David Cook - Beyong the Moons

Bad weather or no made little difference to the merchants in the great market plaza. They were already in their stalls and hard at work, hawking their wares. The narrow aisles were clogged with cooks carrying baskets, young parents pulling squalling children, and impoverished students hoping for a scrap of stale bread. Ramshackle structures of wood and cloth marked the offices of established businessmen while simple straw mats rolled out on the ground were all the farmers needed to display their wares. “Make way! Make way!” the poulterer’s servant shouted to the crowd as he pushed a handcart filled with plucked and gutted chickens to his master’s stall.

There was a government-imposed order to the whole place, run gleefully riot by the merchants’ entrepreneurial spirit. The supposedly straight rows of stalls thrust scattershot into the aisles as each vendor pushed his or her tables or mats farther and farther into the flow of traffic. The outer ring of the plaza was mostly food. Clustered around the street entrances were the fryers of hot breads, the boilers of dumplings, the sweet-sellers, and the soup-makers. The latter clinked spoons against bowls, trying to lure customers close enough to smell their wares, while the nearby sweet batters sizzled in hot oils. Old friends-the fishmonger from down the way, the leather cutter on the way to his stall, even rival cooks standing across from each other- traded jokes and gossip.

Finally, past the grocers, butchers, coopers, clothiers, tinkers, rug dealers, and potters, the two reached a small aisle angled at odds to those around it. ‘just ahead, that’s Steel-Seller’s Lane,” was the answer the old tea merchant gave Teldin, pointing toward the gloomy row. The way was quiet when compared to the bustling activity of the outer regions, where the food stalls lay. The booths here were sturdy little shacks with louvered doors and curtains. The long eaves of the roofs grew into awnings that covered most of the narrow street. The sun, filtered through cloths of orange and blue, pulled up small coils of steam from the barely damp cobblestones. A few pieces of worn pottery and dull bronzeware were neatly arranged on the shelves of some stalls, promising greater treasures within. The curio market was still here, Teldin was satisfied to see, but it seemed much smaller now.

Halfway down the lane, a pair of merchants sat on stools across from each other, their voices floating languidly through the silence. One was a human, broad and grossly fat, with the puffiness of his face visible even under his neatly trimmed beard. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair was thin and limp and hung from underneath his brimless leather cap. In one hand the merchant idly waved a fan, stirring away the flies that swarmed around him.

His companion was a dwarf dressed in sturdy workman’s clothes of leather huffed as brightly as the gilt wooden sign shaped like an anvil that swung overhead. On his stool, the little goldsmith seemed no less tall than his human companion, but Teldin guessed the dwarf could not have been more than four feet high. A thick, curly, black beard tapered down to a point, dangling just above his waist, incongruously balanced by his sheared, stubbly scalp. The smith’s lightly tanned face was dominated by a flat nose, singed and smoked with the fires of the forge. Hands folded upon his spacious chest, the small craftsman let a long churchwarden pipe rest in his palms. At that moment, the dwarf was pointing the stem significantly toward the human trader.

Teldin stayed at the mouth of the aisle, at first preferring not to venture into its gloomy recesses. “Let me do the talking, and I’ll get a good price,” the farmer cautioned the cloth-draped giff. Teldin’s words echoed louder than he wished down the avenue, causing the two merchants to notice their potential customers.

Gomja’s brows beetled as he mulled over Teldin’s words. “Good price … You really mean to sell the cloak, don’t you, sir?” he asked in accusing tones.

“Of course I do,” Teldin snapped, irked that only now the giff was going to protest. “How do you think I’m going to rebuild my farm?” The farmer could not help suspecting that the giff knew all along and only raised his objections now, when it was far too late to get rid of him.

The merchants rose in greeting, both barely concealing their interest in the two strangers who approached. If alone, Teldin, tall and lanky in his frayed farmer’s clothes, would hardly have seemed a prospective customer to dealers in exotic wares, though the fine, black cloak that swung from his shoulders was unusual. It was the broad giant lumbering behind the farmer that piqued the tradesmen’s interest. With his face muffled in a thick, coarse blanket and pudgy, ashen-blue hands, the strange creature assured the merchants that the two customers were more than common rabble. “Greetings to you, sir, breathed the human as he rolled his obese bulk forward in a cramped bow. “Welcome to the shop of Master Mendel, myself who is before you.

The fat merchant steered the unresisting Teldin toward his shop. “What is it you seek, sir? Perhaps a fine piece of crystal from the isle of Ergoth, or perhaps this brooch, said to have been made for the clan-master of Thorbardin himself?” As he named each thing, Master Mendel held up an intricate bauble or pointed to an exotic piece lurking in the shadows at the back of his stall. The merchant continued on, proudly enumerating his wares. At last Teldin was able to get in a word.

“I’ve come to sell, not buy.”

The tradesman’s manner instantly underwent a subtle change in tone as he shifted from selling to buying. The man’s eyes seemed to gleam brightly from within their deep folds of flesh as he evaluated Teldin’s character. “Indeed, and what would you have to sell that I might want?” He feigned polite disinterest, the first phase of any negotiation.

“This cloak.” Teldin turned to the dwarven smith, who was still watching the pair with great interest. “I think it might be dwarven work. Perhaps you know?” Teldin held the fabric out for the dwarf to see.

The goldsmith gave a snort of contempt. “We’re rock- eaters, boy, not tailors. We don’t make cloaks.” The dwarf tapped Teldin’s chest with the end of his pipe. In the background, Gomja tensed then relaxed when he realized the dwarf meant no harm.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Teldin corrected as he leaned down to show the dwarf the silverwork that hung around his neck. “It’s the clasp. It won’t open and I think it has some secret catch. That’s why I thought the dwarves had made it.”

“Hmmmmm.”

Mendel’s curiosity was suddenly piqued. The merchant knew his neighbor well enough to interpret the dwarf's measured “Hmmms” as a sign of great interest. He tried to peer over Teldin’s shoulder.

The dwarf now took the chain in two hands and pulled it close to his eye, dragging Teldin’s chin forward with it. “Hmmm,” the smith commented again. “Uh-hmmm.”

Abruptly the dwarf finished his examination and hopped off the stool. “Not dwarven work, I warrant, but fine work all the same. Too small a thing for the gnomes. Can’t tell who made it.” Mendel, dealer in rare antiquities,raised a very interested eyebrow.

“So you don’t know how to get it off?” Teldin asked with some alarm. He had been certain that the dwarf would know the trick, and all at once that hope was dashed.

“No,” was the blunt answer.

Teldin sagged. He was getting tired of defeats at every turn. Why couldn’t something just go right for once?

It was Mendel the merchant who spoke ftom behind the farmer. “The fabric does not seem to be of much account,” he drawled even while fingering the dark, silky cloth. “If I get the cloak off, I’ll give you ten steel for the clasp.” The merchant pressed quickly to close the deal.