Mary Herbert: Dragon's Bluff

Lucy, Ulin, and Challie heard the news shortly after they walked into the rug merchant’s shop. Garzan was there, talking to his overseer at the top of his substantial lungs.

“The fool fell over a kender. A kender! Can you believe it? Drunk as a farmer on mushroom spirits. If he survives the blow to his head, I just might throttle him and finish the business.” Garzan stood behind the board that served as a display table and counter. Rolled rugs lay in stacks about him while others hung like tapestries on the walls or lay in piles on the tables around the big room. A second man stood beside him, his dark bearded face thunderous.

“Where will I find another cook so quickly?” Garzan continued. He brought a meaty fist down on the board with a crash. Suddenly he saw Ulin and his companions, and anger evaporated from his face to be replaced by a large smile. A Khur by birth, Garzan was a stocky man with swarthy skin, black hair to his shoulders, and mustaches of impressive length. His mercurial temper was known to all who dealt with him, as was his habit to drive hard bargains.

“A pleasant afternoon, good people. What may I do to help you? Would you like to see a rug?” he offered, waving an expansive hand at his wares.

Challie bowed her head in greeting. “I am Chalcedony of Flotsam. It is not rugs that bring us to see your inestimable self, my good sir, but fleeces.”

“Ah, yes! So you wish to inspect my fleeces. They are the finest Schallsea wool. Excellent texture, long fiber …” He went on at some length describing the qualities of the wool.

Ulin and Challie let him talk in spite of their own impatience and Lucy’s increasing fidgets. Khurs loved to talk, to sing, to tell tales, and to bargain, often in extravagant tones and phrases. Even dwarves had learned the hard way that it was not polite to interrupt a Khurish merchant in the midst of establishing a deal.

The merchant carried on for several minutes then asked the nature of their business with fleece.

“In truth, good sir, we do not wish to purchase the fleece. We wish to travel with it.” Challie replied with a bland smile. “If you are kind enough to remember, I talked to you last month about a return journey to Flotsam.”

Garzan’s left eyebrow rose upward. “Indeed. So, you inquire about my caravans? How far do you intend to go?”

“We are traveling to Flotsam,” Challie replied, her words clipped with barely suppressed annoyance.

“Ah.” A speculative light lit the merchant’s eyes. “Yes. Caravans are the only way to reach that fair port from Sanction without months of sea travel.”

Ulin bowed in respect. “And we heard yours were the largest, the safest, and most prestigious.”

Lucy fought to keep a grin off her face. They’d heard no such thing, but she was beginning to understand the process of negotiation with a Khur.

“It is unfortunate you did not hear that I no longer allow passengers on my caravans,” Garzan said with mock gravity. “You must understand, the trail we must take to bypass the siege forces is long, the way is dangerous, and the tribute we must pay to her Magnificence, Malystryx, is exorbitant. Every beast and wagon I send is fully laden, every driver and guard who attends the goods must work to their utmost to see to the safe arrival of the caravan. Passengers are a hindrance and a nuisance.”

Undismayed by the Khur’s words, Ulin cut off Challie’s indignant exclamation with a chop of his hand. He said smoothly, “Even ones who pay well?”

Garzan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps if there was something you could do …” he said, studying the trio before him.

Ulin, Challie, and Lucy exchanged puzzled glances. Working for their passage had not occurred to any of them. What could they do for a caravan? Challie was short, even for a dwarf, and knew nothing useful about driving a freight wagon. Lucy was pleasant-looking and totally innocuous, and Ulin was lean and gawky. All of them were dressed in plain, travel-worn garments with nothing more than daggers and one small axe between them. Not one of them could pass as a guard, mercenary, or even wagon driver. Just what did the merchant have in mind?

Garzan fastened his gaze on Lucy. “Can you cook?” he asked.

Lucy chuckled. “I can barely boil water, but he can.” She pointed to Ulin. “He was raised in an inn.”

Ulin blinked as pieces began to fall into place. Truthfully, he had not been raised at the Inn of the Last Home. He’d had his own home with his parents and sister, but he had learned many of his grandmother’s recipes and secrets, and he could boil water.

“Is this true?” Garzan demanded, his excitement barely suppressed behind his sharp gaze.

Ulin lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture, “I am training to be an alchemist, yet in truth, the only differences between the two arts are the ingredients and the final results.”

The Khur merchant leaned over the table between them, his eyes shadowed by his heavy brows. “You need conveyance to Flotsam. I need a cook. Perhaps we can make a deal agreeable to all …?”

Challie crossed her arms and kept her face blank. If Ulin was willing to do this, she would not argue. The wages they earned would save the city council a fat fee. “What would the job entail?”

“I have a cook wagon already outfitted and stocked. The caravan leaves tonight at midnight. You must be able to drive a wagon and cook enough to feed at least twenty-five people. You may be called upon to tend injuries, fight brigands, and perhaps”—he pointed a finger at Lucy—“defend yourselves. My men will respect you if you feed them well, but if they do not like the food, they will not hesitate to tell you about it with their fists or knives.”

“Fair enough,” replied Ulin.

Garzan clapped his hands, and an older woman poked her head out through a curtained doorway behind him. “Bring kefre and cakes for five!” he ordered. “Writing a contract is hungry business.”

In a few minutes Garzan, his overseer, Ulin, Lucy, and Challie were seated around a small table in the back room. The elderly woman served them strong, black kefre—a drink made from the bark of one of the few shrubs that grew in the Khurs’ desert homeland—in tiny cups and plates of cakes with bowls of honey for dipping.

Lucy was still hungry after her bout of seasickness and plunged into the fare with gusto. Challie ate sparingly and, for once, let Ulin do the talking.

The men sipped their beverages and exchanged pleasantries for several minutes before Ulin asked, “I am curious to know. How do you take your caravans past the Knights of Neraka? Haven’t they been guarding the passes for years?”

The rug merchant nibbled his honey cake and chuckled as he wiped away the crumbs. “It is as I thought. You are new to Sanction.”

“Just passing through.”

“Ah. Well, the Dark Knights covet this city for themselves, but they are not yet strong enough to take it. All they do is sit in the passes and prevent honest travelers and merchants from passing through.”

“But not dishonest ones?” Ulin remarked with a glimmer of a smile.

Garzan leaned back in his chair and twirled one end of his mustache through his thumb and forefinger. “Not the clever ones. We of the Khur have our own trails and our own ways over the mountains. If the Dark Knights know of our paths, they do not interfere. They owe us too much for their own trade to want to annoy our chiefs.”

Ulin nodded once. “Glad to hear it. So … what are your terms?”

A long and, to the women, somewhat tedious discussion followed about fees, wages, tasks for Ulin’s two “helpers,” and the length of the contract. Garzan’s overseer swiftly wrote the terms on a piece of parchment as they were agreed upon.