The Chalcedean lowered his glass back to the table. He had not tasted it. “What are you offering? For goods such as these,” and he tapped the glass before him with the back of his forefinger’s nail. “I’d be willing to give you an excellent exchange.”
“I’m offering only coin, this trip. Coins of silver and gold, by weight value rather than minting. Nothing else.” The glasses were of Elderling make. He had a few treasures of that nature. A woman’s shawl that seemed to generate warmth. A strong box that emitted chimes and a bright light whenever the lid was opened. There were other items as well, mostly things his grandfather had bought for his grandmother many years ago. He kept them all beneath a secret hatch under his bunk. It pleased him to use glasses worth a fortune to serve a Chalcedean merchant rum in the confines of his seemingly humble stateroom.
Sinad Arich leaned back on the small chair. It creaked as it took his weight. He lifted his wide shoulders and then let them fall. “Coin is good, for grain. I can use coin, of any minting. With coin, a man can traffic in any goods he chooses. Grain on this trip, for example. But on my last journey I visited Bingtown, with coin of my own. And there what I bought for my coin was information.”
Chill uncertainty rose in Leftrin. The man had not made a threatening move, but his earlier comment about his “efficient barge” now took on an ominous meaning. Leftrin continued to lean back in his chair and to smile. But the smile didn’t reach his pale eyes. “Let’s set a price for the grain and be done. I’d like to be heading back up the river by the turn of the tide.”
“As would I,” Sinad concurred.
Leftrin took a swig from his glass. The rum went down warm, but the glass seemed unusually cold against his fingers. “Surely you mean that by the turn of the tide, you hope to be back to sea.”
Sinad took a gentlemanly sip from his own glass. “Oh, no. I am most careful to say exactly what I mean, especially when I am speaking in a tongue once foreign to me. I am hoping that by the time the tide turns, my grain and my personal effects will be loaded on your barge. I expect that we will have settled a price for my grain and for your ser vices, and that you will then take me up your river.”
“I can’t. You must know our rules and laws in this matter. You are not only a foreigner, you are a Chalcedean. To visit the Rain Wilds, you must have a permit from the Bingtown Traders’ Council. To trade with us, you must have the proper licenses from the Rain Wild Council. You cannot even travel up the river without the proper travel papers.”
“Which, as I am not a fool, I have. Stamped, sealed, and signed in purple ink. I also carry letters of recommendation from several Bingtown Traders, attesting that I am a most honest and honorable trader. Even if I am a Chalcedean.”
A drop of sweat had begun to trickle down Leftrin’s spine. If the man actually possessed the paperwork he claimed to have, then he was either a miracle worker or a most adept blackmailer. Leftrin could not recall a time in his life when he had seen a Chalcedean visiting the Rain Wilds legally. They had come as raiders, as warriors, and occasionally as spies, but not as legitimate traders. He doubted that a Chalcedean would know how to be a legitimate trader. No. This man was trouble and danger. And he had deliberately chosen to approach Leftrin and the Tarman. Not good.
Sinad set his glass carefully back on the small table. It remained half full. He smiled at it and then observed blandly, “This vessel of yours fascinates me. For instance, it interests me that propelling it once demanded a dozen oarsmen. Now, it is said, you crew it with only six men, counting yourself. For a barge of this size, I find that startling. Almost as surprising that your tillerman can hold his place here at the river’s mouth with apparent ease.” He lifted the glass again and held it to the light as if admiring the small stars.
“I redesigned the hull to make the barge more efficient.” A second drop of sweat joined the first in its journey down his back. Who had talked? Genrod, of course. He’d heard, a few years ago, that the man had moved from Trehaug to Bingtown. At the time Leftrin had suspected that the money he had paid him for his work on Tarman had financed the man’s move. Genrod was an amazing artisan, a master in the working of wood, even wizardwood, and four years ago Leftrin had paid him well, very well indeed, for both his skill and his silence. The results of his efforts had far surpassed Leftrin’s wildest hopes, and he recalled now, with a sinking heart, that more than once Genrod had mourned that his “greatest work must remain secret and submerged forever.” Not money, but Genrod’s egotistical need to brag was what had betrayed Leftrin’s trust. If he ever saw the skinny little wretch again, he’d tie a knot in him.
