Raymond E. Feist - The Serpentwar Saga

‘Drive myself,’ said the merchant.

‘You really keep your overhead down,’ observed Roo.

‘What do you know about overhead?’ asked the man.

‘I know a thing or two about business,’ said Roo in the insouciant tone Erik knew well: it meant Roo had almost no idea what he was talking about.

‘Who are you?’ repeated the man.

‘I am Rupert,’ answered Roo, ‘and my big friend’s name is –’

‘Karl,’ interrupted Erik, not wishing his identity known. Roo winced, as if he should have thought of that himself.

‘Rupert? Karl? Sounds Advarian to me.’

‘We’re from Darkmoor,’ said Roo, then winced again. ‘Lots of Advarian stock in Darkmoor. Rupert and Karl are common enough names.’

‘I’m Advarian,’ said the man, putting away his crossbow. ‘Helmut Grindle, merchant.’

‘Are you going west?’ asked Erik.

‘No,’ snapped Helmut. ‘I’ve just got the horses facing west for my amusement. They’re trained to walk backwards.’

Erik flushed. ‘Look, we’re bound for Krondor if you don’t mind company.’

‘I do mind,’ snapped the merchant. ‘I was doing fine until those two murderers tried to boost my cargo, and I would have killed the second one – I was just about to let fly into that brush when you killed him for me.’

Erik said, ‘I’m sure. Look, we’re going to Krondor, and it would profit us all if we stayed together.’

‘I don’t need guards and I won’t pay for mercenaries.’

Erik said, ‘Oh, wait. I don’t mean you need to pay us –’

Roo leaped in. ‘We’ll share guard duty with you for food. Besides, I can drive your team.’

‘You’re a teamster?’

‘I can drive up to six horses without a problem,’ Roo lied. His father had taught him to handle four.

Helmut thought about it. ‘Very well. I’ll feed you, but you’re standing night watch, and I sleep with my crossbow.’

Erik laughed. ‘No need to fear, Master Merchant. We may be murderers, but we’re not thieves.’ His bitter irony was lost on the man, who, grumbling, motioned for them to approach the wagon.

‘We’ve still got the better part of an hour’s light left, so there’s no sense in dawdling. Let’s get moving.’

Roo said, ‘Get started and I’ll catch up. That second man had another sword.’

‘See if he has any gold!’ shouted Helmut after him. Bending over, he said to Erik, ‘He’ll probably lie to us both if he finds any. It’s what I would do.’ Not waiting for a reply, he clambered up on the seat of the wagon and shouted at the horses as he shook the reins. Erik watched as the overworked and underfed animals pulled into the traces, and the wagon lurched forward.

The wagon halted.

Helmut Grindle pointed. ‘Krondor.’

Erik, sitting in the back of the wagon, turned and looked over the shoulders of Grindle and Roo, who had been driving. Erik had been impressed to discover that for once his friend really could back up his claim. He drove the team like an experienced teamster; obviously, Roo’s father had been good for something besides getting drunk and beating up on him.

Erik looked down the long winding road known as the King’s Highway. They had turned south after Grindle had passed the last toll station, entering the road near a town called Haverford. Twice before that patrols of armed soldiers had ridden past, but at no time did they even pause to look at Roo or Erik.

As Roo snapped the reins and the wagon started down the road toward the city, a patrol of city guardsmen rode toward them. Erik sat as calmly as he could in the rear, attempting to look as much like just another wagon guard as possible. Roo’s hands knotted on the reins and the rear left horse snorted at the tension in the line, not sure if she was asked to change pace or direction. Roo forced himself to relax and the two of them watched as the soldiers approached. Then, abruptly, the guards pulled up. ‘There’s a long wait,’ said the guard sergeant.

Grindle asked,’ ‘What’s the holdup?’

‘The King has entered the city. South gate by the palace is sealed off for his retinue. Everyone else is forced to use the north gates.’ he said, waving in the general direction Grindle’s wagon was headed. ‘And the gate watch is searching the wagons.’

Grindle swore as the guards rode off.

Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Roo shook his head slightly, indicating Erik should say nothing about the wagon search. In conversational tones, he said, ‘That’s some city.’

‘That she is,’ replied Grindle.

Krondor sprawled at the head of a large bay, beyond which an expanse of blue stretched off to the horizon: the Bitter Sea. The old city was walled, but an extensive foulburg – the part of the city outside the walls – had grown up over the years, until now it was much larger than the inner city. Inside the walls, the view was dominated by the palace of the Prince of Krondor, which sat atop a hill hard against the south side of the bay. Ships, looking like tiny white slips of paper, rested at anchor or sailed in and out of the bay.

Roo said, ‘Master Grindle, what do you think are the best commodities to ship from this city?’ Erik suppressed a groan as the merchant began his long answer. In the days since joining up with Grindle, Roo had been pestering the merchant for ideas on making money. At first the man was reluctant, as if Roo would somehow steal a thought from him and he’d be the poorer for it. Roo made several statements as if they were fact that got the old merchant going, telling the youth he was an idiot and would end up ruined before he was twenty years old. When challenged as to why, he’d open up with a sound argument. By cleverly asking questions, Roo would turn the conversation into an ongoing lecture on how to conduct business.

‘Rare, that’s the thing,’ said Grindle. ‘You can hear there’s a shortage of hides for making boots in Ylith. So corner all the hides in Krondor you can. By the time you reach Ylith, you find some lad from the Free Cities has already imported ten wagonloads of hides and you’re ruined. But rarities! There are always rich men looking for fine cloth, precious gems, exotic spices, and the like.’ Glancing around to see he was not overheard, he continued. ‘You can build volume in commodities. You can be the largest wool shipper in the West, but one plague of anthrax on the sheep herds, one ship sunk on its way to the Far Coast, and bang!’ He slapped his hands together for emphasis. One of the horses cocked an ear at the noise. ‘You’re ruined.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roo. ‘People may not have money to buy luxuries, but they have to eat.’

‘Bah!’ said Grindle. ‘Rich people always have money to buy luxuries. Poor people often don’t have money to buy food. And rich people may eat better than poor, but one man can only eat so much, no matter how rich.’

‘What about wine?’

Grindle launched into a discussion, and Erik sat back, turning his mind to the last few days. At first bored by the chatter, Erik discovered there was a lot about the business world that was interesting, especially in terms of risk versus reward. Grindle claimed he was only a modest merchant, but Erik was beginning to believe that was intentional understatement. The cargo in the wagon was an odd mix, a half-dozen bolts of embroidered silk, a dozen small jars carefully lashed together with huge amounts of cotton wadding for protection, some wooden boxes with heavy cord tied around them, and some odd sacks. The boys never asked what was in the packages and Grindle never volunteered. From the course of the recent discussion, Erik assumed the man traded in precious goods, small but of high value, and wore poor clothing and drove a modest-appearing wagon to throw off suspicion. Erik suspected Grindle might have gems or some other cargo of small bulk and large value there.