They waited but nothing happened. Rik looked at the others. They seemed a little spooked. He gazed up at the mansion. It was still the same combination of warehouse, palace and fortress he had inspected earlier in the day. The factor and his people lived at the front. The warehouse opened out on the river and a side street where goods were loaded. The walls were thick and the roofline was encrusted with gargoyles. A lot of money had been spent on this old place. The sign of the Moon and Lion was illuminated by a lantern above it.
“I say we go in,” said Barbarian. “I am not scared of some wizened old merchant.”
“It’s his bodyguards I am worried about,” said Rik. “And any Terrarchs he may report us to.”
“Are you in or out, Rik? I am going in.” Weasel sounded determined.
It was obvious that whatever he said, Weasel and the Barbarian would go ahead. That being the case, he had best join them. There was no telling what nonsense the pair might get up to otherwise.
“In.”
“Good.” Weasel strode forward and banged on the side door, the trade entrance to the warehouse area, not the living quarters. It was not long before they heard footsteps approaching. A viewing slot slid aside, and eyes peered out at them.
“Who’s there?” asked a voice. It did not sound like one that belonged to a querulous old merchant.
“We’ve something for Bertragh. A book he’s interested in.”
There was a sound of locks being undone and bolts being slipped aside. A lantern showed from within. A large burly man held it. He looked and sounded local, not like a hill-man, Rik was pleased to note. Behind him were half a dozen other bruisers. A couple of them held loaded pistols. It was obvious that trust was in short supply around here, and no one was taking any chances.
“You can put the guns away, boys,” said Weasel. “We don’t want any trouble.” Suiting action to words, Weasel returned his knife to its wrist sheathe. The Barbarian and Rik only started putting back their weapons once the bodyguards did the same with theirs.
The door closed. Bolts and locks clinked into place. Trepidation surged through Rik. Even the whole company of Foragers would not be able to get through that. Not without a keg of gunpowder or a battering ram. It was too late now to do anything about it, he told himself. They were committed. The leader of the bodyguards gestured towards a distant light.
“The boss is in the counting house.” He led the way and assumed they would follow. A couple of the bodyguards fell in behind them. The others remained by the door. The warehouse area was huge, with a high ceiling; shafts of moonlight filtered in through high narrow skylights. It smelled damp and he could hear the river gurgling by outside. Piles of sacks layered high formed small hills. Aisles led between them, all as regularly laid-out as the streets of the Terrarch Quarter. Barrels lined the walls. Some smelled of salt meat, others of vinegar, others of booze. The warehouse seemed well-filled, most likely with the sort of things that would supply the army. Somebody around here was going to profit from the coming war.
The counting house was a small, square area, roofed and walled off. Inside were tall stools and long high desks containing inkstands and quills. Massive ledgers lay atop each. In the corner was a massive strongbox. Rik recognised the type. It was bound with locks both magical and mechanical. Difficult but not impossible to bust, he judged.
It looked like the clerks had gone home for the night, all except the chief clerk, a small wizened man who sat behind the lowest of the desks in a stuffed armchair, his face underlit by an open topped lantern. The man’s pince-nez glasses caught the light. The fringe of white hair around his head, his rosy cheeks, and small neatly trimmed spade beard gave him an air of gnomish good cheer. His twinkling smile added to his benevolent appearance. It was a few moments before Rik realised that this small, conservatively dressed man was Bertragh, the factor himself.
“You brought the sample?” he said. His voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant, with the cultured accent of a priest or a well-schooled actor.
“Aye,” said Weasel. Rik noticed that the richer and better educated the company, the more peasant-like Weasel became. He supposed it helped put them off-guard, if they thought they were dealing with a bumpkin.
“That will be all, Malek. You can wait outside. I will call you if I need you.”
Malek nodded and gave his employer a grin. Rik filed that away. Bertragh was obviously a man who inspired loyalty. He was not lacking in self-confidence either, since he had no fear of being left alone with the three of them. Or maybe he was just letting them know that he was dealing with them above board. Give trust to get it. Subtle bastard, Rik thought. He supposed Bertragh had to be. Nobody got to be the factor of one of the Great Houses otherwise.
From inside his tattered green tunic, Weasel produced one of the volumes they had collected in the mine. It looked unimpressive enough in its leather binding. A slight disparaging smile quirked Bertragh’s lips. “Is this it?” he asked.
“There’s more,” said Rik. “This is just a sample.”
Weasel nodded his support. He was out of his depth here though, Rik thought, since he had no idea what the books contained. No doubt Bertragh sensed this. He shook his head ever so slightly, adjusted the wick of the oil lamp and sat himself down at his desk. He pushed the book away slightly as if he had already decided it was not worthy of his attention. Either he was a very good dray-trader, Rik thought, or it really wasn’t. Under the circumstances, it seemed better to assume the former.
“Take a look,” said Weasel encouragingly, obviously determined to play the game as well as his handicaps would allow. Rik decided not to support him. The merchant rejecting the books suited him fine.
“Do you know what these contain?” Bertragh asked. He obviously doubted it. He’s fishing for information, Rik decided. He wants to know exactly how much they know.
“They are grimoires,” said Weasel confidently and convincingly. You did not get to be as good a card player as he was without some ability at bluffing. “They belonged to a sorcerer.”
“And may one ask how they fell into your hands?” asked the merchant. His tone was pleasant but his gaze raked pointedly over their uniforms.
“One may not.” Weasel responded in an amiable tone that mocked Bertragh’s accent. The factor gave him a sharp look.
“If you are not interested,” Rik suggested, “perhaps, we should seek out someone who is.”
“I will glance over them,” said the merchant. His tone was that of a man doing a favour for a friend. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, glanced up and smiled at them avuncularly and then opened the volume. The effect was not what Rik had expected. His face paled, and his eyes went wide. He flipped the leaves over quickly and leaned forward. His breathing was fast and panting. He kept turning the pages, moving quickly towards the end of the volume, and then closed it with a snap.
Got you, thought Rik, not entirely happy with the way things were going but caught up in the deal making in spite of himself.
Bertragh pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping sweat from his forehead. He tried for his smooth and confident smile again but he was fooling nobody. A ghastly rictus contorted his face, and a near religious look of exaltation was in his eyes. At that moment, he looked like Gunther delivering one of his messages from the Prophets, although he tried very hard to hide it. What could possibly have such an effect on a man as smooth as this merchant, Rik wondered. Any doubts he had ever had about keeping the books vanished. He wanted desperately to know what was in them. Now all he had to do was find a way of keeping his hands on them.
“There are more like this one?” Bertragh asked. There was a slightly strangled quality to his voice. Sweat beaded the bald dome of his forehead. His glasses reflected the light of the lamp, giving his face an almost demonic look. Rik shuddered and told himself he was imagining things.