‘Whatever someone is willing to trade for them.’ Risala secured the pearls inside the bag once again. We don’t reduce everything to some nonsensical number of stamped bits of adulterated metal. Make sure you remember that,’ she warned. ‘Life in the Archipelago is a balance of cooperation and obligation. Every man in a village plays his part in building his neighbour’s new but so that he’ll have help when he needs it. One woman will watch another’s children so that woman can weave cloth for both of them. Fishermen trade crabs for a share in a villager’s vegetable plot.’
‘And the ties of obligation bind everyone more securely to their place and station of birth than chains around their ankles,’ Velindre murmured under her breath.
The earth was no more than dry dirt beneath her feet. The sea was barely ten strides away but it might as well have been ten leagues. She could feel the sun’s heat on her skin, the brush of the breeze, but that wasn’t the elemental consciousness that united her with the whole of the natural realm. She was hemmed in by mere physical sensation. She felt sick again, weak and abject.
Fighting a rising urge to fall to her knees and weep, determined not to give this chit of a girl such satisfaction, Velindre looked along the line of twisted trees. Solitary traders she would call no more than pedlars sat in the shade of the fringed, red-tipped leaves. ‘What are we looking for?’ she asked tightly. ‘This and that.’ Risala led the way along the shore, surveying base-metal plates and spoons on offer beside bracelets and necklaces of polished shell, next to small boxes of intricately carved wood. Beyond the pedlars, more prosperous groups of merchants were distinguished by family resemblance or some common motif on tunic or sleeveless overmantle. Silver and brassware were displayed on carpets spread on the ground. There were bowls and ewers and jugs, plain or chased with florid designs of plants and animals. Some were ornamented with fine enamels or coloured stones. One family had claimed a long stretch of beach, erecting several awnings to protect bolts of fine cloth from the bleaching sun. Some of the soft pastel muslins were plain, some printed with bold designs. Others had smaller, more convoluted patterns in vivid dyes.
‘Ikadi traders,’ murmured Risala.
‘How do you know?’ Velindre wondered.
‘Their daggers.’ Risala tapped the hilt of her own weapon. ‘Every domain has its own design. We’re wearing those of Chazen.’ She smiled with discreet amusement. ‘Archipelagans don’t feign like barbarians. Everyone can see everyone else’s origin, their rank and status.’
The cloth traders’ grey-haired, grey-bearded patriarch sat on a brilliantly coloured carpet surrounded by rolls of vivid silk. He was intent on a conversation with an elderly woman in a loose red gown with frolicking green birds embroidered around the hem. Nodding with satisfaction, the grey-haired woman bustled off towards a cookfire set beneath the spreading shade of a tall, warty-barked tree. As she gestured, several little girls began ladling rich meaty stew into bowls. A woman plainly mother to the children and daughter to the grey-haired cook was deftly slapping unleavened breads on to a searing griddle. The merchant and several of his sons came over and sat in a circle as the little girls handed out the bowls. Tearing scraps from the flatbread to scoop up his stew, the greybeard nodded and chewed as the younger woman spread her arms to indicate the lengths of cloth she required. The little girls eyed the brighter muslins eagerly. ‘You must use coin when merchants from Relshaz or Caladhria come south to trade.’ Velindre tried to keep her desperation out of her voice. There would surely be someone she could pay for passage back to safer waters, if she could find out where this thief had stashed her purse. No, she need only get far enough away for whatever poison the traitorous bitch had given her to fade from her blood. She summoned up all the anger she could to overwhelm the sick fear lurking at the edge of thought. Still searching the assorted traders, Risala shook her head absently. ‘Only warlords who trade directly with Relshaz hoard their worthless metals. They can get rid of them buying slaves.’ She shot a sideways grin at the stony-faced wizard. ‘Kaasik Rai won’t have any dealings with barbarians.’
‘Why not?’ Velindre couldn’t help asking, pointlessly affronted.
‘Some mainlander merchants came down here a year or so back’ Risala indicated the long curve of the bay with a sweep of her hand. ‘Six big galleys that decided they didn’t want to trade through Kaasik Rai as would be customary courtesy for such visitors. They came straight to the trading beach and offered barbarian coin for whatever they fancied. They had no notion of honest bargaining, offering the same insulting sums for pieces of vastly different value. They grew more and more angry when the traders wouldn’t take their tokens. They saw every refusal as a ploy to drive up the price.’
They were passing by a merchant sitting between two wide, shallow chests holding beautiful glassware nestling in soft cotton cloths. Risala gestured towards what looked like long-necked bottles, each capped with a pierced silver dome. One was as clear as crystal, adorned with precisely engraved flowers. The other was blue-green glass with threads of white spiralling upwards. ‘Which rose-water sprinkler would you say is more valuable?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Velindre caustically. ‘I’m no merchant.’ She took a deep breath as her stomach roiled at the smoke from a cookfire.
Risala smiled briefly at the hopeful-looking merchant before shaking her head and moving on. ‘If you were from the eastern reaches, you’d favour the coloured one. If you were thinking of trading down to the far west, you would want the crystal piece. Knowing that would affect what the merchant would take in trade, as well as any history between you, any obligation owed or sought. How can you reduce such complexities to some arbitrary weight of impure metal?’
Raised voices interrupted her. Every head on the beach turned to see one of the youths who’d been fetching and carrying for the cloth merchant standing toe to toe with some other bare-chested lad. The cloth merchant’s boy shoved the challenger, modest beard bristling. The bare-chested youth responded in kind, sending the cloth merchant’s boy stumbling backwards. He followed up his advantage, shouting insults. The cloth merchant’s boy recovered his footing and yelled back.
Two tall men in gleaming chain mail appeared out of the trees. One had his sword drawn, striking vivid glints from the sunlight. The murmur of more normal conversation resumed as everyone else on the beach turned tactfully away to leave the youths explaining themselves.
‘Kaasik Rai’s men keep the peace.’ Risala glanced at Velindre. ‘Those barbarian traders soon discovered that. They left after suffering a beating sufficient to match the offence they had offered. And Kaasik Rai decided that branding them was appropriate, not least so that everyone would see them for what they were if they ever returned.’
‘The Relshazri didn’t object?’ Velindre was almost shocked enough to forget her weakened, sickened state.
Risala shook her head. ‘Archipelagan trade is too precious to be risked because some ignorant individuals bring down suffering on themselves.’
Cold fear halted Velindre. ‘So some imprudent mage meeting a hideous death in the Archipelago would be of no concern.’
No wizard would be so foolish as to travel these waters.’ Risala steered her inland with a merciless hand at her elbow. ‘As a scholar, you will know that.’
‘A scholar?’ Velindre shook her arm free. ‘First I’m a eunuch and now I’m a scholar?’
‘The two often go together.’ Risala nodded. ‘If you’ve no stake in the future through your body, you want to leave your mark for posterity with your wits. Many of our greatest philosophers, mathematicians and physicians have been eunuchs.’
‘Oh.’ Velindre couldn’t think what else to say. ‘So what manner of scholar am I?’
‘You had better be an historian.’ Risala smiled. ‘Reading our histories as we sail will do wonders for your understanding of our language. I’ve the pearls to trade for books to get you started and that’s the man I’ve been looking for.’ She pointed to a white-bearded ancient sitting on a battered chest bound with tarnished brass, idly kicking his feet as he listened to a younger man sat cross-legged on the ground reading steadily from a sheaf of white reed pages. The old man had a stoutly bound book open on his knees and was following the text with one gnarled finger.