But he survived. Better one-eyed than dead, he decided. He never borrowed again, nor did he ever pay up front for anything he couldn't see with his own eye. He left Medqasse, and spent a few years on the sea, earning gold as a merchant sailor and learning his profession. Less than five years after losing his eye, he had enough gold to quit the sea and try once more to make it as a land merchant. This time it took. He worked hard, he wandered more leagues than he cared to count, he trusted no one but himself. And he scraped by. Until at last, ten or twelve years back, he was rewarded for his perseverance.
He was in R'Troth land, in the foothills to the Djindsamme range, a lone Eandi merchant in the mining country of the white-hairs, when he stumbled upon a cache of raw gemstones. They were in an old canvas bag that had been tucked away in a shallow cave near the headwaters of the Iejony. They'd been there for years, it seemed. The bag had moldered and was covered with bat droppings. As best he could tell, they had been stolen years before, hidden in the cave, and forgotten. Perhaps the thieves had been unable to find the cave a second time. Maybe they were dead. Torgan didn't care. He sold them for over seven hundred sovereigns.
He could have quit then. He could have settled down along the Qosantian coast or in the Aelean Highlands near Lake Naaf. But he would have gotten bored. He hadn't many friends, and even before he lost his eye, he'd never had women flocking to his side, or more to the point, to his bed. And he'd never been a man to put down roots.
Torgan couldn't remember the last time he had spent more than three nights in the same city or town. Even three seemed long. After two, his feet began to itch, he began to feel hemmed in, the way a wild horse would feel in a paddock. He had no knack for words or music or swordplay, or any of the other pursuits to which wealthy men of his age were drawn. He was happiest in the marketplace. His single talent was making the sale. Some men collected blades or horses. Some collected women. He collected gold.
After he found the gems, his good fortune continued. A year later, he bought twelve carved bowls from one of the finest wood turners among the A'Vahl. Three days later, the man was killed in a sudden flood. Torgan sold the bowls for three times what he paid for them. Suddenly it seemed that every deal he made turned out well. It was as if the gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Or maybe they were merely compensating him at last for the loss of his eye. Truth be told, he didn't care why it was happening; he merely resolved to enjoy himself for as long as he and the gold lasted.
That wasn't to say that he made no concessions to his new wealth. He no longer had any need to work as hard as the other merchants did, particularly the younger ones. They kept to regular schedules, making their way from city to city, keeping to those places where they knew they could turn a quick profit. Torgan liked to wander, and so he allowed himself to range far and wide across the land. Most merchants traded with the A'Vahl and the M'Saaren, the Talm'Orast and the H'Bel, the Nid'Qir and B'Qahr. Fewer bothered with the seafaring folk of the D'Krad, though their smoked fish was the best in the land, or with the miners of the I'Prael, though their mines produced the finest grade of silver and copper. These clans were on the fringe of Qirsi land. There was less profit in roaming so far, so most merchants traded in inferior products. It made perfect sense.
But Torgan could afford to take the time to go all the way to the Nahraidan Peninsula or to cross the A'Vahl into D'Krad land. He was willing to venture north into Y'Qatt territory in search of somethinganything-that another merchant might miss. He had the time and the gold, and he enjoyed seeing so much of the land. He knew that most other merchants hated him. They resented his wealth. They thought him unreasonable and hard and arrogant, and he was all those things. Again, he could afford to be. No deal was so important to him that he had to make it, which meant that he could walk away from any sale if the terms weren't to his liking. The willingness to walk away: a merchant had no greater weapon. But though few traders liked him, all knew that he sold the finest products. If a lesser merchant needed fine wine for a wealthy client, or the best blade for a discriminating swordsman, they always came to Torgan Plye. Put quite simply, he had the best goods.
Perhaps this was why the baskets of the Mettai woman caught his eye. Torgan knew quality when he saw it. He also knew a skilled trader when he watched one at work. And however well Y'Farl thought he had done in buying the woman's remaining wares-and from the smug look on the Y'Qatt's face as he watched the woman leave the marketplace, it seemed clear that he thought he had done very well indeed-Torgan knew better.
He liked the clarity of the marketplace, the simplicity of the game. Everyone there was interested in the same thing: gaining the most from the exchange of goods and gold. Whether buying or selling, a person wanted to feel that they had done well. A buyer wanted to get the best product for the least amount of money; the seller wanted to turn the greatest profit possible. So simple. And yet, there were so many ways to achieve those ends. That was what fascinated him, what made the marketplace more than just his place of business. It was also his source of entertainment. He had been known to spend an entire day just watching others buy and sell. For Torgan it was much like watching a battle tournament, a contest between combatants of various skill levels. Actually it was better than a battle tournament, since he found watching swordplay dreadfully boring.
Y'Farl had always struck him as a competent merchant. Not the best by any means, but skilled enough to have made a living at it for several years. On this day, however, he'd met his match, and then some, in the old woman. Whatever terms they had come to had pleased Y'Farl. That much was clear. Yet, the woman had been delighted as well. Torgan was sure of it. He'd watched too many merchants and peddlers at work for too many years to be mistaken about such a thing. She'd gotten what she wanted and had managed to convince Y'Farl that he had done well. Only a skilled trader could do that. Yet, with all the different places he had visited in the Southlands, he couldn't recall ever seeing this woman before. Nor had he seen baskets of this quality, at least not for many years. It was all too curious for him to ignore.
He sauntered over to Y'Farl's table. The Y'Qatt was moving his new baskets around, trying to arrange them to best effect. Hearing Torgan's approach, he looked up. His expression darkened.
"Torgan Plye."
"Good day, Y'Farl. Feeling pleased with yourself?"
"If you must know, I am." He gestured at the baskets. "I got all these for twelve sovereigns-I'll sell them for at least twice that much."
"You seem quite sure of yourself."
"Look at them. Finest baskets I've seen here in the Neck. Ever. Even you'd be proud to sell them."
Torgan picked one up and turned it over in his hands. He'd looked at them earlier, during the morning, when so many had pressed around her blankets, eager for a look at the wares of this newcomer to the C'Bijor's Neck marketplace. He'd been struck then by how fine they were- the coloring was even and vivid, but clearly done with dyes rather than magic. The weaving was meticulous and neat, the osiers and grasses strong and free from any fraying. But now that he knew how little the woman had gotten for them he wanted to see them again. Perhaps he'd missed something before.
Even on second examination, though, they looked to be as finely made as any baskets he'd found in this part of the Southlands. The Qirsi of B'Qahr were excellent weavers as well, and their work might have been somewhat better than this. But not much.
"Well?" Y'Farl asked, sounding just a bit too smug.
Torgan returned the basket to the Y'Qatt's table. "You're right. She makes lovely baskets."
"Perhaps you'd like to buy them."
"Perhaps I would."
"Thirty sovereigns."
Torgan laughed. "Thirty? Just a moment ago you were talking about doubling your money. Now you want to nearly triple it."