"You don't lack for confidence."
"I merely tell you what I know to be true. There are such merchants in these lands, as well. Surely you've heard of Torgan Plye."
Lici shrugged and shook her head.
"Well, take my word for it. If you want something on these plains, you go to Torgan Plye. And if you want something in Tordjanne, you come to me."
"And you are?"
He smiled and removed his hat. "Forgive me. Brint HedFarren, at your service."
"My pleasure, sir. I'm called Lici."
"The pleasure is all mine, kind lady. It seems you're new to the peddler's life. At least I assume so, since you don't know of Torgan. How did you come to be driving a cart so late in life?"
She gave him the same answer she'd given so many others: She wanted to see the land before she died, and so had taken to trading, using the gold she earned from selling her wares to pay for food.
"And you've managed to steer clear of the pestilence?"
"Thus far. It seems I've been fortunate."
He nodded, regarding her once more through narrowed eyes. "You're Mettai, aren't you, Lici?" he asked her at last.
"I am."
"And you say you're selling baskets?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I see them?"
She gestured back at her cart. "Of course."
He eyed her for another moment, before climbing off his cart and walking to the rear of hers. She heard him draw aside the cloth that hung over the back entry to the wagon, and she waited. Let him look at them. Let him realize what a treasure he'd found, and then let him fix a price in his head. Not too long-he'd notice if she waited longer than was reasonable-but long enough.
Finally, she climbed down out of her seat and walked to the back of the cart. Brint was merely standing there, holding a basket in each hand and staring at the others.
He glanced at her as she stopped beside him. "You made these yourself?"
"Yes. Dyed them by hand. No magic."
The man smiled. "That was my next question."
"It always is with merchants."
He nodded, examined the basket in his right hand. "You do fine work," he said after several moments. "Another merchant would tell me not to say that, but I think you probably know it already."
"Yes, sir."
He reached in and pushed a few baskets out of the way, exposing still more. "How many are there? Do you know?"
Lici shook her head.
"What have you sold them for?"
"Too little," she said, without thinking. He looked at her, and she added, "I'm not skilled in such matters. I weave baskets. That's where my talent lies." She straightened. "I've gotten two sovereigns for many of them, and have traded food and such for others."
"Two sovereigns is a good price."
"Is that what you'll pay?"
Brint laughed. "I didn't say that." He regarded the contents of her cart again with an appraising eye. "No, I won't pay two. But I would be willing to buy all the baskets you have left for one sovereign apiece."
"One is too low."
"If this were a marketplace, I'd agree with you. But it's not. I'm offering you the chance to sell every basket in your cart, right now, at a decent price."
"And then you'll turn around and make a fine profit on each one."
"That's my intention, yes. But I'll be transporting them, putting them out each morning and packing up those that are left each night. You'll have nothing to do but return to your home and count your gold. Surely that's worth something."
Once more, as in Runnelwick and C'Bijor's Neck, and every village in between, Lici sought to find the balance between striking a convincing bargain and ridding herself of the baskets. But she was tired, and this young merchant seemed the perfect tool for delivering her curse to the last of the Y'Qatt villages.
"Yes, it is," she said with a sigh. "It's worth quite a bit. But I labored over those baskets, and I can't let them go for quite so little. So here's my offer. One sovereign for each basket, plus ten more for the lot. Neither of us knows what that will come to per basket, but I'm sure you'll be making out well, and I'll feel that I got a bit more for all my work."
Brint appeared to consider this for several moments. "Very well," he said at last. "One for each basket and ten more for the lot." He started to climb into her wagon, but then stopped himself. "Forgive me. May I?"
"Yes, of course." But inwardly, she winced. He was in a hurry now- no doubt he wished to be moving on before nightfall. Lici had concluded, though, that the night would be her best opportunity to use her magic on the baskets. She could pretend to be going in his direction, but his cart was finer than hers, and his was the stronger horse. She'd never be able to keep pace with him.
He emerged from her cart a moment later with several baskets in his hands. "This is eight," he said, stepping to the back of his cart. "I'll leave it to you to keep count."
"Yes, all right."
He placed the baskets in his cart and was back in hers a moment later.
"So were you born in Tordjanne?" she asked, waiting for him to climb out again.
"Yes."
"And you live there still?"
"It's home, if that's what you mean. I can't really say that I live anywhere in particular." He crawled out of the cart again. "Eight more." "Do you have family?" she asked, watching him walk to his cart and place the baskets inside.
"I haven't a wife and children. Not yet at least." He pulled himself back into her cart. "I have brothers," he called to her. "Three of them. And my mother is still alive."
"All of them in Tordjanne, too?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
He emerged again. "Ten this time. Do you know Tordjanne?"
"I've spoken of it with others. Merchants and the like. I have some sense of the land."
He nodded, stepping past her to get back into her cart. "Well, I grew up near Fairdale, on the river. My father was a woodcrafter and my mother made baskets." He came out again and smiled. "Though none were as fine as these. Ten more."
"And your brothers are merchants as well?"
"No."
He put the baskets in his wagon and climbed back into hers. She could hear him moving freely now. He'd be finished in another moment. The sun was low in the west, but not low enough. Not yet.
"So they're in Tordjanne still?"
"Who? My brothers?"
"Yes."
"That's right. I'm the only one who left the woodlands. The others followed my father into woodcrafting."
"What made you leave?"
He emerged one more time, laden with baskets. "Gold," he said. "This is the last of them. Eleven. So how many is that?"
Lici thought about this for just a moment, closing her eyes, as if tallying up the number in her head. "Fifty-three," she finally said.
Brint frowned. He put the baskets in his cart, then turned to face her. "I don't think that's right."
She made her face fall. "No? I'm afraid I've never been very good with numbers."
He shook his head, removed his hat, and raked a hand through his hair. "You might have mentioned that when I left it to you to count them." He exhaled heavily and began to count the baskets in his cart. Several moments later he faced her again. "I count forty-seven."
She took a step toward him, frowning in turn. "You're certain?"
"Quite," he said. "But you're welcome to count them yourself."
She walked to his cart and began to count, pretending to lose her place twice before finally turning to face him.
"Yes, you're right," she said, smiling. "I'm terribly sorry."
He smiled in return, though clearly it was forced. "That's all right. I believe I owe you fifty-seven sovereigns."
"Fifty-seven. That's right."
He hesitated, and immediately Lici knew why. Perhaps there was a way to do this without delaying him any further. Merchants commonly carried great sums of gold, and with road brigands quite common throughout the Southlands, they generally had several secret caches hidden within their carts. Clearly Brint was no exception to this. He would have to retrieve her payment from one of these, but he would be reluctant to reveal the location of even one of his caches, even to her.