Rusco smiled. “Not to worry,” he said, untying the bag fully. As the cloth flattened on the counter, more bright coins spilled out, along with chains and rings and ropes of glittering stones. It was all very pretty, Arlen supposed, but he was surprised at how Ragen’s eyes bulged and took on a covetous glitter.
Again they haggled, Ragen holding the stones up to the light and biting the coins, while Rusco fingered the cloth and tasted the spices. It was a blur to Arlen, whose head was spinning from the ale. Mug after mug came to the men from Catrin at the bar, but they showed no signs of being as affected as Arlen.
“Two hundred and twenty gold suns, two silver moons, the rope chain, and the three silver rings,” Rusco said at last. “And not a copper light more.”
“No wonder you work out in a backwater,” Ragen said. “They must have run you out of the city for a cheat.”
“Insults won’t make you any richer,” Hog said, confident he had the upper hand.
“No riches for me this time,” Ragen said. “After my traveling costs, every last light will go to Graig’s widow.”
“Ah, Jenya,” Rusco said wistfully. “She used to pen for some of those in Miln with no letters, my idiot nephew among them. What will become of her?”
Ragen shook his head. “The guild paid no death-price to her, because Graig died at home,” he said. “And since she isn’t a Mother, a lot of jobs will be denied her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rusco said.
“Graig left her some money,” Ragen said, “though he never had much, and the guild will still pay her to pen. With the money from this trip, she should have enough to get by for a time. She’s young, though, and it will run out eventually unless she remarries or finds better work.”
“And then?” Rusco asked.
Ragen shrugged. “It’ll be hard for her to find a new husband, having already married and failed to bear children, but she won’t become a Beggar. My guild brothers and I have sworn that. One of us will take her in as a Servant before that happens.”
Rusco shook his head. “Still, to fall from Merchant class to Servant …” He reached into the much lighter bag and produced a ring with a clear, sparkling stone set into it. “See that she gets this,” he said, holding the ring out.
As Ragen reached for it, though, Rusco pulled it back suddenly. “I’ll have a message back from her, you understand,” he said. “I know how she shapes her letters.” Ragen looked at him a moment, and he quickly added, “No insult meant.”
Ragen smiled. “Your generosity outweighs your insult,” he said, taking the ring. “This will keep her belly full for months.”
“Yes, well,” Rusco said gruffly, scooping up the remains of the bag, “don’t let any of the townies hear, or I’ll lose my reputation as a cheat.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Ragen said with a laugh.
“You could earn her a bit more, perhaps,” Rusco said.
“Oh?”
“The letters we have were meant to go to Miln six months ago. You stick around a few days while we pen and collect more, and maybe help pen a few, and I’ll compensate you. No more gold,” he clarified, “but surely Jenya could do with a cask of rice, or some cured fish or meal.”
“Indeed she could,” Ragen said.
“I can find work for your Jongleur, too,” Rusco added. “He’ll see more custom here in the Square than by hopping from farm to farm.”
“Agreed,” Ragen said. “Keerin will need gold, though.”
Rusco gave him a wry look, and Ragen laughed. “Had to try … you understand!” he said. “Silver, then.”
Rusco nodded. “I’ll charge a moon for every performance, and for every moon, I’ll keep one star and he the other three.”
“I thought you said the townies had no money,” Ragen noted.
“Most don’t,” Rusco said. “I’ll sell the moons to them … say at the cost of five credits.”
“So Rusco Hog skims from both sides of the deal?” Ragen asked.
Hog smiled.
Arlen was excited during the ride back. Old Hog had promised to let him see the Jongleur for free if he spread the word that Keerin would be entertaining in the Square at high sun the next day for five credits or a silver Milnese moon. He wouldn’t have much time; his parents would be readying to leave just as he and Ragen returned, but he was sure he could spread the word before they pulled him onto the cart.
“Tell me about the Free Cities,” Arlen begged as they rode. “How many have you seen?”
“Five,” Ragen said, “Miln, Angiers, Lakton, Rizon, and Krasia. There may be others beyond the mountains or the desert, but none that I know have seen them.”
“What are they like?” Arlen asked.
“Fort Angiers, the forest stronghold, lies south of Miln, across the Dividing River,” Ragen said. “Angiers supplies wood for the other cities. Farther south lies the great lake, and on its surface stands Lakton.”
“Is a lake like a pond?” Arlen asked.
“A lake is to a pond what a mountain is to a hill,” Ragen said, giving Arlen a moment to digest the thought. “Out on the water, the Laktonians are safe from flame, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. They’re fisher-folk, and thousands in the southern cities depend on their catch for food.
“West of Lakton is Fort Rizon, which is not technically a fort, since you could practically step over its wall, but it shields the largest farmlands you’ve ever seen. Without Rizon, the other Free Cities would starve.”
“And Krasia?” Arlen asked.
“I only visited Fort Krasia once,” Ragen said. “The Krasians aren’t welcoming to outsiders, and you need to cross weeks of desert to get there.”
“Desert?”
“Sand,” Ragen explained. “Nothing but sand for miles in every direction. No food nor water but what you carry, and nothing to shade you from the scorching sun.”
“And people live there?” Arlen asked.
“Oh, yes,” Ragen said. “The Krasians used to be even more numerous than the Milnese, but they’re dying off.”
“Why?” Arlen asked.
“Because they fight the corelings,” Ragen said. Arlen’s eyes widened.
“You can fight corelings?” he asked.
“You can fight anything, Arlen,” Ragen said. “The problem with fighting corelings is that more often than not, you lose. The Krasians kill their share, but the corelings give better than they get. There are fewer Krasians every year.”
“My da says corelings eat your soul when they get you,” Arlen said.
“Bah!” Ragen spat over the side of the cart. “Superstitious nonsense.”
They had turned a bend not far from the Cluster when Arlen noticed something dangling from the tree ahead of them.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Night,” Ragen swore, and cracked the reins, sending the mollies into a gallop. Arlen was thrown back in his seat, and took a moment to right himself. When he did, he looked at the tree, which was coming up fast.
“Uncle Cholie!” he cried, seeing the man kicking as he clawed at the rope around his neck.
“Help! Help!” Arlen screamed. He leapt from the moving cart, hitting the ground hard, but he bounced to his feet, darting toward Cholie. He got up under the man, but one of Cholie’s thrashing feet kicked him in the mouth, knocking him down. He tasted blood, but strangely there was no pain. He came up again, grabbing Cholie’s legs and trying to lift him up to loosen the rope, but he was too short, and Cholie too heavy besides, and the man continued to gag and jerk.
“Help him!” Arlen cried to Ragen. “He’s choking! Somebody help!”