“This is what takes the time,” Ralke told Gar. “I don’t speak the dialect of this city.”
Gar wondered if he himself could, if they would just speak enough of it.
Ralke pointed to himself, then cupped his hand and pantomimed dropping coins into it, then waved back at his caravan, saying, “Merchant.”
“Awmeshen!” The guard nodded, then held out a cupped palm and scratched it. “Bayeedcawminnaloutre!”
“Entry fee,” Ralke explained to Gar, and slipped two large silver coins from a slit-pocket behind his belt. He placed them in the guard’s hand; the man nodded with satisfaction, and the two halberds parted. The guard pointed at a stone building atop a low hill in the center of the town and said, “Zeedeebaasfirs!”
Ralke nodded, pointing from himself to the castle in one smooth movement, then called to his drivers and led them through the gate. Gar rode beside him on his horse. The guards eyed him suspiciously, and Gar felt as though they could see through his cloak to the sword hanging across his back, but they said nothing as the caravan rode on in. Gar loosed a pent-up breath. “What’s the name of this town, Master Ralke?”
“Loutre.” Ralke gave him a shrewd glance. “Heard of it, have you?”
“Only from that gate guard.”
Ralke’s eyes widened. “You speak their language?”
“No, but I know several others, and I can guess from the way the words seem alike.”
“Oh, you can, can you?” Ralke growled. “What did that guard say?”
“I was just beginning to be able to understand him at the end there, but I couldn’t figure out what ‘Loutre’ meant. Without that, I suspect the last two things he said were ‘Pay to come into Loutre’ and ‘See the boss first.’ ”
“Good guesses,” Ralke approved, “but you could have worked that out from his gestures. Still, keep trying to puzzle out the words—it would be handy to have someone on my side who could understand the language.”
“I’ll work on it,” Gar promised. He didn’t bother telling Master Ralke that he had really been matching the words to the guard’s thoughts. Why burden the poor merchant with more than he needed to know?
Down the broad boulevard they went, broad enough for ten soldiers to march side by side, then up the winding road to the castle. The guard at the drawbridge challenged them again, but didn’t demand any money, only insisted on looking under the wrappings of the mules’ loads as they came in. They went under the portcullis, through the entry-tunnel, and into the courtyard. There, Master Ralke directed them over against a wall, where the drivers unloaded the mules and opened the bundles. Gar pitched in and helped, but was careful to keep his sword hidden. When the goods were all laid out, the drivers led the mules away to feed and curry while Ralke strolled along the line of luxurious cloths and rare foods, seeming nonchalant but actually vigilant.
Gar kept him company. “What do we do now?”
“Wait,” Ralke told him, “for the boss’s convenience.”
“Oh. He has to inspect the goods before you’re allowed to take them down to the marketplace?”
“He has to inspect them, all right.” Ralke grinned, showing his teeth. “Inspect them and take what he likes. If he takes more than a few items, he’ll probably pay for them.”
“ ‘Probably?’ You mean you could lose your whole cargo right here?”
“Could, yes. Inside his own domain, and especially inside his own town and castle, a boss can do anything he damn well pleases.”
“His whim is the only law, eh?”
Ralke frowned up at him. “Law? What’s law? Another one of your foreign words?”
“Why … yes,” Gar stammered, completely taken aback that the merchant didn’t even have the concept. “But you don’t think he will take everything?”
“Why, no. He knows that if he leaves me nothing, I won’t be able to come back with more—and he values these little luxuries I bring from the great world outside. Him, or his wife.”
“Market forces.” Gar nodded.
Again, Ralke gave him a peculiar look. “What market ever had force?”
Gar just stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “Perhaps more than you know, Master Ralke, but this isn’t the place to speak of it. Remind me to discuss the subject when we’re back on the road.”
“Certainly no time now.” Ralke gave him a nudge instead of pointing. “Here comes the boss.” Gar turned and saw a tall, stocky man approaching with a woman almost as tall as himself, fingers lightly touching his arm. She was gray-haired, but didn’t have many lines in her face, and walked with the grace of a woman in her thirties. Gar remembered that, on a medieval world like this, she might well be in her thirties. Her gown: was blue velvet, her hair caught in a net whose threads were golden, and her husband wore brocade, with a scarlet cloak of fine red wool. He was gray-haired, too, his face lined and weathered from a life of campaigning. He walked with a slight limp, and his broadsword swung at his hip.
Behind them came a slender man in gray broadcloth, his black hair short in a bowl cut, his angular face impassive, but a gleam in his eye.
The boss stopped opposite Ralke and said something in an affable tone. The short, slight man said, with a heavy accent, “The boss greets you, merchant, and asks what you have to show him today,”
“Good! A translator!” Ralke muttered to Gar. “That will make dealings a good bit easier.”
It probably would, Gar thought—except that he was sure the boss had said, “Well, merchant! I trust you had an easy journey!” and nothing yet about Ralke’s stock in trade.
The merchant bowed to the boss, saying, “I am honored by the boss’s interest. For this trip, I have fine linen, purple dye, silk, satin, and many spices and dried fruits.”
The translator turned and repeated the words to the boss and his wife, listened to their replies, and turned back to Ralke. “The boss will look over your goods.”
“I am pleased he finds them worthy of regard,” Ralke said smoothly, and the translator delivered the message to the boss and his wife.
But Gar, listening not to a foreign language, but to a different dialect of his native tongue, and listening not just with his ears but also with his mind, knew the boss had said, “Ah, good! We have been wanting more purple dye for new liveries for our boot-men!” His wife had replied, “The cooks have almost used up all the cloves and orange rind, husband. Has he those?” The translator had told them that Ralke had answered, “Alas! It has been a bad year for southern crops, Your Honors. Such things are rare, and high in cost.”
Ralke frowned. “Why do the boss and his lady look disgruntled?”
“Because the boss has fought a war this year,” the translator said, “and has little money for luxuries.”
Now Gar knew what the gleam in the translator’s eye was—not interest, but mischief.
Ralke frowned. “That’s not welcome news! I had hoped for good profits this season.”
The boss said something, and the translator turned to listen. Gar leaned over and muttered quickly, “You may make a good profit after all. The translator isn’t telling you what the boss really said.”
Ralke turned to stare at him. “You’ve worked out the language already? You can understand him?”
Gar just had time to nod before the boss turned to say something to Ralke, frowning. The translator interpreted, “The boss will take all your purple dye. He offers you a silver mark for each pound.”
“A silver mark!” Ralke cried. “It cost me more than that! The southern folk make it from sea snails, and it takes thousands of them for a pound of dye! It’s very expensive!”
“It has been a bad year for the boss,” the translator replied.
“It will be a worse year for you, if he finds out you’re lying about what he said,” Gar informed the man. “He told Master Ralke that he wouldn’t pay more than three silver marks for each pound.”