But for now, his life depended on his magic's discretion. The brilliant green on his thumbnail faded away to leave a tiny, perfect image reflected in the shining grease. That must be somewhere in the residence the Mahaf wives used when visiting this isle, unseen beyond the first rise of the rolling island. Ifal was offering plaited strands of turquoise beads to a pleasantly plump, grey-haired woman whose peacock-patterned shawl was as fine as anything Bidric had to offer. Dev recognised her at once. Vidail Mahaf, senior wife, with Tarita stood at her shoulder.
Vidail waved away the turquoise, saying something that left Ifal frozen with surprise, strings of lapis hanging limp from his fingers.
Dev moistened dry lips with his tongue and glanced up at a fitful breeze toying with the spinefruit tree's broad leaves. With infinite care, he teased a breath of air away from the tree and began guiding it gently towards the distant residence. Tension pressed down on him as he looked back to the miniature scrying on his thumbnail but the women were still deep in discussion with Ifal. Satisfaction warmed Dev in a way the sun never could. Those fools who said these spells couldn't be worked together, they should try working enchantments with the finesse he needed to keep his skin whole sailing these perilous waters. He had learned more in his first season than he had in five wearisome years in Hadrumal's dusty libraries.
Then he stiffened, seeing the gem trader digging deep in his coffer, unwrapping soft leather bundles to reveal inky blackness within.
Dev turned all his attention to threading the enchanted breeze swiftly through the air, sorting hastily through the whispers it was bringing to him. There, that was Ifal's voice, distinctive with the rasp of the eastern reaches.
'Of course, efficacy all depends on the history of the talisman.'
Dev stiffened.
'I might be better able to help if I knew just what magical malice you seek to protect your children from.'
'It's sufficient to ward them with jet, for the present.' Vidail reached for the beads, tightness in her voice. 'We will take all you have. Are there any other pieces, bracelets, rings?'
Dev swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
'I have a butterfly comb inlaid with satinstone.' Ifal rummaged in his coffer. 'Both stone and symbol powerful talismans against wizardry, regardless of the piece's history,' he remarked casually.
'It is indeed,' said Vidail slowly. 'You are astute, as always.'
'Astute enough,' there was a menacing edge to Tarita's voice, 'to let it be known we were interested in your sunstones and tourmalines and nothing else besides.'
'Sunstone to warm the heart and lift the spirits.' Ifal smiled peaceably. 'I'll be the model of discretion, but perhaps I'll let slip my guess that you may seek some clarity in your dreaming, my ladies? Sunstone so often conveys that virtue. It would hardly be a surprise, if one of you were planning on a night at some tower of silence, with your daughters of an age to be married.' He ran a hand over dark brown wiry hair. 'Which naturally explains your interest in my finest tourmalines. I believe I will be replenishing my stocks of pink and white cabochons, such useful stones for balancing passion and compassion in the young.'
'You have a glib tongue, trader. Be sure you know when to hold it, or someone will cut it out.' Vidail took the butterfly hair ornament and exchanged a wary nod with Tarita. 'Present yourself at our gates again, when you have replenished your stocks of jet.'
Tarita clapped her hands sharply together and her body slave opened a door. 'Our wife Rivlin has some of her craftspeople's ash-glazed pottery in payment for your jet, and for your discretion.'
'Discretion comes as part of every trade I make, great lady,' Ifal promised before following the slave out of the room with a distinct spring in his step.
As well there might be, thought Dev. The ash-glazed pottery of the Mahaf domain was highly prized. The random dribbles that the secret firing process produced in the greenish glaze were closely scrutinised for prog-nostic significance by the gullible fools hereabouts.
Dev let his stealthy spell-casting dissolve into the untrammelled air and sat up. There was no point in trying to get anything out of Ifal now. He'd be intent on planning how profitably to trade those valuable pots and whatever other gems he could offer the local rulers to guard them against wizardry. There was no temptation of the flesh Dev could offer to cozen a man so notoriously faithful to his partner, bodyguard and lover, and neither of them drank anything stronger than the piss-poor officially sanctioned wine of these islands.
Ifal would doubtless be trying to read some answers to this puzzle in those pots, superstitious as every Aldabreshi. Dev rose to his feet and headed back towards the beach. Time to pay a visit to those charlatans who leeched a living telling fortunes for the credulous Archipelagans. He walked along the water's edge, relishing the cool flurries around his feet, not even sparing a glance for the awnings. Blood pounded beneath his breastbone.
Beyond the traders, a blunt ridge of rock ran out of the trees, only halting at the water's edge where the seas lapped at it with lazy waves. It was a reddish stone, veined with white and broken into a series of ledges like haphazard i steps. Higher up, opportune grasses and flowers clung to nooks of wind-blown soil. Down by the water's edge, a filthy old man dressed in rags crouched at the base of the rock, eyes bright with madness as he hunted in the sand for shells, which he dropped in a gourd. Close by, cross-legged on the very lowest ledge and composed in clean white cotton, a youth sat with a bundle of many-coloured reeds resting across his lap.
Dev wasn't interested in lunatics and shirkers out to avoid an honest day's work. He looked at the men who had claimed various vantage points on the rock. Head prudently shaded with a fold of cloth, a grizzled man sat chatting with another of a similar age. Both boasted a small brass urn close at hand as well as a miscellany of wooden boxes, some dull, some brightly coloured. The man lower down also had a couple of small wicker cages, augury doves cooing contentedly inside. On the flat top of the ridge sat an old man, white hair and beard reaching to his waist. Beneath his little awning, brass and copper urns ringed him and an attentive youth offered him refreshment from a silver cup. People eager to seek his guidance perched on the steps and ledges below. Some clutched offerings of fish or meat wrapped in fresh leaves, others carried easily traded trinkets. The old man beckoned to the first one, bending forward to answer the suppliant's question with a query of his own. There were always the questions, seeming so innocent yet betraying the very answers these credulous fools sought, hints garnered by the soothsayer's skilful reading of a suppliant's stance, the angle of their head, the anxiety in their face.
Dev looked instead at the soothsayer with the doves. He'd seen that man being escorted to and fro by Rivlin Mahaf's body slave on several previous visits to this island. Every sage had a network of contacts and informants feeding him information, otherwise they'd never maintain their deceits, but a soothsayer that the warlord's wives favoured would surely have inside knowledge to weight his predictions towards the success that would enhance his reputation.
The madman sidled across the sands towards Dev, rattling his split and battered gourd and bringing a rank stench that a full season's rains wouldn't diminish.
'Get lost, lizard eater,' Dev growled. The madman had enough sense to scurry away. Then Dev's expression turned to an eager hopefulness that would have astounded Bidric. The youth with the reeds raised them in a ceremonious gesture and rustled the dried seed heads, smiling with contented anticipation. Dev ignored him, scrambling up a steep face of the ridge to outstrip a couple of girls picking a more cautious route upwards.