The Exile and the Sorcerer (8 page)

“Your partner drives a hard bargain,” the warehouse owner said in rueful tones.

“Oh, I know,” Verron agreed.

Marith smiled as she passed, taking his words as a compliment, which in truth they were. Verron knew he would not succeed in trade half so well without her. Marith’s light brown hair fell around her face in childlike curls; her body bordered on the plump; but her sweet-tempered, motherly exterior housed the keenest business mind Verron had ever met.

As he joined her by the wagons, she asked, “Did you find some guards?”

Verron shook his head. “There are local difficulties. We need to talk things over, but there isn’t time now. Let’s get the crates into the warehouse.”

Marith accepted his words and turned to the warehouse owner. “We’ll need to hire four labourers to unload the wagons.”

“Let’s make it eight. It’s not long till dusk,” Verron said.

From her expression, Marith was not convinced. However, the warehouse owner prevented any further debate by announcing, “Well, if she’s free, you’ll only need one porter.” The woman scanned the clusters of people standing around the market, then raised her voice to a shout. “TEVI!”

A young woman detached herself from a nearby group and jogged towards them. In the evening light, her hair was dark, almost black. It lay in a spiky fringe, uncombed and hacked short. Her face and hands were grimy. She was dressed in rough, homespun material. However, the clothes were less ragged than those of the other porters. Rather than being barefoot, she had sandals on her feet. Even more unusual, her brown eyes met Verron’s with honest candour as she came to a halt.

The warehouse owner gestured at the wagons. “These folk want their goods unloaded before the watch calls seven. Do you reckon you can do it?”

The porter looked at the sky, evaluating the time. “Sure,” she said confidently. “Standard rate for the job?”

Marith looked confused but nodded. However, Verron could not stop from protesting, “Those crates are heavy. It took two men just to lift them.”

“I can probably handle it,” the porter said.

The warehouse owner winked and drew Verron out of the way. “Just watch.”

The porter went to the first wagon and pulled on one crate gently, testing the weight. Then, in one fluid movement, she swung it off the wagon and walked towards the doorway, carrying the load with little sign of effort. Verron felt his jaw sag open.

One by one, the crates disappeared into the warehouse as the porter went on to empty both wagons well within the allotted time. Verron watched in astonishment. The woman was tall and sturdily built but certainly not muscle-bound. There was nothing to indicate the source of her strength. Once the last crate was safely stored, the porter walked back to the traders. Only the faintest sheen of sweat dotted her forehead.

“I think that’s three copper bits you owe me.” The porter held out her hand, although she seemed uncomfortable.

Marith pulled out the coins. Before the porter closed her hand, Verron added another three from his own purse. “For the entertainment value.”

“Oh. That comes free of charge,” the porter said, smiling.

“I’m sure you could use the extra,” Verron insisted.

“I offered to work for the standard rate.”

“You’re still a lot cheaper than hiring another seven of your fellows.”

The porter looked unhappy but then shrugged. “All right. I’ll find a good home for the money.” Her voice was a soft, lilting drawl, an accent Verron could not place, for all his years of travelling. She gave a respectful nod to the adults and a broad grin to Kimal and Derry, then strolled back across the square.

Verron turned to the warehouse owner. “Who is she?”

“Some youngster out to seek fame and fortune. She arrived by boat just over a month ago. I can’t see her staying around long. She’s too naive. I mean, when did you last have to offer money to a porter twice?” The warehouse owner’s voice held something like astonishment.

“That won’t last in Torhafn,” Marith said pointedly.

“True enough. And she’s far too honest. Not that there’s anything wrong with honesty, of course,” the warehouse owner added quickly, remembering her audience.

“But how is she so strong? It must be magic,” Verron persisted.

The warehouse owner nodded. “Someone said she comes from an island way off to the west. They brew a magic potion that does it.”

That bit of information caught Marith’s attention immediately. “Do you think they’d be interested in trading for it?”

*

The coins jingled in Tevi’s hand as she walked across the square. They felt hard, cold, and alien—rather like Torhafn itself. Money was not unknown on the islands, but she was not at ease with its general use. In Torhafn, it bought food and clothes, a mooring site on the quay, even the use of someone’s body for the night if you were so minded. With money, you could get whatever you wanted; without it, you could starve. Nothing mattered to the townsfolk except how much of it you had. To Tevi, money had come to mark the absence of trust, of honour, of family. She was tempted simply to open her hand and let the coins join the other debris of the market square.

The onset of dusk had sent most other porters to their homes. One ragged group remained, squatting on the steps of the tax office. They watched Tevi, hostility marked on their faces. One spat into the dust after she passed, not hiding his resentment. Tevi had earned more on the last job than they had made all day. Her strength and sobriety made her the merchants’ first choice. It also meant there was little the others dared do to object. In her first days, a few porters had tried, unwisely, to intimidate her. Now she received nothing worse than scowls and muttered comments.

Not everyone was unfriendly. An elderly voice called out, “Hey, Tevi!”

Tevi smiled and sauntered over to where old Aigur sat on a low wall with two of her grandsons in attendance. The elderly woman headed an enormous family with members scattered through all spheres of Torhafn life—few of them legal. Aigur had taken unconcealed pleasure in the rout of the market bullies. Realising that the young islander was unversed in the workings of the world, she had taken Tevi under her wing, giving freely of her lifetime’s store of advice. Despite her sharp tongue and questionable civic morality, Aigur was easily Tevi’s favourite person in Torhafn.

Aigur gave a toothless grin as Tevi stopped before her. A heavy blanket shielded her joints from the evening’s chill. Her hair was white, her face deeply etched, but her eyes were as sharp as those of her teenaged grandsons.

“So how have you fared today?” she asked.

“Not bad.” On impulse, Tevi held out the coins. “Here, I’ve got a present for you.”

Aigur looked exasperated. “Don’t be a fool. You can’t go around giving money away.”

“Why not? I’ve more than I need, and you’ve got more mouths to feed than me.”

“That’s not the point,”

“Yes, it is. It will help me sleep easier tonight.”

“If you give money away, people will think you’re a fool.”

“So?”

“Fools make good targets.”

“Then what do I do with money I don’t want?” Tevi asked, not entirely in jest.

The elderly woman sighed and gestured to her grandsons. “If you’re hell-bent on generosity, why don’t you take these two layabouts to an inn and treat them? That way, you’ll save me the expense of feeding them tonight, and I can still feel free to get ratty when they come home singing.”

Tevi was about to argue when she saw the hopeful expressions on the young men’s faces. “All right. Have it your way.”

The two grandsons, Derag and Joran, eagerly leapt to Tevi’s side. With an amused snort, Aigur rose and tottered off towards her crowded home on the edge of town. Her stooped figure disappeared around a bend.

Tevi looked at the two youths. “Well, boys, where would you like to go?”

Joran answered for the pair. “How about the Silver Mermaid?”

*

A battered tankard was dumped in front of Tevi. Beer slopped over the top and rolled down onto the stained boards of the table. Tevi sat staring at it, making no attempt to touch the tankard. The metal was dull grey and pockmarked. It caught the light with the remembered sheen of Abrak’s chalice, taunting Tevi in a fleeting vision of finding the heirloom and returning home.

She clenched her teeth, biting back the homesickness. The chalice was irrelevant; with or without it, there was no going back. The barman cleared his throat impatiently, reminding her of the need to pay. Tevi offered one of her coins, accepted a smaller one in change and then picked up her beer. The barman slouched away. Derag and Joran grabbed their drinks enthusiastically.

While surveying the tavern, Tevi sipped her beer, pacing herself carefully. She did not want to be wandering around Torhafn at night, alone and drunk—one of Aigur’s many gems of advice. The bar had a low ceiling with smoke-blackened rafters. The tables were sturdy but well worn. The stone floor was sticky from spilt beer. The clientele was a cross section of the lower ranks of Torhafn society, except that the atmosphere was jovial and friendly, which was unusual, in Tevi’s experience. After a few unpleasant encounters, she had avoided social contact with the townsfolk, Aigur’s family excluded. However, leaning her elbows on the table, Tevi decided that the inn was a pleasant enough place to spend a few hours.

On the bench beside her, Derag and Joran were debating the merits of different ales. They were happy, giving voice to their opinions with a forthright vigour that, on the islands, would have been considered unseemly for men. Tevi watched with amusement. She was trying hard to come to terms with the men of the mainland. In her first days in Torhafn, she had formed the opinion that by shaving their faces, the men were trying to imitate the opposite sex. They certainly seemed to act like women. She now recognised that this conclusion was far too simplistic, especially as nobody seemed bothered when women acted in a manner the islanders would have considered masculine.

It was also received poorly if she treated Torhafn men with the patronising gallantry that was considered good manners on the islands. Tevi soon learned it was best to deal with each clean-shaven face as if it belonged to a woman—a trick that did not require the same mental gymnastics as it would on Storenseg. Without beards and distinctive styles of dress, Tevi found it very hard to tell men and women apart. She was often uncertain of a person’s gender, even after lengthy conversation. On other occasions, she had formed an opinion one way, only to have subsequent events prove her wrong. The mainlander’s flexible use of pronouns and other gender-specific words made her job harder, although it helped her hide her confusion.

“That old gut rot! It’s awful.” Tevi’s thoughts were interrupted as Joran dug her with his elbow. “What do you say, Tevi? Have you ever drunk the cat’s piss they serve in the Red Dragon?”

Tevi tried not to wince at the crude phrase coming from a male mouth. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re lucky. I can guarantee it’d be the worst thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Tevi smiled. “That’s quite a claim. I doubt anything could outdo the potion they give girls back home.”

“Is that the one that makes you so strong?” Derag asked.

“Came close to making me throw up as well.”

“Even so, I’d happily down a bucketful.” The young man sighed wistfully. “What do you reckon? If we sailed out there, do you think your family would sell us some?”

“Absolutely no chance.” Tevi shook her head. “And it wouldn’t do you any good. You have to take it regularly when you’re a child. It doesn’t work so well for boys even then.”

Derag’s shoulders slumped. “It would be great, though. Do you remember how you dealt with fat Barbo? Grandma smiles whenever she remembers it.”

“I tried not to hurt him.”

“I know. That’s what made it so insulting for Barbo.”

Joran joined in. “Why should you worry about hurting him? In your place, I’d have flattened the bastard.”

“It’s the way I was brought up. Women are so much stronger than men, it’s seen as cowardly to hit them. But Barbo gave me no option. He had me cornered and wouldn’t let me apologise. I hadn’t meant to offend him.”

“So you picked him up like a sack of flour and tossed him into the harbour.” Joran’s words were almost lost in his grin.

“What else could I do?”

“And what really amused Grandma was when you realised he couldn’t swim—the way you dived in, dragged him out, and then offered to escort him home to his parents to explain how he’d got so wet.” Both men dissolved in laughter.

Once he calmed down, Derag said, “You know, you’re getting quite a name. People are—”

Whatever he might have been about to say was swallowed by a burst of noise from the far corner. All heads turned towards the disturbance. A crew of dock workers were cheering on one of their comrades who had left their table. From his size, Tevi was sure it was a man. His shoulders and arms were knotted with muscle; his head brushed the rafters, towering over the seated patrons. He did not look angry, but to Tevi’s dismay, his eyes were fixed on her. The noise fell to a murmur. Tevi placed her hands on the table and pushed her bench back, readying herself for action. However, when the man reached her, he squeezed onto the opposite bench and smiled in a friendly fashion. Tevi took little reassurance from this.