Ruad glanced down at Hyam’s fingers, which swiftly flickered in archaic Roadsign. The burly craftsman wandered to the first beast, a seventeen-hands-high chestnut stallion of some eight years. He ran his hands over the strong legs and down the flanks, then moved on to the gelding. This animal was of sixteen hands, perhaps five years older than the stallion, and showed some evidence of a sway back. Hyam had signalled forty silver halves for the pair.
‘I’d say thirty-eight silver halves,’ stated Ruad.
‘You ruin me!’ squealed Hyam, dancing on the spot. ‘How can this happen to an honest man?’
‘You agreed to abide by this man’s decision,’ the Nomad reminded him. ‘And though it is five pieces more than I offered, I will accept.’
‘There is a conspiracy in Heaven against me,’ said Hyam, shaking his head. ‘But I have been trapped by my own stupidity. I thought this man knew horses. Take them; you have a bargain beyond your dreams.’
The man grinned and counted out the money; then he led the horses from the paddock. Hyam transferred the silver to a hip-pouch and sat back, grinning.
‘You are a rascal,’ said Ruad. ‘The stallion has an inflamed tendon; it could be lame within the week. And the gelding? Its spirit has gone.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said the old man softly. ‘They are from the Duke’s stables and he is not kind to them.’
‘How is life for you, Hyam?’
‘It could always be better,’ answered Hyam, running his hand through his thinning white hair. ‘But there are bad times coming.’
‘According to you — and all horse-traders — times are always bad,’ said Ruad, smiling.
‘I cannot deny it, Ruad, my friend. But this is different, believe me. You can see the signs throughout Mactha. The number of beggars has increased since your last visit. And whores? The town swims in new whores. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have complained about that, but now? Now I see it for what it is. Many are good women who have lost their husbands or their homes. Walk down the Streets of Trade and see the closed shops with their barred windows. And the price of slaves is dropping… that is never a good sign. The beggars fight among themselves for the best sites, and the number of robberies has doubled since last year.’
‘Does the Duke take no action?’
Hyam hawked and spat. ‘What does he care about Mactha? I hear news from all over the Duke’s realm. He has almost doubled the taxes everywhere. Farmers must give him twenty per cent of their crops, or else yearlings. And since most of the farmers rent their lands from the nobility, they are left with about ten per cent to feed their families and plan for the coming year.’
Several men had gathered to view the horses. Hyam signalled Ruad to silence, and they continued their conversation using Roadsign.
‘There is madness in the air, my friend. The Duke ordered three men impaled last month. Their crime? They wrote to the King, asking for justice against the raised taxes. The King sent Earl Tollibar, the Duke’s cousin. Now justice is to be served against the three men who asked for it. There’s a sort of dark poetry there.’
‘Impaling was outlawed more than twenty years ago,’ said Ruad.
‘But in those days the Knights rode the land and the old King ruled. Do not look to yesterday, Ruad. Yesterday is dead — gone, like the Knights.’
‘All the counsellors cannot be dead,’ protested Ruad. ‘What of Kalib?’
‘Poisoned, so they say.’
‘Rulic?’
‘Killed in a hunting accident. I should get in supplies for the winter, Ruad; there is a bad feeling in the air.’
‘Look after the mare,’ said Ruad, aloud. He walked out through the crowd gathering for the horse auction and on to the Streets of Trade. As Hyam had said, many traders had closed their businesses. It was not a good sign.
A young woman approached hint. ‘Your pleasure, sir.’
He smiled at her. ‘Business must be bad for you to approach one so ugly.’
She did not return his smile. ‘Only three copper quarters,’ she said, her eyes avoiding his.
He took her hands and turned them over. They were clean, the nails scrubbed. ‘Why not?’ he told her, and followed her through a maze of alleys to a dismal structure with a broken door. Inside it was clean but dingy, and a baby slept on a pile of blankets by the far wall.
She led him to a pallet bed and swiftly lay back, hauling her woollen dress up around her hips. Ruad was about to loosen his belt when he heard a movement behind him and stepped sideways so that the club whistled harmlessly past his shoulder. Turning, he hammered a blow to the assailant’s midriff, doubling him over, then cracked the blade of his right hand to the man’s neck. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The woman sat up, her hand over her mouth.
‘We needed money,’ she said. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘No,’ said Ruad, ‘and you’ll get your money when you’ve earned it.’
He loosened his belt.
Ruad stepped from the gloom of the dwelling into the sunlit street — his good eye narrowing, his senses alert. The woman had been a disappointment, bursting into tears as he moved to her. She had made him angry and, unlike some men, anger had no part in Ruad’s sexual desires. He had dressed and left her.
He found his way back to the main street, brushing aside beggars as he walked. Hyam was right; Mactha was becoming a running sore.
The Street of Ore was. near deserted and Ruad was surprised to see boards being hammered across the. windows of Cartain’s establishment. The front door was open and he stepped inside. The former Nomad was supervising the packing of several large crates, but he spotted Ruad and waved him through to the back room.
Cartain joined him there, and poured a goblet of apple juice which he passed to the bemused Craftsman.
‘You are leaving, too?’ said Ruad. ‘Why?’
The tall, angular merchant sat down at his desk, his dark slanted eyes fixing on Ruad. ‘You know why I am rich?’ he asked, stroking his hawk beak of a nose.
‘I have always disliked my questions being answered by questions,’ Ruad snapped.
Cartain grinned, showing a golden tooth. ‘I like you, Ruad — but answer my question.’
‘You buy cheap and sell dear. Now, why are you leaving?’
‘I am rich,’ said the merchant, smiling at Ruad’s increasing annoyance, ‘because I read the wind. When it blows fresh there is money to be made; when it blows bad, there is money to be made. But when it does not blow, it is time to move on.’
‘You are an irritating man,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I shall miss you. Where now shall I peddle my toys?’
‘I will send someone to you. Your work is still highly sought after. Do you have something for me?’
‘Perhaps. But I need gold ingots and more bronze — also a quantity of that Eastern oil.’
‘How much gold?’ Cartain asked, leaning back and averting his eyes.
‘You will earn three hundred Raq for my little singer. I will take the equivalent of one hundred.’
‘Show me.’
Ruad opened the leather pouch at his side and took from it a small golden bird with emerald eyes. He stroked its back and stood it on his palm. Then, lifting it to his lips, he whispered a word. The bird’s metallic wings spread and it rose from his hand to circle the room. Soft music sang from its beak and a heady perfume filled the air.
‘Beautiful,’ said Cartain. ‘Simply exquigite. How long will the magic last?’
‘Three years. Four.’ Ruad lifted his hand and the bird spread its wings and glided to his palm. He passed it to Cartain.