talk.”
Rowen’s eyes widened. For that much, he would guard the man all the way to the Wintersea!Trying his best to appear unimpressed, he asked, “Where are you bound?”
Hráthbam raised his mug, found it empty, and set it down with a disappointed look. “That’s the part you won’t like. I’m going to Cadavash.”
Rowen’s surprise became instant trepidation. The dragon graveyard...
Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Since when did the dragon priests need silk?” He feared Hráthbam would take offense, but the Soroccan answered with a deep belly laugh that resounded through the inn and drew curious stares from the patrons.
“They don’t,” Hráthbam admitted. “But they do have something I need. Dragonbone. I want to buy as much I can, cart it off somewhere, and sell it. Maybe Atheion, depending on which direction I wake up facing.” He added, “At the moment, you’ll find my wagon all but empty: not one bolt of silk, if you have a heart for robbery.”
Rowen’s face flushed. “I’m no thief.”
Hráthbam nodded soberly. “Of course not. Isle Knights rarely are.”
It took Rowen a moment to form a reply. “I’m no Isle Knight. Not a squire, either.”
Hráthbam shrugged and waved his hand, fat gold rings sparkling in the lamp-lit inn. “Squire, Knight… makes no difference to me, so long as you’re worth your steel.” His eyes narrowed. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes! I mean...” Rowen hesitated. He remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius that characterized bragging as an act of dishonor. But Rowen had already been a fair swordsman before going to the Lotus Isles, almost as good as Kayden. The Isle Knights had made him better. In the tilting yards of Saikaido Temple, sparring with bamboo swords against the other squires, Rowen had won more matches than he’d lost.
“I’m good with steel. Good with my hands and feet, too, if the fight goes to ground. And I’m fair with a bow—although mine’s still branched to a tree at the moment.”
Hráthbam grinned, clearly appreciating the joke. “That settles it!” He tried to drink out of his empty mug again. “Standard contract, my friend: ten coppers now—the rest when the job’s done.”
“Didn’t you say you paid your last guards all in advance?”
Hráthbam raised one eyebrow. “Yes, and look what it got me! Ten now, ninety later. That, my friend, is my final offer. Do you agree, or did I buy your ales for nothing?”
Rowen had never been to Cadavash, but its priests were infamous for their fanaticism. Rowen could not imagine that men who worshipped the ghosts of dead dragons would be willing to sell the very bones of their gods to a gaudy silk merchant. But one hundred copper cranáfi for a month’s work was more than generous. Maybe Hráthbam would even extend his employment for another trip. Best of all, it meant Rowen could avoid going back to Lyos—at least for a while. He raised his mug. “Agreed.”
“Excellent! I’ll buy your room. We’ll drink our fill and leave tomorrow at dawn.”
Keep drinking like that, and you’ll be lucky to make it out of your bed by sundown! Not that I’ll be much better…
The old woman returned to the merchant’s table and brought him and Hráthbam more ale. Without waiting for an invitation, she scooped up four copper coins off the table and tucked them into her stew-stained apron.
The merchant drank and talked nonstop, telling Rowen all about his travels through Phaegos, the mistake he’d made in hiring two charming wagon guards who later tried to strangle him, the fortune that could be made from the silk trade (if people knew what they were doing), and the wealth Hráthbam hoped to gain off dragonbone. Then, the Soroccan began describing the various attributes and peccadilloes of his wives and the annoyance of their own separate husbands.
Rowen was halfway through his fourth ale. “How many wives do you have?”
“Ten.” Hráthbam held up both of his
Rowen’s eyes widened. For that much, he would guard the man all the way to the Wintersea!Trying his best to appear unimpressed, he asked, “Where are you bound?”
Hráthbam raised his mug, found it empty, and set it down with a disappointed look. “That’s the part you won’t like. I’m going to Cadavash.”
Rowen’s surprise became instant trepidation. The dragon graveyard...
Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Since when did the dragon priests need silk?” He feared Hráthbam would take offense, but the Soroccan answered with a deep belly laugh that resounded through the inn and drew curious stares from the patrons.
“They don’t,” Hráthbam admitted. “But they do have something I need. Dragonbone. I want to buy as much I can, cart it off somewhere, and sell it. Maybe Atheion, depending on which direction I wake up facing.” He added, “At the moment, you’ll find my wagon all but empty: not one bolt of silk, if you have a heart for robbery.”
Rowen’s face flushed. “I’m no thief.”
Hráthbam nodded soberly. “Of course not. Isle Knights rarely are.”
It took Rowen a moment to form a reply. “I’m no Isle Knight. Not a squire, either.”
Hráthbam shrugged and waved his hand, fat gold rings sparkling in the lamp-lit inn. “Squire, Knight… makes no difference to me, so long as you’re worth your steel.” His eyes narrowed. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes! I mean...” Rowen hesitated. He remembered a passage from the Codex Lotius that characterized bragging as an act of dishonor. But Rowen had already been a fair swordsman before going to the Lotus Isles, almost as good as Kayden. The Isle Knights had made him better. In the tilting yards of Saikaido Temple, sparring with bamboo swords against the other squires, Rowen had won more matches than he’d lost.
“I’m good with steel. Good with my hands and feet, too, if the fight goes to ground. And I’m fair with a bow—although mine’s still branched to a tree at the moment.”
Hráthbam grinned, clearly appreciating the joke. “That settles it!” He tried to drink out of his empty mug again. “Standard contract, my friend: ten coppers now—the rest when the job’s done.”
“Didn’t you say you paid your last guards all in advance?”
Hráthbam raised one eyebrow. “Yes, and look what it got me! Ten now, ninety later. That, my friend, is my final offer. Do you agree, or did I buy your ales for nothing?”
Rowen had never been to Cadavash, but its priests were infamous for their fanaticism. Rowen could not imagine that men who worshipped the ghosts of dead dragons would be willing to sell the very bones of their gods to a gaudy silk merchant. But one hundred copper cranáfi for a month’s work was more than generous. Maybe Hráthbam would even extend his employment for another trip. Best of all, it meant Rowen could avoid going back to Lyos—at least for a while. He raised his mug. “Agreed.”
“Excellent! I’ll buy your room. We’ll drink our fill and leave tomorrow at dawn.”
Keep drinking like that, and you’ll be lucky to make it out of your bed by sundown! Not that I’ll be much better…
The old woman returned to the merchant’s table and brought him and Hráthbam more ale. Without waiting for an invitation, she scooped up four copper coins off the table and tucked them into her stew-stained apron.
The merchant drank and talked nonstop, telling Rowen all about his travels through Phaegos, the mistake he’d made in hiring two charming wagon guards who later tried to strangle him, the fortune that could be made from the silk trade (if people knew what they were doing), and the wealth Hráthbam hoped to gain off dragonbone. Then, the Soroccan began describing the various attributes and peccadilloes of his wives and the annoyance of their own separate husbands.
Rowen was halfway through his fourth ale. “How many wives do you have?”
“Ten.” Hráthbam held up both of his
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