When he had served small measures of a bittersweet wine in tiny brazen goblets, he leaned back and eyed Milo, saying. “And just what can I do for you this day, Chief Milo?”
Milo smiled, “Put on your moneychanger’s hat, friend Flaivin. I’ve a few pretties for you to took at and value … and maybe, to buy.”
Flaivin’s only movement was a deep sigh. “Oh, my friend, my friend, you’d be better off to rebury your silver and bronze pieces for a while, that or use them to decorate a saddle or the like; when I left Ohyoh country last year, the value of silver was still plummeting, dragging bronze and copper bullion prices down in its wake. So whatever quotation I’d feel safe to give you would likely do nothing but infuriate you.”
“Not silver, Flaivin,” said Milo in a low tone, “Gold.”
In a twinkling, or so it seemed to Behtiloo, the tabletop was cleared of bottle and goblets and crowded with various and arcane paraphernalia, all gathered around and about the broad goldpieces Milo had laid before the trader.
“Reddish.” The trader sniffed. “Not pure, then, But the black-skinned bastards seem to like their coinage that color, pure or not.
“These are ahlf-ryahrs of the Kahleefah of Zahnohgah, Milo. I’ve leaned, over the years, to read a little of their snaky script, so I can tell you that these are about seventy years old. They were minted just after the accession of Kahleef Moostahfah Itahlit, who only reigned four years before he was poisoned. Rulers seldom last long in that bloody land. Let’s see, now …”
After weighing and testing the coins, he sat back and said, “Well, friend Milo, each of these three weighs out at an even thousand grains—you see, no metal was lost or removed in the damage to these two—but of course only about eight out of every ten of those grains is gold; there was a heavy addition of copper and a little silver to make up this alloy.
“What were you thinking of trading these for? I could give the best part of a pipe of a nice little wine for these three … ?”
Milo chuckled. “I’ll bet you’d like to strike so shrewd a deal, Flaivin. No, two of them for two top-quality scale shirts of steel, as well as enough sheet steel and brass to make up twenty helmets of Horseclans pattern. The other goldpiece for one hundred and fifty gallons of decent-grade hwiskee, plus some oddments of this woman’s choosing. Done?”
The trader snorted, most of the friendliness departed from both voice and demeanor. “Chief Milo, to see the goods you desire for such paltry sums would be my utter ruination, as surely you must know. All three of these coins together would not cover the cost and freightage of the amount of steel you demand, especially not decent-quality steel.
“As regards the hwiskee, now, it’s devilish costly to carry it so far. We always lose about half of what we start out with in Ohyoh country, what with broken or leaking barrels, thieving wagoners and the like, so that’s why we have to set the prices so high, are we to make any profit at all. For two of the goldpieces, or their equivalent in furs or what-have-you, I could let you have a hundred gallons of corn hwiskee, but that’s all.”
The haggling went on for some hours, but at length Chief Milo and the trader, Flaivin, reached an amicable agreement. For a total of six of the golden discs, Behtiloo received two steel-on-leather scale shins and enough loose scales to make another for Buhd Krooguh when his time of warring came, enough sheet steel and brass for thirty helmets, five pounds of brass tacks, two chests of fast-dyed threads and yarns (each chest also containing an assortment of eighteen steel needles), seven twenty-gallon barrels of hwiskee, two twenty-gallon barrels of wine and a bolt of the smoothest, softest, most sensorially pleasing cloth that Behtiloo had ever seen or touched.
As she walked back toward the Krooguh enclave to fetch in strong men and a cart or two to transport her booty, Milo touched the bolt under her arm, saying. “This is true, first water silk. I not only cannot imagine where a gaggle of plains traders came by it, I cannot imagine why they wagoned it hundreds of miles to try to sell it to nomads who mostly are dirt-poor. But it arrived here, and you now have it. Use it as cloth, if you wish, but silk makes superlative bowstrings also, and the threads too short for such could always be used in embroidery.
“Now you know the value of those golden discs, so guard them well. Cut a couple of them into four pieces and never show more than one piece at the time would be my advice, especially when you’re dealing with traders or the southern Dirtmen, For unlike other metals, gold has the hoary repute of driving men and women mad; to acquire it, they have been known to sacrifice everything they otherwise held dear—possessions, relatives, honor, even life itself. If I did anything right and proper, I pride myself that I was able to breed that particular form of insanity out of the Kindred. To you and all the other clansfolk, gold is but another decorative metal, perhaps more favored only because it is easier to work than copper or silver or brass or the antique metals.
“When you return from your camp, bring your clan smith and have him check every last scale and piece of sheet metal. See that Flaivin’s men broach every last barrel, and taste the contents yourself. Make him weigh out that sack of tacks again, too. Go through the sewing chests and see that nothing has been removed or changed about in them. If you find he is trying to cheat or delude you in any way, even the most piddling, remind him of the name Steev Koorhohm and ask if he recalls just how the clans dealt with that trader, years agone. Thought of that incident should drive all ideas of chicanery from his mind.”
“Steev Koorhohm, Uncle Milo?” Behtiloo asked. “I don’t understand. Who is Steev Koorhohm?”
Milo smiled grimly. “Steev Koorhohm was a plains trader, back before you became a clanswoman. He brought his wagons to the prairies full of diseased slaves and poisonous hwiskee. When two warriors died and more went blind after drinking his goods, a war party rode after his train, took him and brought him back.
“With all the other traders looking on, they bound his yard tightly with wet rawhide, poured water down his throat until his bladder was nigh to bursting, then slit off his eyelids and buried him neck-deep in an anthill. He only lived about a day.”
XIII
Chief Tim of Krooguh died in the fifty-second year of his marriage to Behtiloo, covered with scars and glory. He left children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren behind him, four living wives, three concubines, and one of the largest, strongest, wealthiest Kindred clans resident anywhere on the prairies or plains.
During his thirty-seven years of full tenure. Clan Krooguh had waxed in size, in wealth and in renown. When his husk had been decently sent to Wind, the sixty-three Krooguh waniors gathered and invested the eldest son of their late chief’s eldest living daughter.
Even in her grief, Behtiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh felt her old heart swell with fierce pride as she watched her sons, Hwahlis and Buhd, lace and buckle their nephew into Tim’s aged, nicked, but brilliantly burnished scale shirt for his formal presentation to the clansfolk at the chief feast.
Later, at that feast, listening while the young clan bard, Bili, sang the Song of Krooguh, Behtiloo’s gaze strayed often to Chief Sami.
“So like my Tim, he is,” she thought. “With his flaming red hair and green eyes, the same snub nose, an almost identical splash of freckles across his face.”
She noted that from time to time this new-made chief, her grandson, used gestures that had been peculiar to Tim. But, she reflected to herself, such might easily be expected, since his grandfather had been training him and grooming him for the chieftaincy of his clan for some twenty years or more. And if Sami Krooguh lived and proved as good a chief as his immediate predecessor … ?