The man he was waiting for was supposedly a purveyor of artifacts of the craft. After Marcus had described the scroll to him, the fellow had seemed most anxious to examine it-almost giddy, in fact. Until yesterday Marcus had not known that such vendors existed, and had come upon the fellow's establishment quite by accident, during his latest foray to steal food. Subsequently asking around a bit, he learned that since the demise of the wizards of the Directorate, such places had not only begun to spring up in Tammerland, but were also flourishing.
Some of these purported merchants of the craft were legitimate, it seemed, and some were not. Selling anything they could get their hands on, they all claimed their wares to be of the craft. But what did appear certain was that with the fall of the Royal Guard and the Directorate, there was no shortage of those now willing to take advantage of a newly curious, souvenir-hungry populace. Many citizens had become morbidly anxious to own something that smacked of magic, or its supposed connection to the fallen House of Galland. It was said that anything that had come from the looted royal palace-and had its authenticity verified-would bring nearly its weight in gold.
Marcus looked down again at the rolled-up rug in the dilapidated wheelbarrow, thinking of what lay inside it. He had no idea whether it had come from the palace, but he was certain it was of the craft. Nothing else would glow like that-he was sure of it. And he was anxious to turn it into kisa so he and Rebecca could stop hiding and get on with their lives.
But that was not to say he was willing to sell the scroll to the first interested party who came along. Marcus had made it clear to the man meeting them today that he was merely to give them a price, and that he and his sister were going to entertain other offers before bargaining their item away. If an offer was good today, it would also be good later, he assumed.
Still, he remained nervous, and his palms were beginning to sweat. Reaching into his pocket, his hand found the cool, comforting handle of his knife.
"Come on, Marcus!" Rebecca started pleading again. "It only costs one kisa, and I know you have a few in your pocket. I heard them jangling together as you walked!"
Marcus smiled down at his sister. As he took in her dirty, tattered dress and the clubfoot that she never complained about, he felt his heart slip a bit.
In truth he would have much preferred to carefully spend all the kisa on food. It had been a long time since he had felt the comforting weight of coins in his pockets, even if they were few in number. And acquiring them had come hard. He had been forced to lounge around almost all afternoon yesterday on a nearby street corner before finding the perfect victim to "accidentally" bump into and relieve of his coins. And after all of that, he had only come up with four.
"Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked. "I know it's only one kisa. But when you buy one of those, it doesn't seem that you get much for your money. I worked hard for these coins, you know."
Rebecca just gazed up at him with her big, brown eyes, giving him the forlorn look that she knew he could rarely resist.
As she expected, Marcus finally relented.
"All right, all right," he said, smiling and reaching into his ragged pocket. "But only one, piglet. Do you understand?"
Nodding gleefully, she snatched the shiny gold coin and ran over to the stand, followed by Marcus and the wheelbarrow.
The vendor's stall was a simple, square-roofed affair. An ancient-looking woman sat inside on a stool, taking care of her customers. A young male assistant sat beside her, tending to the wares. Dozens of small wooden cages hung from the roof and lay scattered along the countertop. As Rebecca looked them over, Marcus smiled, reminded of what a nonsensical custom this was. Not to mention a very bad investment. Still, they weren't the only people standing here, willing to spend their kisa on what the crafty woman offered.
Each of the cages contained a throat lark. The birds were remarkably smalclass="underline" three of them could usually fit into the palm of a grown man's hand. They had presumably acquired their name because of the bright colors adorning their throats. The remainder of the bird was usually a very soft, dappled blue, although that sometimes varied. Well known for their singing voices, they were prized as house pets. As the larks danced happily about in their cages, their twittering combined to create a singularly beautiful harmony, attracting yet more of the curious to the old woman's stall.
Marcus smiled and shook his head as Rebecca picked out a lark of soft powder blue with a deep green throat. Satisfied, she handed the single, precious coin up to the woman on the stool. Then she took the bird, cage and all, over to where her brother was standing.
The highly unusual, implied agreement with the vendor was that once the purchase had been made, the cage door was to be opened immediately, and the bird set free. Then the cage was to be returned to the stall.
Everyone knew, of course, that the birds were trained to fly immediately back to the old woman, only to be caged again by her assistant to await yet another customer. But none of that mattered to the buyers. Eutracian custom said that paying to set a caged creature free, even if for only a moment, would gladden the heart and bring good luck.
The practice had sprung up after the recent hostilities accompanying the return of the Coven. Mourners had begun freeing birds already in their possession to honor the departed souls of their loved ones, wishing them a safe journey to the Afterlife.
Smiling from ear to ear, Rebecca gingerly opened the cage door, releasing the throat lark to the sky.
With a short, clear call, the bird left the cage and went winging straight back to the stall, to land on the countertop. Rebecca turned back to her brother. Her eyes were wet. No one had to tell Marcus whom she had been thinking of when she had opened the cage door.
"Do you feel better?" he asked softly.
All she could do was nod. Then remembering her responsibility to the vendor, she hobbled back to the stall with the empty cage. Watching her go, Marcus couldn't help but think how much he loved her-and that he would do anything to make sure that, unlike the birds in the cages, she stayed free. It was just then that his thoughts were interrupted by a deep male voice.
"Good afternoon. Right on time, I see. I like that in a businessman. Shows proper intent, I always say."
Turning, Marcus took in the man's tall, plump frame, silver hair, and expensive clothes. His name was Gregory of the House of Worth, which fit him perfectly. Gold jewelry flashed at his fingers and wrists, and a thick, white mustache lay elegantly just above the decisive mouth. His predatory eyes were dark, and seemed never to miss a thing.
The moment Marcus had first met him, he had taken the fellow for a shrewd bargainer. After making a few polite inquiries, he had learned that Worth seemed to have an honest reputation. Still, Marcus remained nervous as he tried his best to steel himself against whatever first offer Worth might make. Even at the tender age of twelve Seasons of New Life, he knew that someone's first proposal was never the best, and he had no intention of being taken advantage of. He also had a plan.
With a distasteful grimace, Worth looked down at the rug lying in the wheelbarrow.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," he said slyly. "I didn't come here to buy a rug."
"That's good," Marcus answered calmly, "because I didn't come here to sell one."
Worth smiled. By now Rebecca had joined them, and Marcus bade her nearer.
"Are you alone?" Marcus asked him. He realized that it was a foolish question, for Worth could have any number of confederates waiting here in the plaza to rob him, and Marcus wouldn't recognize any of them. But he hoped the question would set a certain tone, rather than glean reliable information.