7th of the Turn of Sutri, 4973
The marketplace buzzed with chaotic, urgent energy.
On the first Seventhday of each turn, the great bazaar at Deepwell in Thimbletoe drew patrons from all over, making it one of the better-attended trading posts in the Five Boroughs. Today’s crowd was no exception. In fact, by Nundle’s estimation, the crowd today was a bit larger than normal as the first selections of summer produce were now available.
Close to a thousand figures scurried about the sun-soaked market, hurrying from stall to booth, pausing to inspect the goods on display, and—if the merchant was lucky—haggling over merchandise and price. The bulk of those moving through the rows of booths were tombles, of course, but a number of tall longlegs from Cartu wandered the market as well. A singular saeljul had wandered through earlier, causing a bit of excitement in Merchant’s Row.
It had been early in the morning—the hazy fog had yet to burn off—when the ijul had wandered down the way, past Nundle’s stall. Nundle had done his best to interest the visitor from Jularrn in a long-term contract for shipments of red apples from Alewold, but the pale, blond ijul had ignored his pleas, wearing a scornful expression while moving past Nundle’s stand. Unfortunately, the ijul’s response had been a harbinger of what Nundle’s day would be like.
Midday was nigh and Nundle sat dejectedly on his three-legged stool, staring at the passersby amble past, and no longer trying to encourage them to stop. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, tilted his head back, and rested it on the riverstone wall behind him. He was forced to shut his eyes tight against the brilliance of the sun hanging high in the cloud-dusted sky.
For at least the fifth time in the past hour, he wondered if he should just close his stall and go home. The day was too nice to waste being miserable. Summer was almost over, after all, and Harvest was just around the corner. Perhaps a nice afternoon of fishing would be time better spent. But then his already floundering trading business would spiral even further into obscurity.
Nundle ran both hands through his wild red hair, pulling at it in frustration. He hated what had become of his enterprise.
“Rough day, Nundle?” asked a friendly voice.
Opening his eyes, Nundle lifted his head and studied the tomble who stood before him. Thick, curly black hair sprung out from a round head, framing rosy cheeks, brown eyes, a bulbous nose, and a mouth much too small for his large face. Most everyone muttered quietly that Bom Whipplerock was unusual looking. Nundle suspected Bom would agree with them.
Nundle shook his head in dismay as another frustrated sigh seeped from his lips.
“So far, I have arranged for a single shipment of Garno’s summer squash and two crates of his turnips to an inn just over the border in Cartu.”
Bom was quiet for a moment, most likely waiting for the rest of Nundle’s sales. When he realized Nundle was done, he asked, “That’s all?”
Sticking a finger through a hole in his breeches and scratching his knee, Nundle replied, “It’s been a very rough day.”
Sympathy washed over Bom’s face.
“I’m sorry, Nundle. Truly, I am.”
Nodding his head, Nundle said, “I know you are, Bom.” He could not keep his misery from his voice. Nor did he care to try anymore.
Bom took a step closer, nervously inspecting his finely cut, blue vest and fashionable white cotton shirt.
“Perhaps I could send a prospective buyer over in your –”
Interrupting him, Nundle shook his head and said, “No. I will not take charity, Bom. Thank you for the offer, though. It is quite kind of you.”
Bom was one of the more successful merchants in Deepwell and had been a friend to Nundle the past few years, trying to teach him the intricacies of trading. Either Bom was a bad teacher or Nundle had been a poor student.
Crossing his arms, Bom said softly, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I will make the proposal again, Nundle.”
Since last Harvest, Bom had been making overtures to purchase what remained of the business Nundle had inherited from his great-uncle, even offering Nundle future employment.
Standing up from the stool, Nundle said dejectedly, “Please don’t, Bom. After today, I might finally be tempted to accept.” Despite his troubles, Nundle could not imagine selling his great-uncle’s trading enterprise. It would be an admission of Nundle’s utter failure as a merchant.
Eyeing him carefully, Bom nodded once.
“I suppose I understand.”
As Nundle started to move past Bom to the front of his booth, he glanced into the crowd and froze upon seeing a familiar figure milling about the market.
“Uh-oh…”
Julo Hinglegrog wore a calf-length, sky-blue dress with faded orange bows pinned to her shoulders and carried a plain satchel with two long loaves of what appeared to be three-grain bread sticking out. Her rich auburn hair was pulled back tight, tied into two long braids that looped back around to the top of her head. She was eyeing the various commodities and items displayed for sale, seemingly oblivious to the wary stares, quiet whispering, and hushed pointing by the local Deepwell citizens. Visitors from afar, however, paid no attention to the pretty tomble female.
Sensing something was wrong, Bom turned to look in the direction Nundle stared. He let out a low whistle and muttered, “Quite brazen of her to come to town today. With the crowd being here and all.”
Nundle nodded. “Yes, it is. The Custodian will not be pleased.” Custodian Cullop obsessed over these market days, trying to ensure nothing would interfere with the commerce.
With his gaze never leaving Julo, Bom shook his head and murmured, “Do you think he knows she is here?”
Before Nundle could respond, Julo glanced in their direction. The pretty tomble’s lips began to turn up into a smile before she caught herself. The grin arrested and turned wistful as her gaze locked onto Nundle. For a moment, Nundle considered diving for the cover of his stand, but he did not. She had seen him. Hiding was no use.
A determined expression fixed itself on Julo’s face as she turned and began to stride straight toward Bom and Nundle. A flickering flame of panic danced in Nundle’s stomach.
Placing a hand over his mouth to hide his words, Bom mumbled, “Being seen with her cannot be good for business, Nundle.”
Covering his own mouth, Nundle hissed, “I know.” Unfortunately, short of turning and running down the street, Nundle’s options were limited.
After halting a few paces from the pair, Julo nodded once and said primly, “Hello, Nundle. It has been a long time.” She ignored Bom, which surely made the older tomble happy. Out of the corner of his eye, Nundle saw Bom meander away, pretending to inspect the signs Nundle had posted on his stand. At least a dozen nearby vendors and market-goers were staring at him and Julo. Nundle felt every pair of eyes.
Nundle nodded and said evenly, “Hello, Julo. It has been awhile.”
Julo eyed him expectantly, waiting, almost yearning, for him to say something more. Regretfully, Nundle did not. And he felt terrible for his silence. He would have preferred to be much more polite, even sociable with her. Julo had once been a close friend. There had even been a time, years past, when he had thought of asking her to be his wife. That could never happen now.
A small, disappointed frown touched Julo’s lips. With a crisp, formal nod, she said softly, “I see the way of things.” Her expression danced between melancholy and stubborn pride. “I had hoped you might come to accept me over time, Nundle.” Sorrow beat out her composed dignity as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I always thought you were different.”
While Nundle wanted to say a hundred things, all that felt safe was a quiet, “I am sorry, Julo. Truly.”
“Yes, Nundle. You are.” Pressing her lips together, Julo nodded curtly and said, “I will be on my way, then, Nundle Babblebrook. Be well.”
Before he could respond, the auburn tomble already turned and started to walk away, her blue dress swishing as she padded down the dirt street. Watching her stride away, Nundle muttered to himself, “Be well, Julo…”
Once she was a dozen paces away, Bom stopped staring at the uninteresting signs, leaned close, and said, “You would do well to keep her at a great distance, Nundle. Tombles like her are a bad sort.”
Nundle’s eyes narrowed at Bom’s critical tone. Facing his friend, he asked, “Tombles ‘like her?’ What does that mean?”
Eyes darting about the marketplace, Bom whispered, “You know. Mages.”
“Why are you whispering? Everyone saw her here.”
Bom shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
Nundle gave a sad shake of his head and stared back to the retreating form of Julo. In a pointed tone, he mumbled, “Mage or not, Julo is a good soul.”
After a long moment of silence from his friend, he looked over to find Bom gawking at him as if he said the sky was green.
Bom stated plainly, “But…she can do magic.”
Frowning, Nundle pushed past Bom while mumbling, “Of course she can.”
“Nundle, good soul or not—”
Interrupting his friend, Nundle grumbled, “Bom! I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Thankfully, Bom remained quiet.
Nundle moved to stand in front of his small booth and stared at the meager presentation. As his dwindling list of suppliers had been reduced to farmers dealing in yet-to-be-harvested produce, his display was embarrassingly bare. Instead, his stand was covered with a number of hand-painted signs proclaiming the future availability of his goods. One read, “Plump, Tasty, Turnips – Perfect for stews, spicing, or baking – soon!” while another proclaimed, “Sugarblue Potatoes! Best in all of Alewold! Soon!” The only tangible sample he had was a bound bunch of dried smoking-leaf hanging from the sprawling sign that stretched across the two front posts of his booth. Nundle stared at the black sign covered with large, red block letters, trimmed in white, announcing the stand as the Babblebrook Mercantile Company. It was all he had left from the two-story shop his great-uncle had left him.
Nundle shook his head, let out a weary sigh, and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Uncle Huber…”
Today had already been going poorly and his encounter with Julo had left him in an even fouler mood. As he stared upward, it seemed as though the sign were mocking him. Nundle had never felt more like a failure than at his exact moment. He had no idea why his great-uncle had left his business to him. Nundle was a terrible merchant.
The stare turned into a glare.
“I’m done for the day, Bom.”
“Done?” Bam moved to stand beside him. “There are still a few more hours left before market closes, Nundle. Don’t give up. Trust me; Huber had periods of trouble at times, too.”
Nundle let a derisive chuckle escape.
“Six years of ever-decreasing sales is not a ‘period’, Bom.”
Bom gave him a sympathetic look, but remained quiet. Nundle supposed he had run out of encouraging things to say.
Nundle listened to the noise of the market behind him, the hum of hectic commerce poking at him, teasing, and jabbing at his ego. A fateful shift in the wind brought with it the heady aroma of cooking herbs mingling with some hearty meat stock wafted past. Nundle’s stomach gurgled. He huffed, trying to push the odor back out of his nose. As he could not afford to buy any, there was no use in smelling it.
Bom made it difficult to ignore the smell of an excellent meal, however, drawing in a deep breath followed by a satisfied grunt. Swiveling his head in the direction of the Smiling Snake Inn, he exclaimed hungrily, “Gods, that smells good. Smells like Joscoe’s rosemary stew.”
“I did not notice,” lied Nundle.
Bom stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes.
“How could you not? Take a deep breath. It is fantastic!”
Nundle shrugged helplessly. “I’m getting over an illness, Bom. My nose is stuffy.” He shrugged as if to say he could not help it. In actuality, he felt fine.
Bom studied him quietly for a moment, before he nodded slowly, accepting Nundle’s answer.
“Ah…well, then…”
Wanting to forget about the incredibly scrumptious-smelling stew, Nundle began the process of tearing down his stand, reaching up to grab the turnip sign off its hook. As he shuffled over to grab the potato sign, a dark shadow fell over him, accompanied by the sound of boots scuffling the pebbles and dirt behind him.
“Are you closing for the day, merchant?” asked an unusually deep voice.
The tone was too deep for the question to belong to a tomble. Figuring that it was a longleg, Nundle pulled his hand back from the sign and was about to turn and say he most certainly was closed.
Bom, however, whirled around and interjected, “Not at all, good sir. Merchant Babblebrook is most certainly open for business.”
Nundle rolled his eyes. He had no interest in negotiating now. He wanted to go fishing and forget today.
“Good,” replied the longleg.
With a reluctant sight, Nundle turned around and found himself staring at the shiny, silver belt buckle of his visitor. Most longlegs—or “men” as they called themselves—towered a few feet over the Boroughs’ tombles. This one was no different.
Tilting his head back, Nundle tried to examine the prospective client’s face, but was frustrated by the sun’s halo of bright light behind the longleg’s head.
“May I help you?” asked Nundle wearily.
“Perhaps,” replied the trader. Lifting his arm, he pointed at the hanging bunch of smoking-leaf. “What cut of leaf is that?”
A slight tickle of anticipation ran up Nundle’s spine. The individual was interested in something he had in stock. Standing up straighter, Nundle said, “Sweetbush, sir. One of the finest in the Five Boroughs.”
“Oh, I am quite aware of that fact, little merchant. How much can you get me?”
As Nundle was about to reply, Bom took a series of quick steps backward, away from the stand, saying, “If you will excuse me, I have my own business to attend to.” Bowing slightly to the longleg, the tomble said, “Happy travels, sir. Be well.” The longleg grunted, more interested in the smoking-leaf than returning a polite farewell. As Bom passed the trader, he turned and gave Nundle a wide, encouraging smile before hurrying east along Merchant’s Row.
The trader stepped into the space Bom had occupied and leaned down to sniff the dried bunch of Sweetbush leaf. Nundle studied the longleg closely and concluded his client to be from the Commonwealth of Cartu. His skin was tan, features were sharp and severe, and he wore his dark brown hair in the manner most Cartusian longlegs did: braided and bound in colorful rope. A dark blue cape hung from his shoulders, almost reaching to the ground and covering simple brown, traveling clothes and metal-studded boots.
After drawing in a lungful of the leaf’s pleasantly sweet aroma, the longleg stood tall. A satisfied expression had affixed itself on his face. As the longleg shifted upright, Nundle caught a glimpse of silver metal beneath the cloak and spotted the hilt of a long dagger. Nundle frowned at the sight of the weapon. He himself was not armed. Tombles never were. There was no need to as there was no crime in the Five Boroughs.
With a smile, Nundle asked, “Might I have your name, sir?” The question was not borne of politeness. Nundle simply wanted the name of the longleg with the weapon who was wandering around the Deepwell market.
Fingering the smoking-leaf, the tall trader said absentmindedly, “You may call me Ervan.”
Nundle figured the chance was slim that was the longleg’s true name. Nevertheless, he smiled wide and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ervan, sir. I am Nundle. Nundle Babblebrook.”
Ignoring the introduction, Ervan turned an appraising eye to Nundle and asked directly, “How much of the leaf can you provide?”
The prospect of a sale overrode Nundle’s concern about dagger. Trying to beat back the hope threatening to intrude upon his dreary morning, Nundle asked, “By what measure, sir? Cartusian bundles or Borough rolls?” His great-uncle had taught him to open negotiations with such a question in an attempt to gauge the other party’s experience in trading.
“Either. I am quite familiar with both,” replied Ervan with a knowing smirk. “Elven cords work as well. Or perhaps Yutian rings? What about Oaken pounds?” He fixed Nundle with a hard gaze and lifted a single eyebrow. “Choose whichever is most convenient for you, Master Merchant.”
Nundle’s flicker of hope fled as quickly as it had come. He had no idea what an Oaken pound was. Or a Yutian ring. And he never could remember the conversion between Borough rolls and the cords of Jularrn.
With a tiny, resigned sigh, Nundle said, “I have just over fifteen Cartusian bundles available today. I get another ten next week.” It was a significant amount of smoking-leaf. Regular orders typically were for only a bundle at a time. Two weeks ago, Nundle had made the mistake of overbuying an allotment of the Sweetbush cut, committing a large portion of what little he had left in the company’s coffers to the purchase. He had expected it to sell better than it had.
The longleg nodded slowly, frowning and pensive. Staring at the bunch hanging from the booth, he said, “Twenty-five, eh? Truthfully, I could use more.”
Nundle’s eyes grew wide. Briefly flabbergasted that the longleg was willing to buy so much, Nundle said carefully, “I could possibly arrange for more, sir. How much are you looking to acquire?” He did his best to hide his surprise.
“Assuming we can agree on cost, I would take all twenty-five you mentioned. And I’d like another eighty if possible.”
Unable to help himself, Nundle exclaimed, “Eighty!? Are you jesting?”
The trader must be one of the largest dealers in Cartu to want a shipment of such size. Nundle openly gaped at the trader, fully aware that he was giving away his anxious excitement, but he did not care. If Nundle could sell over a hundred bundles of smoking-leaf at any sort of respectable markup, he would make an excellent profit.
Ervan smiled, clearly confident that he had the upper hand now.
“I am not jesting, little merchant. Can you meet the order or not?”
Thinking through his list of potential sources for more Sweetbush, Nundle slowly said, “I believe so, Mr. Ervan.” In all honesty, Nundle was not sure. He thought if he called some of the last favors others owed him, it might be possible. “It might take two weeks, though, for the eighty bundles to arrive here.”
Nodding, the Cartusian trader said, “That is an acceptable time. Now, I can offer you…” Ervan paused, seeming to consider a price. Nundle guessed the longleg already knew what his bid was going to be. Giving a firm, decisive nod, Evan said confidently, “Thirty silver rounds per bundle would be a fair rate, I think.”
Nundle stared at the merchant, mouth open. Ervan might as well have punched Nundle in the stomach.
“Thirty silver?”
Nundle had paid forty for the stock he had now and severely doubted that he could obtain the extra eighty the longleg for anything less than fifty silver rounds per bundle.
“That’s my offer, Merchant Bumblebook,” replied the longleg firmly. “Take it if you like.”
Perturbed the Cartusian got his name incorrect, Nundle said, “The name is Babblebrook.” He leaned back and pointed to the large and obvious black sign immediately in front of Ervan’s face.
The man glanced at the sign and muttered, “Oh. So it is.”
Nundle waited for an apology or correction, but none came.
Summoning the courage to negotiate a price so he might be able to eat for a few weeks, Nundle said, “I cannot accept anything less than forty-five silver rounds for a bundle. And that price is only good for what I can provide today.” Forging ahead, Nundle said resolutely, “The price for any of the rest will be sixty-five per.”
Ervan smiled widely at the stated amounts. “You are trying to raid my purse, little merchant.” Smirking at the meager stand and Nundle’s old, tattered clothes, he added, “I would think you would be anxious for the sale.”
Angry at what the man was inferring—no matter how true it was—Nundle declared, “A sale, yes. But you are asking me to donate to your enterprise, Mr. Ervan.” Nundle twisted the man’s name to show he did not believe in the authenticity of the moniker. “I run a business, friend, not a charity.”
Holding up his hands in protest, Ervan smiled and said, “Fair enough, little merchant. You drive a tough bargain. Your shrewdness had persuaded me to pay a flat rate of forty—for the first hundred bundles of Sweetbush smoking-leaf you could provide. And I expect the last five for free in exchange for the purchase I am making today.”
Gritting his teeth, Nundle said sharply, “You, sir, are a highwayman.” All politeness was gone from his tone. Six years of ruining his great-uncle’s great business weighed heavily on Nundle. One failed venture after another had stacked up over the years. “Should you continue to try to take advantage of me, I will report you directly to the Custodian.” Leaning forward, he hissed, “Weapons are not allowed within the marketplace, as I am sure you know.”
Ervan glared at him with narrowed, critical eyes. “I would advise you do not try to do something so foolish, Master Merchant Rabblebook.” He bent over, letting his cloak fall open to reveal the beltknife again, and murmured threateningly, “I am offering you a good deal. I suggest you take it.”
Nundle felt a flash of fear, but it was beaten back by his years of frustration.
“I will not be bullied into a sale, sir.”
Ervan frowned and cocked an eyebrow. “Fine, then.” Standing tall, he turned to look across the open market, and said, “On my way to your stall, I came across another tomble promising me a good cut of Oldfire Downs leaf for thirty-eight per bundle.” He looked back to Nundle. “Forty certainly seems fair to me for your Sweetbush.”
Beyond frustrated, Nundle shouted, “You are mad! Oldfire leaf tastes like burnt shoe-leather!” Comparing the two cuts was like comparing a cup of weak, cheap lager to a cool pint of full-bodied, red summer ale.
Nodding in agreement, Ervan said, “Perhaps it does.” Crossing his arms, the longleg sighed. “I mean no offense, little merchant. You are a much craftier bargainer than I had assumed you to be.”
Nundle bit his lip and said nothing in response. Undercutting had not worked for the longleg. Neither had threats, both personal and business. Here came the flattery.
The trader grinned and said magnanimously, “I will give you, one of the best negotiators I have met in some time, and full forty-four per. Flat rate. You, however, will be responsible for all delivery costs.”
Cautiously, Nundle asked, “Where is delivery?”
Ervan’s confident grin faltered a moment. In a quiet voice, the longleg said, “Harmony.”
Fully vexed, Nundle shouted, “Harmony? The capital of Cartu?” His eyes went wide as he stammered, “It’s… you…why, you are…bless the Gods, I should…” What Ervan had offered was worse than his first proposal. It would cost Nundle a fortune to ship the smoking-leaf across the border and to the foothills of the Yaubno Mountains.
The man grinned haughtily at Nundle and asked, “So…what say you, Merchant Biddlebook?”
Nundle’s immense aggravation, held in check for years and hidden behind countless polite smiles, pleading entreaties, and humble apologies, finally burst. Nundle glared at the trader, wishing for once that something would go right for him.
Suddenly, a single, honey-gold string popped into view before Nundle, hovering a few feet before him. Nundle’s eyes opened wide as he stared at the long strand of energy, rippling and twisting before him. It glowed and pulsed, beckoning to him. Nundle’s eyes went round as he took a single, surprised step back.
The trader stood on the opposite side of the string, continuing to smirk at Nundle. The longleg seemed oblivious to the golden strand hovering between them. Nundle stared up and down at the shimmering gold strand, running his gaze along its length, but never could find an end.
Nundle blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, convinced he had lost his sense.
Suddenly, a number of additional bright, golden ropes of energy popped into existence and quickly surrounded him, causing him to jump back suddenly and shout, “Ah!” Nundle stared about as each string appeared, spinning around in a frantic circle while counting the filaments. By the time he whipped around to find the Cartusian trader gawking at him, he had counted over a dozen.
Visibly unnerved, Ervan tilted his head forward.
“Are feeling all right, little merchant?”
Nundle ignored the longleg’s question. He panicked, wanting the little ropes of golden energy to go away. The moment he thought about shoving them away from him, the strands began to move, twisting and twirling together. The more he struggled with them, the more they interwove themselves. Nundle reached out with his arms, physically trying to push the strings away but his hands passed right through them. He tried again and again.
“Go away!”
As he flailed about, trying to force the strings to go away, he realized his panic was causing the strands to fall in upon one another, knitting themselves together into a sort of pattern.
Taking a step back, Ervan asked, “Master Babblebrook…? Are you ill, sir?” There was no tradesman posturing in his voice. The longleg sounded genuinely concerned. Or afraid.
Nundle stared at the strange pattern of gold strings and willed them to go, ‘throwing’ them away from him. He watched in horror as the bundle of honey-colored strands collided with the trader, sinking into the longleg’s chest. Horrified but what he had done, Nundle shouted, “Oh! Gods! I’m so sorry!”
The trader stared at Nundle with worried, guarded eyes. He appeared entirely unaware and unaffected as the weave of gold strands simply faded into his body, slowly disappearing.
Nundle gaped at Ervan, expecting some sort of reaction, violent or otherwise.
Nothing happened.
A long moment of quiet settled between the two even as the quiet bustle of market business continued about them. A few of Nundle’s neighboring vendors were left staring at Nundle after his antics.
Ervan peered at him nervously and asked, “Shall I fetch a healer, little merchant?”
Nundle’s eyes darted about, searching for the missing strings of gold. They had vanished. Every single one of them. Spinning around, he looked behind him, up in the sky, and down on the ground. Any evidence of the glowing strands of energy was gone. Nundle was beside himself with bewilderment.
Turning to face the trader, Nundle said carefully, “I…don’t that’s…ah…I’m simply a…” He trailed off, shook by the experience. He did not dare share what he had seen. Others would name him mad. He noticed the tomble at the next stall over—a rude tomble named Doffer, a purveyor of quarry stone and uncut gems—was staring at Nundle with unconcealed disdain. Nundle frowned, knowing that Doffer was sure to tell everyone about Nundle’s mad behavior.
Ervan took a hesitant step backward, saying, “Perhaps I will go. I can find another to trade with.” The Cartusian began to turn, preparing to walk away and take Nundle’s best prospect in weeks with him. The threat of more failure trumped his wonder and confusion concerning the strange meshing of strings he had just witnessed.
Staring at the back of the trader’s blue coat, Nundle pleaded, “No! Please stop!”
Nundle was stunned when the longleg froze in mid-step, one boot heel off the ground. He waited for Ervan to either continue or turn back, but the longleg simply stayed in the strange position. It looked as if he were posing for a sculptor’s statue.
Taking advantage of the longleg’s hesitation, Nundle hurried around to stand before Ervan and begged, “Sir, please. I truly would like you to stay. I am sure we can come to an acceptable arrangement for us both. Don’t you think so?”
Ervan nodded and replied immediately, “Of course, little merchant.”
A moment skipped by.
Nundle blinked a few times and muttered in astonishment, “Truly?” There had not been a hint of dishonesty in the Cartusian’s voice.
Nodding, Ervan said, “If you say we can make a deal, I believe we can. What do you propose?”
“Uh…” Nundle hesitated, caught off guard by the suddenly agreeable Ervan. By all rights, this longleg should be halfway across the marketplace, hurrying away from the mad tomble while quickly trying to forget his name.
“Well, to be honest with you, sir, in order for this be worth it to me, I would like to charge you nearly seventy per bundle, but—”
Ervan cut him off, saying decisively, “Done.” The longleg extended his arm and offered his palm, offering to seal the deal the in the manner of Cartu.
Nundle stared blankly at the open hand. After a moment, he looked up to study the face of Ervan, wondering if he had gone mad.
“Pardon?”
The trader stood motionless with his arm still outstretched.
“I accept your terms, Master Merchant. Clasp my hand and we can arrange details.”
The realization that he had just made a very large—and profitable—sale struck Nundle. Not understanding what had happened, Nundle reached out and gripped Ervan’s hand. The longleg’s large palm swallowed Nundle’s much smaller hand.
Still staring hesitantly at the longleg, he pointed to his stand and asked formally, “Shall we discuss the intricacies of the contract?”
“That is an excellent idea,” replied Ervan.
Nundle moved behind the booth and pulled out his ledger and sheet of new parchment to write the contract. His neighboring vendors gaped in awe at him. Nundle caught Doffer’s stare and smiled. Doffer scowled and glared back.
Over the next few minutes, Nundle and the Cartusian trader worked out the complete terms to the exchange, keeping Nundle’s mind busy. He thought he might go and purchase a bowl or two of Joscoe’s famous stew shortly.
When it came time to discuss the advance payment, Ervan happily agreed to Nundle’s proposal that he pay half of the full amount immediately and handed over thirty seven gold rounds. Nundle took a moment to stare at the heavy coins in his palm. It was more money than Nundle had held in years.
As he finalized the transaction, word spread amongst his neighboring vendors. Two dozen tombles gaped in awe as Ervan and he arranged the details of dates and delivery. The onlookers were surely wondering how Nundle had managed this feat.
Ervan left to discuss specifics with the wagon team Nundle expected to hire to transport the Sweetbush smoking-leaf across the Boroughs, into Cartu, and all the way to Harmony. Nundle stared after the blue-cloaked longleg trader, marveling at how quickly his fortunes had turned, trying to figure out what had just happened.
Doffer, the quarry stone supplier, managed to wait only until the Cartusian had walked beyond earshot before stomping over and rudely demanding, “Nundle! How were you able to swing such an impossible deal? He had you at—” Doffer cut off suddenly.
Nundle glanced at the boorish tomble and innocently asked, “What is bothering you, Doffer? Should you not be happy for your fellow tradesman? I would think that after all of the…” Nundle trailed off as he realized the tomble was no longer looking at him, but rather over his shoulder and past him.
Wearing an expression of utter distaste, Doffer whirled about and quickly shuffled back to his own stall.
Wondering what had prompted the hurried retreat, Nundle spun around to find Julo Hinglegrog standing a few paces from him. Her sudden reappearance instantly dampened his mood. The auburn-haired beauty stared at him with her head cocked to the side and a tiny frown on her lips. The hopeful look in her eyes did not fit was unexpected.
Surprised by her return, Nundle muttered, “I did not hear you approach, Julo.”
With a thin smile, Julo said, “You were busy gloating, Nundle. Which is surprising, actually. Such is not your nature…”
Embarrassed she had seen him act that way, he said quietly, “Yes, well…Doffer deserves it. He rubs every one of his sales under my nose.” He gave her a tiny grin and said, “I think he’s just upset that I made more in that sale than he will in six or seven turns.”
Julo nodded once, slowly, and stayed silent, keeping her gaze fixed on him. As a long stretch of quiet grew between them, Nundle quickly grew uncomfortable. He was a little upset that Julo was ruining his moment of triumph. If she kept coming around, people might think he associated with mages.
Finally, Julo stepped close and leaned in toward him. The intoxicating scent of spring lilac water filled his nose, taking him back a number of years to a happier time. Back to when Julo was a respectable tomble. With her round, sapphire blue eyes fixated on him, Julo whispered. “You truly have no idea how you did that, do you?”
Nundle stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes tightened and she muttered, “I saw the strings, too, Nundle. Gold ones only, for sure, but I definitely saw them.”
The realization of what had happened hit him with the force of a thousand fists to the gut.
Magic. He had done magic.
For the briefest of moments, Nundle considered turning and running away. Instead, he shook his head and mumbled, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Julo cocked an eyebrow.
“Don’t you?”
As the icy fear over the recognition of what he had done spread through him, Nundle stared at Julo. Part of him wanted to shout her down and denounce her accusation. However, as much as he loathed admitting it, something about the strings intrigued him.
He was curious. He wanted to know what the strings were.
As he stood there, staring at Julo, the pretty tomble stood straight and said quietly, “It seems you and I have something to talk about after all, Nundle. Don’t we?”
Nundle swallowed the lump in his throat. His life was about to change.
