"She is very well, thank you,” Eleal said politely.
He looked oddly weary for so early in the day. Perhaps he had been traveling all night. She noticed a small gold ring in his left ear and wondered if that was new, for she could not recall seeing it before. How odd! And why only one ear?
"How is the goddess-impersonating business?” he asked.
"Slow, in Narsh at least. Tonight we shall meet with more fitting recognition. The citizens of Sussia appreciate art. If the gods will,” she added.
T'lin snorted loudly. That was a habit of his. She suspected he had picked it up from listening to his dragons’ belchings.
"You do not care for the worthy burghers of Narsh? You prefer that maniac rabble in Sussland?” He shook his big head in disbelief. “They are born mad and then go crazy."
Eleal racked her brains. “Narshians are so mean they won't even give you a cold.” She had been practicing repartee recently, and thought that remark showed it.
T'lin's green eyes twinkled. “Sussians don't know an assembly from a riot!"
She went on the attack. “How is the dragon-rustling business?"
T'lin covered his face with his big rough hands and wailed. “As the gods are my witness, the child wrongs me! No more honest trader ever crossed a pass."
That remark reminded her of the troupe's problem and stopped her from indulging in more banter.
"I have some information for you,” she said.
T'lin's shaggy red eyebrows shot up. “I await it eagerly. You are an invaluable source of information to aid a poor honest man in wresting a living."
He was joking of course, but his quick green eyes had noted her worry. Probably very little Eleal told him was ever news to him. Sometimes the troupe played in rich people's houses, and even in rulers’ houses, and then she might hear or see things he could not learn elsewhere. Everything else was mere gossip or obvious to any sharp eye, although he never said so. He was curious about all sorts of things: the chatter in the forum or bazaar, the price of foodstuffs, the lives of the rich, the grumbles of the poor, the edicts of the gods, the crops, the roads.
"When I buy a dragon,” T'lin had told her once, “I do not just look at its claws. I look at every scale, every tooth. I look in its eyes and its ears. Sometimes very small things can tell me very important things, especially if they can be added together, yes? Now, a young dragon with his saddle plate already docked but no wear on his claws and no girth marks on his scales—do you know what those mean, Avatar of Astina? Why, it means that he has never done much work, does it not? So he has been a lucky young dragon, yes? Or he has a problem, maybe. A bad temper, maybe. Now when I come to a land to trade, I do not just ask the going price of dragons, because no one would tell me. Well, they would tell me, but I would not believe them. No, I look at everything in that land—in the whole vale, everything! Finally I decide what the price of dragons should be, and whether I want to buy or sell there."
Then he would smile triumphantly and stroke his copper beard, and she could never tell if he spoke seriously or in jest.
When Eleal Singer reported to T'lin Dragontrader, therefore, she reported everything she could think of. He never said he already knew something, he never said that anything did not interest him. When she had finished, he would pick out an item or two from her list and ask for details, but she never knew which topics he would choose, or whether he was really any more interested in those than the others or was just being a good trader. His face never changed expression by as much as one red beard hair.
At the end, he would reward her. When she had been little, the reward had been a ride on a dragon, but now he gave her money—sometimes only a few coppers, once a whole Joalian silver star, but he would rarely tell her what she had said to earn it. Sometimes he would comment that she had reported well, or that she should have observed this or that, things she had missed.
She had learned how to note Things That May Interest T'lin as she went about her life. She had learned how to remember them and keep them organized in her head. Actors were good at memorizing, of course.
She took a deep breath and began with the floods in Mapland. Then she described the riot in Lappin with six people killed and two houses burned, and the unusual number of monks and priests on Fandorpass—all colors, white, red, blues, yellows, greens—and how there were as many waiting to get on the mammoths, although he would have noticed that for himself. She mentioned the magistrate who had died here in Narsh and the assembly to be held next Headday to elect his replacement. That reminded her ... “I am told there is a reaper in town!"
The glacier blue female belched thunderously and turned its long neck to stare at her reprovingly, as if she had made that disgraceful noise.
"There's a lot of Thargians in the city,” she finished proudly. “I've heard them talking. They were trying to disguise their voices, but we theater people are very attuned to accents. There were two blue monks at the show two nights ago, and three well-dressed women last night, although I only heard one of those speak. I heard two young men in the baker's. There was a fat man with a local merchant and his wife I've seen before. And I overheard a white priest in the street. They were all trying to speak Joalian-style, and the men had beards, but I'm sure they were all from Thargia. Well, from somewhere in Thargdom, anyway.” She thought quickly for a minute, and said, “That's all."
During her whole recital T'lin had just stared at her, motionless as a statue, balanced on his toes. She would not be his only informant in Narsh. Often she had seen him talking with people who could not be customers—children, beggars, priests. Most of them must be locals; she was probably the only one who traveled as he did. Once or twice he had remarked on that. Residents knew a lot, he had said, but travelers who came rarely saw changes better and noticed differences between places.
Now he took his rag and began to polish the Osby slate dragon thoughtfully. The monster purred. A dragon purr was an awesome sepulchral sound, like a hollow metal shell full of bluebottles.
"Men die all the time,” T'lin murmured. “Not every unexpected death is caused by a reaper."
"But some are!"
"And not all Thargians are spies."
"Then why do they try to disguise their voices?"
He shrugged. “What set off the riot in Lappinvale?"
"Followers of D'mit'ri Karzon attacked a house they said was being used by worshipers of the Prime. The house was burned and six people killed. The governor did not punish anyone,” she added. That should intrigue him. The Thargians usually kept very strict order in lands they ruled, although Thargland itself was said to be a rowdy place.
After a moment T'lin said, “In Lappin there is a temple to Zoan, the god of truth, who is an aspect of Visek, the Prime. Why should the whites need to worship him in a house instead of the temple? And why should Karzon followers care anyway?"
"That was what I heard."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Are you sure it was the Parent they were supposed to be worshiping? Tell me the exact words you heard."
T'lin Dragontrader had never admitted before, as far as she could remember, that anything she had told him was news to him. She felt rather excited, wondering how much he would pay her this time. She closed her eyes and thought very hard. Then she looked at him again.
"The One?"
"Are you sure or are you guessing?"
"Mostly guessing,” she admitted.
His eyes were like hard green stones. “What do you know of the One?"
"Well ... Usually it means Visek, the Parent, the Source. Or one of his aspects, like Zoan."
"Blessed are the avatars of Visek, father and mother of gods, blessed be his name. You said ‘usually'? Who else is the One?"