgan two trips to get all of them to his cart, and the Y'Qatt refused to help him.

As he started away with his second load, he noticed that Y'Farl's cheeks had turned red.

"You look a bit flushed, my friend," Torgan said. "Are you all right?" Y'Farl barely even looked at him. "I'm well enough. At least I will be once you've gone."

"You may be right. It's a fair distance between here and the nearest settlement. Maybe I should set out now."

"Good riddance, then. I hope this is the last I see of you."

Torgan grinned. "Come now, Y'Farl. You're taking this far too hard."

Y'Farl glared at him. "Am I? You call me weak and a coward, and then you pretend to be my friend, as if I should just forget all that."

"We're merchants. This is what we do. We both wanted the same thing. I just happened to win this time around."

"Well, it may all be a game to you," the Y'Qatt said, smiling thinly, his cheeks ruddy, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, "but it's my livelihood. Now go. And next time you're in the Neck, stay away from me."

Torgan eyed him a moment longer, then shrugged and walked away. He thought the man was overreacting, but he also thought it best simply to pack up these baskets and be on his way. That was something else he'd learned over his many years of travel and trade: Part of being a successful merchant was knowing when to move on.