The Way of Kings (Page 87)

Near the wagons, the servants and guards unloaded crates and set up camp. Suddenly, the heliodor began to pulse with a brighter yellow light. “Master!” she called, standing. “Someone’s nearby.”

Vstim—who had been going through crates—looked up sharply. He waved to Kylrm, head of the guards, and his six men got out their bows.

“There,” one said, pointing.

In the distance, a group of horsemen was approaching. They didn’t ride very quickly, and they led several large animals—like thick, squat horses—pulling wagons. The gemstone in the fabrial pulsed more brightly as the newcomers got closer.

“Yes,” Vstim said, looking at the fabrial. “That is going to be very handy. Good range on it.”

“But we knew they were coming,” Rysn said, rising from her stool and walking over to him.

“This time,” he said. “But if it warns us of bandits in the dark, it’ll repay its cost a dozen times over. Kylrm, lower your bows. You know how they feel about those things.”

The guards did as they were told, and the group of Thaylens waited. Rysn found herself tucking her eyebrows back nervously, though she didn’t know why she bothered. The newcomers were just Shin. Of course, Vstim insisted that she shouldn’t think of them as savages. He seemed to have great respect for them.

As they approached, she was surprised by the variety in their appearance. Other Shin she’d seen had worn basic brown robes or other worker’s clothing. At the front of this group, however, was a man in what must be Shin finery: a bright, multicolored cloak that completely enveloped him, tied closed at the front. It trailed down on either side of his horse, drooping almost to the ground. Only his head was exposed.

Four men rode on horses around him, and they wore more subdued clothing. Still bright, just not as bright. They wore shirts, trousers, and colorful capes.

At least three dozen other men walked alongside them, wearing brown tunics. More drove the three large wagons.

“Wow,” Rysn said. “He brought a lot of servants.”

“Servants?” Vstim said.

“The fellows in brown.”

Her babsk smiled. “Those are his guards, child.”

“What? They look so dull.”

“Shin are a curious folk,” he said. “Here, warriors are the lowliest of men—kind of like slaves. Men trade and sell them between houses by way of little stones that signify ownership, and any man who picks up a weapon must join them and be treated the same. The fellow in the fancy robe? He’s a farmer.”

“A landowner, you mean?”

“No. As far as I can tell, he goes out every day—well, the days when he’s not overseeing a negotiation like this—and works the fields. They treat all farmers like that, lavish them with attention and respect.”

Rysn gaped. “But most villages are filled with farmers!”

“Indeed,” Vstim said. “Holy places, here. Foreigners aren’t allowed near fields or farming villages.”

How strange, she thought. Perhaps living in this place has affected their minds.

Kylrm and his guards didn’t look terribly pleased at being so heavily outnumbered, but Vstim didn’t seem bothered. Once the Shin grew close, he walked out from his wagons without a hint of trepidation. Rysn hurried after him, her skirt brushing the grass below.

Bother, she thought. Another problem with its not retracting. If she had to buy a new hem because of this dull grass, it was going to make her very cross.

Vstim met up with the Shin, then bowed in a distinctive way, hands toward the ground. “Tan balo ken tala,” he said. She didn’t know what it meant.

The man in the cloak—the farmer—nodded respectfully, and one of the other riders dismounted and walked forward. “Winds of Fortune guide you, my friend.” He spoke Thaylen very well. “He who adds is happy for your safe arrival.”

“Thank you, Thresh-son-Esan,” Vstim said. “And my thanks to he who adds.”

“What have you brought for us from your strange lands, friend?” Thresh said. “More metal, I hope?”

Vstim waved and some of the guards brought over a heavy crate. They set it down and pried off the top, revealing its peculiar contents. Pieces of scrap metal, mostly shaped like bits of shell, though some were formed like pieces of wood. It looked to Rysn like garbage that had—for some inexplicable reason—been Soulcast into metal.

“Ah,” Thresh said, squatting down to inspect the box. “Wonderful!”

“Not a bit of it was mined,” Vstim said. “No rocks were broken or smelted to get this metal, Thresh. It was Soulcast from shells, bark, or branches. I have a document sealed by five separate Thaylen notaries attesting to it.”

“You needn’t have done such a thing as this,” Thresh said. “You have once earned our trust in this matter long ago.”

“I’d rather be proper about it,” Vstim said. “A merchant who is careless with contracts is one who finds himself with enemies instead of friends.”

Thresh stood up, clapping three times. The men in brown with the downcast eyes lowered the back of a wagon, revealing crates.

“The others who visit us,” Thresh noted, walking to the wagon. “All they seem to care about are horses. Everyone wishes to buy horses. But never you, my friend. Why is that?”

“Too hard to care for,” Vstim said, walking with Thresh. “And there’s too often a poor return on the investment, valuable as they are.”

“But not with these?” Thresh said, picking up one of the light crates. There was something alive inside.

“Not at all,” Vstim said. “Chickens fetch a good price, and they’re easy to care for, assuming you have feed.”

“We brought you plenty,” Thresh said. “I cannot believe you buy these from us. They are not worth nearly so much as you outsiders think. And you give us metal for them! Metal that bears no stain of broken rock. A miracle.”

Vstim shrugged. “Those scraps are practically worthless where I come from. They’re made by ardents practicing with Soulcasters. They can’t make food, because if you get it wrong, it’s poisonous. So they turn garbage into metal and throw it away.”

“But it can be forged!”

“Why forge the metal,” Vstim said, “when you can carve an object from wood in the precise shape you want, then Soulcast it?”

Thresh just shook his head, bemused. Rysn watched with her own share of confusion. This was the craziest trade exchange she’d ever seen. Normally, Vstim argued and haggled like a crushkiller. But here, he freely revealed that his wares were worthless!

In fact, as conversation proceeded, the two both took pains to explain how worthless their goods were. Eventually, they came to an agreement—though Rysn couldn’t grasp how—and shook hands on the deal. Some of Thresh’s soldiers began to unload their boxes of chickens, cloth, and exotic dried meats. Others began carting away boxes of scrap metal.

“You couldn’t trade me a soldier, could you?” Vstim asked as they waited.

“They cannot be sold to an outsider, I am afraid.”

“But there was that one you traded me…”

“It’s been nearly seven years!” Thresh said with a laugh. “And still you ask!”

“You don’t know what I got for him,” Vstim said. “And you gave him to me for practically nothing!”

“He was Truthless,” Thresh said, shrugging. “He wasn’t worth anything at all. You forced me to take something in trade, though to confess, I had to throw your payment into a river. I could not take money for a Truthless.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t take offense at that,” Vstim said, rubbing his chin. “But if you ever have another, let me know. Best servant I ever had. I still regret that I traded him.”

“I will remember, friend,” Thresh said. “But I do not think it likely we will have another like him.” He seemed to grow distracted. “Indeed, I should hope that we never do….”

Once the goods were exchanged, they shook hands again, then Vstim bowed to the farmer. Rysn tried to mimic what he did, and earned a smile from Thresh and several of his companions, who chattered in their whispering Shin language.

Such a long, boring ride for such a short exchange. But Vstim was right; those chickens would be worth good spheres in the East.

“What did you learn?” Vstim said to her as they walked back toward the lead wagon.

“That Shin are odd.”

“No,” Vstim said, though he wasn’t stern. He never seemed to be stern. “They are simply different, child. Odd people are those who act erratically. Thresh and his kind, they are anything but erratic. They may be a little too stable. The world is changing outside, but the Shin seem determined to remain the same. I’ve tried to offer them fabrials, but they find them worthless. Or unholy. Or too holy to use.”

“Those are rather different things, master.”

“Yes,” he said. “But with the Shin, it’s often hard to distinguish among them. Regardless, what did you really learn?”

“That they treat being humble like the Herdazians treat boasting,” she said. “You both went out of your way to show how worthless your wares were. I found it strange, but I think it might just be how they haggle.”

He smiled widely. “And already you are wiser than half the men I’ve brought here. Listen. Here is your lesson. Never try to cheat the Shin. Be forthright, tell them the truth, and—if anything—undervalue your goods. They will love you for it. And they’ll pay you for it too.”

She nodded. They reached the wagon, and he got out a strange little pot. “Here,” he said. “Use a knife and go cut out some of that grass. Be sure to cut down far and get plenty of the soil. The plants can’t live without it.”

“Why am I doing this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose and taking the pot.

“Because,” he said. “You’re going to learn to care for that plant. I want you to keep it with you until you stop thinking of it as odd.”

“But why?”

“Because it will make you a better merchant,” he said.

She frowned. Must he be so strange so much of the time? Perhaps that was why he was one of the only Thaylens who could get a good deal out of the Shin. He was as odd as they were.

She walked off to do as she was told. No use complaining. She did get out a rugged pair of gloves first, though, and roll up her sleeves. She was not going to ruin a good dress for a pot of drooling, wall-staring, imbecile grass. And that was that.

Axies the Collector groaned, lying on his back, skull pounding with a headache. He opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body. He was nak*d.

Blight it all, he thought.

Well, best to check and see if he was hurt too badly. His toes pointed at the sky. The nails were a deep blue color, not uncommon for an Aimian man like himself. He tried to wiggle them and, pleasingly, they actually moved.

“Well, that’s something,” he said, dropping his head back to the ground. It made a squishing sound as it touched something soft, likely a bit of rotting garbage.