"… a special deal for only my closest friends and best customers, Master Tamlin. I can't slip any details, it's all very hush-hush, but this plan-"
"Scam!" hissed Escevar.
"— plan," Padrig plowed on, "involves only the best families of Selgaunt. Master Tamlin, if you invest a mere thirty ravens-"
"Thirty ravens?" objected Escevar. "I don't get paid thirty ravens in a year!"
Ignoring the peasant, Padrig went on, "A paltry sum, to be sure, but with great potential for growth. You'd be sorry to miss this opportunity, Master Tamlin. When it comes back five-fold, everyone will know who's the smartest bargainer in town-"
"We know who," grumped Escevar, "and may he sink in the bay to feed the fish and do something useful for once in his life."
"Oh, pay him, Escevar, and stop fretting," said Tamlin. "Once I've sealed tonight's bargain, we'll be awash in coin."
Grumbling, Escevar counted out thirty silver pieces from a purse but held them until Padrig signed their receipt in Escevar's little red-leather book, marking them "investment." Even as he counted the coins again, Padrig's ears perked. "What mission are you bound to tonight, Master Tamlin? It's clever of your father to entrust you with family business."
"We're bound for the stockyards. We have a secret meeting with-Ulk!" Tamlin jerked as Vox's finger jabbed his spine like a dagger. "Uh, that is, we're bound to carouse up one side of Sarn Street and down the other. So much ale, so little time, you know! Ha, ha!"
"Don't I know! Ta, ta!" Laughing, coins in hand, Padrig melted into the shadows like a djinn into smoke.
Rubbing his back, Tamlin groused, "Drat the dark, Vox! I'll pass pink for a tenday from a bruised kidney!"
"If your father hears you blabbed his secret plans," warned Escevar, "you'll be bruised all over from getting hurled down every staircase in Stormweather Towers."
Tamlin had no retort, so they marched on.
Clustered on the Heartland's crumpled coast, Selgaunt was an up-and-down patchwork of jeweled houses, sparkling parks, twisty streets, and proud people. The adventurers waved to friends as they walked the length of Larawkan Lane, for Stormweather Towers crouched hard over the harbor while the stockyards straddled the city's western gate where it opened to farmlands and vineyards.
Gritting his teeth against a stiff wind, Escevar groused, "We'll reek like manure for a tenday! Why would anyone plan a secret meeting in a herd of cows?"
"The contracts concern four-legged beasts as well as two-legged ones, as Father put it."
"What else did he instruct for these negotiations? Or shall Vox and I be as surprised as Zarrin's party?"
"Trust me, Es."
Tamlin's friends only sighed.
The stockyards bustled even after midnight. Many cattlebreeders and sheepherders had driven in animals before the city gates closed so they could adjust to their strange corrals. Calm animals fetched more at auction than skittish ones. Tamlin and his escort circled lowing cattle and gibbering sheep, and watched where they stepped, for the livestock had made their mark on Selgaunt's streets. Translucent globes floated above some cattle like firefly lanterns. Tubes plugged into the cow's hind ends and glow-coals burned the released gas for light, a handy piece of farm magic that always amused newcomers to Selgaunt's marketplace.
Amidst a maze of holding pens sat the Stock Market. The long drafty swaybacked barn held stalls and a judging ring where animals were paraded before bidders. Entering the tall double doors, the Uskevren clan found the building warm as a bakery, steamy as a greenhouse, and fragrant as a spring meadow. Farmers and drovers talked or sang to their beasts to settle them. Some saved pennies by sleeping in the stalls with their beasts, for the clustered animals heated the place better than sheet-iron stoves.
The secret convention was relegated to the second floor, which was partitioned into offices and meeting rooms. As the party's leader, Tamlin made to mount the stairs first, but Escevar blocked him. "We nearly got our heads chewed off in Twelve Oak Park. Let me stick my face in first, please, milord?"
The broad stairs stretched over stalls where sheep and cattle contentedly chewed cuds. A farmwife curried a placid brown-and-white beast. Clumping up the stairs, Tamlin whispered, "This is a secret meeting, so look like cattle buyers." Raising his voice, he called, "I say, isn't that a fine looking cow! Yes, indeed, a magnificent cow, madame! And lucky too, with two colors! Just what I need to nurse my calves! I'll bet that one produces buckets of milk!"
The farmwife looked up, puzzled. Vox sniffed, his idea of laughing, and Escevar chuckled. Nodding at the big beast, Vox put two fingers to his brow, stuck one finger before his groin, and made a double pulling motion.
Tamlin shook his head. "Sorry, I don't understand."
"He says your cow is a bull," supplied Escevar. "And good luck milking him."
"Oh." Tamlin followed his friend into the second-floor hall. "They probably teach that in farmer school. It's not something we merchants need to know."
Behind, Vox made a sign of strangling himself. Escevar grinned but drew his smatchet with his good right hand.
Through intermediaries meeting intermediaries, Tamlin Uskevren was to meet Zarrin Foxmantle in the farthest room just after two bells. Tamlin heard the city bells toll, far off but clear in the thick sea air, just as Escevar clicked the latch and threw open the door without stepping forward.
Thunk! A throwing dagger sizzled past and thudded into the door jamb. A female voice shrilled, "You backstabbing bastards! Get in here so we can kill you!"
Warily the three men peeked in the door. At the far left, the corner was lit by three lanterns hung from low rafters. A scarred table was surrounded by rickety benches and stools, the only furnishings. Flyspecked notices and lists were posted on the walls between many pegs for cloaks and coats. Shuttered windows in the end wall would overlook the holding pens. At the table, surrounded by four servants, stood a young and beautiful blonde woman. Her hands were empty of knives, the Uskevren delegation noted, but her snapping brown eyes looked sharp and dangerous.
The Foxmantle quintet had lost a war. The leader's purple embroidered vest lacked gold buttons, she missed her hat and a glove, and her cape hung askew because the chain had broken. Her attendants in purple and blue, two women and two men, were equally roughshod. A woman sported a black eye, and a man carried one arm in a sling. All five bristled with weapons.
Mostly the men marked Zarrin, one of five breathtaking Foxmantle daughters. Pub talk liked to hash over which Foxmantle heir was the fairest, the most hellacious, and the most fun in bed. Zarrin strove hardest to gain power within her family, refusing the role of "a brood bitch who births a bunch of brats for my father and mother to bounce on their knees!" Tamlin and Zarrin were old sandbox chums, for only lately had the two families come into competition. The Foxmantles had always farmed, pressing wine, growing dyestuffs, salting meat, and tanning hides and furs, while the Uskevren had, before the family's Great Fire, farmed the sea. Since Thamalon the First had begun buying and renting farms, dickering with the Foxmantles had become necessary lest they compete in the marketplace and make prices plummet.
Lovely Zarrin fumed but offered no more aggression, so Tamlin plucked the knife from the door jamb and, smiling, offered it to her. "I say, Zar, your welcome lacks the usual Foxmantle cheer. Have you suffered some setback in our city's spangled streets?"
"You're dark-damned right we suffered setbacks!" Zarrin snatched back the throwing knife. Tamlin had unwisely held it by the blade, and now looked at his fingers through slits in his gloves. "What's the idea of siccing gnashers on us?"
"Gnashers? The flying dogs?" Absently Tamlin scratched his chin and made the scab bleed. Escevar stripped his left glove to show seeping bandages. Tamlin said, "We met some too, and their whistling keepers."