It worked.
"All right, twenty then," the Y'Qatt said, coming around from the other side.
"I thought twenty-two was your final offer."
Y'Farl opened his mouth, closed it again.
Torgan laughed and shook his head. "You're not very good at this, are you, Y'Farl?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"This. Trading. I never thought you were great at it, but I always assumed you were better than this."
"I've been doing this for more than half my life!"
"Well, all that experience hasn't imparted any real wisdom, has it? You were right about one thing-I'll give you credit for that. I did want them for twenty. But now I want them for eighteen. And I know I'll get them for that, because I know now how weak you are."
"You arrogant son of a bitch! What if I won't sell them for eighteen?"
"But you will. Because you're no longer certain that you can get rid of them. You're starting to wonder if maybe you'll be stuck with these baskets for a turn or two. Maybe longer. But mostly you'll let me have them for eighteen because you're just not brave enough not to. You don't have the stones for it."
There was hatred in the man's pale eyes. But there was frustration as well, and a certain amount of resignation. Because he knew Torgan was right.
At that moment, a woman, another Y'Qatt, stopped in front of Y'Farl's table and picked up one of the baskets.
"Those are fine baskets, madame," the peddler called to her, eyeing Torgan as he did. "I just found those today, and they won't last long. Only two sovereigns."
She smiled at him and nodded. But a moment later she put the basket back down and wandered off.
"Fine then, you bastard," Y'Farl said. "Eighteen. Take them and get away from me."
"There's no need to be nasty about it, Y'Farl. You've turned a profit today, and I've got baskets to sell in other towns, places that haven't seen the old woman's work yet. We've both done well."
"Then why do I feel like I've just come through an encounter with road brigands?"
Torgan smiled. "I really couldn't say."
"This is why no one likes you, Torgan. This is why you have no friends."
"Perhaps. But this is also why every peddler in this marketplace- including you, Y'Farl-would gladly trade places with me."
Torgan pulled out eighteen sovereigns and gave them to the man, and together they returned to Y'Farl's table to gather the baskets. It took Torgan two trips to get all of them to his cart, and the Y'Qatt refused to help him.
As he started away with his second load, he noticed that Y'Farl's cheeks had turned red.
"You look a bit flushed, my friend," Torgan said. "Are you all right?" Y'Farl barely even looked at him. "I'm well enough. At least I will be once you've gone."
"You may be right. It's a fair distance between here and the nearest settlement. Maybe I should set out now."
"Good riddance, then. I hope this is the last I see of you."
Torgan grinned. "Come now, Y'Farl. You're taking this far too hard."
Y'Farl glared at him. "Am I? You call me weak and a coward, and then you pretend to be my friend, as if I should just forget all that."
"We're merchants. This is what we do. We both wanted the same thing. I just happened to win this time around."
"Well, it may all be a game to you," the Y'Qatt said, smiling thinly, his cheeks ruddy, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, "but it's my livelihood. Now go. And next time you're in the Neck, stay away from me."
Torgan eyed him a moment longer, then shrugged and walked away. He thought the man was overreacting, but he also thought it best simply to pack up these baskets and be on his way. That was something else he'd learned over his many years of travel and trade: Part of being a successful merchant was knowing when to move on.
Chapter 14
Torgan saw it as a measure of his success and comfort that he no longer raced across the land from town to town as he once had, as other merchants still did. He could afford to move at a more leisurely pace, to enjoy the journey as well as each arrival. So though he set out from C'Bijor's Neck not long after midday, he was barely two leagues west of the city by the time he stopped for the night.
The skies had begun to clear near dusk, after so many days of rain and cloud, and as he sat near his small fire, eating a modest meal of salted meat, fruit, and nuts, and sipping Qosantian wine, he could even see a few stars overhead. He was surprised, then, to see flickers of lightning to the east, back toward the Neck. Even earlier in the day, it hadn't rained on him; it certainly hadn't stormed. He heard no thunder in response to the flashes, and at last he walked a short distance from his blaze and peered into the darkness, trying to see if something else might be causing the night sky to glimmer so.
To the merchant's surprise, he soon realized that the flashes were being caused by narrow beams of fire that darted up from the plain, licking at the sky, as fine and quick as lizard tongues. It had to be Qirsi fire- what else could it be?-but the bolts of flame seemed to be coming from C'Bijor's Neck itself. It made no sense. Why would the Y'Qatt suddenly resort to using fire magic?
Unless they were under attack.
Torgan had never frightened easily. He'd heard talk of the pestilence up here in the north, but he hadn't let that keep him from coming. And he had been rewarded with the fine baskets he'd bought from Y'Farl. Even as a younger man, when he had known that the coinmonger in Medqasse had his cutthroats out looking for him, he hadn't allowed himself to be driven from the city by fear. Like so many young men, he'd confused foolishness for bravery and so had lost an eye.
But seeing that Qirsi fire rise from the city, Torgan was afraid. Was he watching the start of a new clan war? And if so, who would bother attacking the Y'Qatt, and why? Were there Qirsi raiders abroad in the land again, as there had been centuries before? He'd heard tales of their attacks on small settlements throughout the land, Eandi and Qirsi alike. But even back then, the white-hair brigands had confined themselves to the southern lands, not daring to pit themselves against the Fal'Borna or J'Balanar.
After watching for several moments, Torgan laughed at himself for allowing his fears to overmaster his judgment. Those bolts of fire were flying into the sky. Either the brigands had terrible aim, or he'd imagined a threat where none existed. It had to be a ritual of sorts, something the Y'Qatt did, something of which he'd never heard. What else could it be, really? No one had cause to attack an Y'Qatt city. And even if someone did, they wouldn't send their fire magic into the sky like that. It made no sense. And yet, as he continued to gaze eastward, he thought he could make out the glow of flames consuming the city, and great billows of smoke rising from the earth.
As the night went on, the bursts of fire didn't abate. If anything, they grew more frequent. Torgan stood transfixed, unable to look away. Dark thoughts chased one another through his mind, but none of them made any sense; none of them truly explained what he was seeing, for in truth, Torgan didn't even know what that was. A ritual? An attack? A battle? Or something worse? A civil war among the Y'Qatt? The collective madness of a city? Every option horrified him. None made any sense.
At last, seeing no change, no end to the flame and smoke, he returned to his cart and the small fire he had built. It was little more than embers now, baleful orange, a thin line of smoke drifting into the cool air. He climbed into his cart and lay down, hoping to sleep. For a long time, though, sleep wouldn't come. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the flames again, the bursts of light, the smoke. And when at last he did drift into a fitful slumber, he was plagued by strange, dark dreams. In one, from which he awoke to darkness and the distant, mournful howls of wolves, he was in the C'Bijor's Neck marketplace, surrounded by dead and dying white-hairs. His cart was burning, and with it all his wares, including the baskets he had purchased that day from Y'Farl. The flames were as brilliantly colored as the baskets themselves, and in his dream Torgan was so captivated by the dancing fire, that he reached his hand into it, searing his flesh.