L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Skiodra, still the biggest man among the traders and wearing in his shoulder harness the huge broadsword he had always carried, stepped forward and offered a lopsided smile. “I am Skiodra, and I have again returned.” While the trader continued to speak in old Anglorat, the local language seemed almost second nature to Nylan now. Across the back of Skiodra’s hand was a scab, and Nylan could almost sense the pus and pain beneath, the white chaos of infection.

He looked at Ayrlyn, and she nodded.

“Greetings, trader.” Ryba’s voice was polite, indifferent. She was no longer worried about having things to trade, not with the plunder of nearly two thousand armsmen stored in Westwind.

Skiodra bowed deeply. “Your fame has carried far, honored angel, and all of Candar bows to your might. We bring more supplies. I had hoped you might have blades to trade.”

“We do have a few,” said Ryba.

Skiodra looked at the mounted riders. Nylan got the picture, and, handing the mare’s reins to Ayrlyn, dismounted and walked forward.

“You still do not let many others do the speaking, O mage?”

Mage? Even after his successes in mastering certain of the “magical” order fields of the world, Nylan certainly had no illusions about his being a mage. Or an armsman, he thought, despite all the hardware he carried.

“They are warriors, Skiodra.” He shrugged.

“Aye,” offered the big trader. “Warriors indeed. But now is the time to trade.”

The first cart-as had always been the case-not only bore Skiodra’s banner, but was filled with barrels.

“I have the lord of flours, not just from the fertile plains of Gallos, but from those heads grown on the flattest and darkest bottomland in Candar.”

“You have grown more eloquent, Skiodra,” Nylan said, ignoring Ryba for the moment. “I hope we do not pay for such eloquence.”

“It is good flour. The very best.” Skiodra offered Nylan a bow nearly as deep as the one accorded Ryba. “You as a mage should know good flour.”

“We all appreciate good flour,” agreed Nylan. “But the softer flour does not always store as well as that from harder grains.” That was a point he’d picked up from listening to Blynnal.

“I forget, O honored mage, that you came from a long and distinguished line of usurers,” responded Skiodra. “A line that must extend across the heavens back into the days of the most ancient. Still, I must insist that this is good flour, the best flour. You can store it longer, far, far longer. At a silver and a copper a barrel, I am offering you angels my very best price.”

“Last year, your very best price was nine coppers a barrel, and the harvests in the lowlands were good.”

“O mage, your memory extends as far as your ancestry. But it is harder and longer to travel the Westhorns in the spring, when mud clings to hoofs and heels and wheels.” Skiodra bowed. “Take pity on an honest merchant.”

Nylan wanted to laugh, for Skiodra was known for almost everything but honesty-unless he knew his customer was as willing to slaughter as to trade. At the same time, the smith tried not to sigh. After seasons, even, the trading sessions never seemed to change, and the haggling seemed almost routine, a ritual that was required.

“Can’t we get on with this?” said Ryba quietly, shifting her weight on the big roan, her fingers touching the hilt of the Westwind blade.

“Pity is fine for charity,” Nylan offered, “but bad for trading. Six coppers a barrel.”

“Six coppers! That is not trading; it is robbery. No, it is murder, for we would all die of hunger ere we returned to our ruined homes.” Skiodra touched the tip of his broad mustache. “You have mighty black blades, but can you eat that cold metal until your harvests come in? Or your guards, will they not grow thin on cold iron? A fair man am I, and for a silver a barrel I will prove that fairness.”

“Aye,” said Nylan. “A fair profit that would be. Fair and fine enough to bring you smoked fowl on gold and chains of silver round the necks of all the women around you.” Nylan offered a broad and amused smile.

“I trade in good faith, mage. In true good faith.” The big trader rolled his eyes.

“I scarcely question your faith,” answered Nylan. “Only your price.”

“You are a mage. Oh, I have said that, and said that, and the whole of Candar knows how mighty you are, but your father could not have been a mere usurer, but a usurer to usurers. You would have my horses grub chaff from the poorest miller’s leavings.”

“At eight coppers a barrel, because I would reward your efforts to climb here, you would still have golden bridles for your mounts.”

“Not a single barrel at nine coppers. Not one,” protested Skiodra. “The harvests were good, as you say. But the traders from Cyad had already cleaned the granaries in Ruzor.”

“Someone is always trading,” Nylan offered.

“There were floods in Cyador, they said. Nine coppers a barrel-that will break me with what I paid because flour was short. But I, the noble Skiodra, knew that you could use flour.”

“How about ten barrels for a gold?” Nylan offered, sensing the growing chaos and tension in Skiodra.

“Done, even though you will ruin me, mage.”

“If all were so successful at being ruined, noble Skiodra, all the world would be traders.”

Skiodra frowned momentarily.

Ryba’s face was cool as she watched Nylan haggle.

Ayrlyn’s eyes took in both the traders and the Marshal, and her eyes went to Skiodra’s hand again. Quietly, she dismounted and passed the two sets of reins to Saryn.

Skiodra frowned as the healer stepped up, and he paused in his description of the anvil in the cart.

“A token of good faith,” Ayrlyn said, and her fingers brushed his wrist, settling there lightly.

Perspiration beaded on the trader’s forehead.

Nylan wanted to laugh at the man’s fear, but instead he only let his own senses follow Ayrlyn as she eased the forces of order around the infected hand and pressed out the chaos and infection.

“Now,” she said. “It will heal properly.”

Skiodra swallowed, and began to sweat even more as the healer remounted, sending a faint smile to the big trader. The faintest of frowns crossed Ryba’s countenance, then vanished.

In the end, a half-dozen blades paid for not quite two dozen barrels of wheat flour, a barrel of maize flour, two barrels of kerneled corn for the chickens, the second true anvil that Nylan had wanted, two large wedges of cheese, and a keg of nails.

“Do you have to go through all those charades?” Ryba asked as the guards rode back up the ridge, the cart creaking behind them, while Skiodra and his entourage headed slowly westward along the road that wound toward Lornth.

“They seem to expect it,” Saryn said, looking back over her shoulder at both the departing traders, and at the darkening clouds that foretold a possible late afternoon storm. “Ayrlyn’s little effort knocked something off the prices, too, I’d bet.”

Ayrlyn brushed her hair off her forehead, but said nothing.

“What do you think, Ayrlyn?” asked Ryba.

“Skiodra’s heart wasn’t in it. He’s afraid of us.”

“You certainly added to that,” pointed out Ryba.

“If he died from that infection, and with the lack of medical knowledge here, he could have, then we’d have to break in another traveling trader.”

“I’d rather not,” said Nylan, recalling how long it had taken to convince Skiodra.

“So why is he here now?” asked Saryn. “Westwind isn’t exactly the crossroads of Candar, and he’s afraid of us.”

“Business is bad elsewhere,” hazarded Nylan.

“The war…it couldn’t have bankrupted Gallos or Lornth-not over a few thousand armsmen.”