Gol had done his research well. The shop was the kind that bought and sold the belongings of debtors and the desperate. It was also located in a part of the city where Cery was unlikely to be recognised. In one corner, paper window screens of all sizes and shapes leaned against the wall. Coats and cloaks hung on racks and shoes sat in pairs below them. All manner of pottery, glass, metal and stone domestic vessels and objects crowded shelves behind the owner’s chair and side bench. And a heavy, decorative ironwork cage protected trays of jewellery – though from the look of it most was badly made or fake.
Another set of shelves held books of all sizes. Some were bound with paper, the threads of the binding exposed and fraying. Some were bound in leather and, of those, most were worn and cracked, but a few gleamed with newness.
“Books on magic, then?” the pawnshop owner said, his voice rising in volume but dropping in tone. He chuckled. “I get a few from time to time. Oh, you won’t find any there, young man.”
Cery turned to find the man looking at him. The man’s smile faltered for a moment as he realised his error.
“The Guild takes them off you?” Cery asked.
The man shook his head. “No, the Guard come by now and then to check but I’m not fool enough to put something like that on display. And the books go too quickly. In and out. My regular customers know they have to come quick when I let them know something’s arrived, if they want to be the one that gets it.”
“How do you get hold of them – if you don’t mind me asking?”
The man shrugged. “Mostly I get ’em from novices. The ones that come from around here. For some reason they can’t send money direct to their families, so they steal books and sell them to me, and I pass on the money.”
“For a fee,” Cery finished.
The man shook his head. “Oh, I make a good enough profit on selling them. I treat my novices good, ’cause there’s plenty of others they could go to if I didn’t.” He scowled. “Of course, some of ’em try to get me to pass the money on to rot sellers instead. I won’t have any of that. Nasty people, those. Don’t want anything to do with them.”
“Me neither,” Cery replied. “How do you know if a book is real or a fake?”
The man straightened. “Many years’ experience. And a couple spent working in the Guild when I was a young man.”
“Really? You worked for the Guild?” Cery leaned toward the man. “What you get kicked out for?”
The man crossed his arms. “Did I say I got kicked out?”
Cery gave the man a hard look. “You left a job like that?”
The seller hesitated, then shrugged. “Didn’t like being told what to do all the time. As my late wife said, it doesn’t suit everyone. ‘Makkin the Buyer’ is a name that suits me best. Better to be Makkin my fortune than Makkin anyone’s dinner or beds.” He chuckled.
“Fair enough,” Cery said. “I don’t think I could put up with it either. So... when do you think you might get some new books? And what sort can I get?”
Makkin’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “They arrive when they arrive. Sometimes you wait days, sometimes weeks. I can try to get my novices to steal what you want, but it’s not always possible – or else it takes longer. Price depends on difficulty, and I have to warn you, sometimes one of my more, erm, influential customers takes an interest and buys out everything I have, no matter who ordered it.” The man rubbed his hands together. “What were you after in particular?”
“Something... unusual. Rare. On a particular subject. I don’t care what, just not beginner’s books.”
The man nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Call back in a few days and I’ll tell you what my boys have or can get.” He beamed at Cery. “Always nice to have a new customer.”
Cery nodded. “Always.” He tilted his head to one side a little. “I don’t suppose you can tell us who your other customers are. Just so I know who I’m up against.”
Makkin shook his head. “Wouldn’t be in business long if I did that.”
“No, I suppose not.” Cery turned toward the door, then looked thoughtful and turned back. “Just curious, but how much would a man have to offer you to be worth risking it?”
“I like being alive too much to even think about it.”
Cery raised his eyebrows. “You must have very influential customers.”
The man smiled. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
Holding back a laugh, Cery turned away. Gol strode forward to open the door for him, and they both stepped out into the street.
It was nearing sunset, and the people still out and about were walking with a hunched and intent stride, no doubt looking forward to getting to their destination. A few steps past the shop, Cery crossed the road and moved into the shadow of the opposite buildings. Then he stopped and looked back.
“What are you thinking?” Gol asked. “You have that look.”
“I’m thinking that Makkin and his shop might be a good location for our trap.”
“So do we arrange for something special to fall into his hands and see who comes to get it, or do we wait until something real comes in?”
“I doubt he’d tell us first, if he got real books. We need to be in control of the transaction as much as possible, and by arranging for the fakes to reach him we can time it to our plans. Though... we have to give our quarry reason to use magic to get hold of it. I wonder... he said he keeps them out of sight. A safebox, perhaps?”
“I’ll find out. It would make it easier to be sure Makkin doesn’t sell the books to anyone else. Hopefully that’ll force the Hunter to break in to get it.”
“And use magic.” Cery nodded. “We’ll need a safe place to watch from. And make sure we can get away if things go wrong or Makkin works out what’s going on.”
Gol nodded. “I’ll look into it.”
It was late when Dannyl finally walked through the door to his rooms at the Guild House. He’d spent the evening visiting an old Ashaki who insisted on filling Dannyl in on the trading exploits of all his ancestors, and was overly gleeful at their success at cheating other traders to the point of ruin.
He glanced into the side room he and past Ambassadors used as an office and, seeing something new on the desk, stopped and looked closer. A notebook lay there. He walked into the room and picked it up. Opening the pages, he recognised Lorkin’s handwriting and suddenly the weariness he’d felt these last few hours lifted.
At some point a previous Ambassador had purchased or had made for the office an ordinary chair with a back. Dannyl sat down with an appreciative sigh and began to read. The first passages Lorkin had copied out were from the record that Dannyl had skimmed through. There weren’t many entries, he noted, and he felt a pang of worry as he realised the young man hadn’t copied out the entry about the house in Imardin. Dannyl hadn’t mentioned it, curious to see if Lorkin would notice.
But it wasn’t an obvious clue. Lorkin will, no doubt, see different things. While he won’t pick up everything I would have, he may find things I wouldn’t.
Sending Lorkin in Dannyl’s place had been a brilliant solution to the problem of being unable to visit important Sachakans twice in a row for fear of showing undue political favour. Nothing would be the same as doing the research personally, but having Lorkin do it for him at least gave him some material to examine and consider until he was free to do it himself.
Reading on, he felt his excitement at having new information slowly ebb. There was little more here of use. Then Lorkin’s handwriting suddenly became bolder and angular, with one word repeatedly underlined. Dannyl read and then reread the copied-out record, and Lorkin’s speculations, and felt his mood lift again.