The Great Rift (37 page)

Jocubs lifted one thatchety brow. "And I've got to assemble a quorum of the Tradesman's Association of the Greater Valley of Gallador, some of the busiest men and women in the entire empire. Compared to that, putting the brakes on a war might be easier."

Dante laughed. "Fair enough. Please let us know when the time is confirmed."

He returned to Lolligan's home happy enough. Even with an eight-day wait, they'd remain slightly ahead of schedule. A schedule that was somewhat arbitrary to begin with. In truth, he and Cally had been expecting more movement out of Setteven by this point—aggression along the borders, tough talk, more levies. Instead, all fronts had been quiet. Perhaps King Moddegan felt no need to stomp out a few unruly bugs. Perhaps all their worries of war were just phantoms. Even if things were progressing behind the scenes, the movement was too slow and small to notice.

Lolligan agreed Jocubs' timeline sounded reasonable. "If anything, it's on the fast side. Everybody must have already dragged their fat asses back to town to cover them up before bad times hit."

"How do you think the negotiations will go?"

The old merchant snorted. "Heard anything about not rocking the boat yet? Tipping the cart?"

"What about shaking the baby?" Blays said.

"Surprised that one hasn't caught on yet." Lolligan gestured at the shimmering lake. "The men here, they like to keep things smooth. We have a fish here. The cadd. Pudgy things about the size of your thumb, with yellow spots and a mean little beak. By and large, cadd eat anything that's too small and too slow to get out of the way—snails, minnows, the bones of other fish. They won't look twice at something their own size. But once in a while, if something in the water's bleeding bad enough, or thrashing around just so? The entire lake flashes yellow with cadd swarming for a bite."

"So don't be a snail?" Blays said. "Words to live by."

"What I'm saying is they'll eat you alive if the opportunity looks tasty enough."

"I suspect that may be the chief rule of existence," Dante said.

"I think we're overlooking the crucial issue here," Blays said. "The chief concern, as far as I see it, is we have eight days ahead of us and zero things to fill them with."

Lolligan smiled, the sharp triangles of his mustache twitching. "I can occupy a few of those days. If you find it tragically boring, you can spend the rest of the week drinking away the memory."

"You should be a salesman!" Blays clapped his hands to his thighs and stood. "What are we going to see?"

"Nothing much. Just the most vital ingredient to a happy and healthy life."

* * *

A pink field stretched for a mile in all directions, flat and glittery as a pond, bowled on all sides by craggy brown hills. It was shockingly warm; Dante had already shed his cloak and was currently sweating through his doublet. A few yards away, women crouched and hacked at the field with short, sharp metal hoes, scuttling forward as soon as they loosened the soil. Boys dawdled after them, shoveling the crumbly pink dirt into wooden buckets. Lolligan grinned like a proud grandpa.

Blays sniffed. "Is this it?"

Lolligan whirled, gaping angrily. "Do you have any idea what you're looking at?"

"Dirt?"

"
Dirt
?"

"Pink dirt?"

Lolligan shut his eyes and forced the anger from his face. "That's salt. Just growing from the ground. Ripe for the plucking, if you have the right to pluck it. Which I do."

Dante knelt and touched the ground. Hard, solid, crystalline. Lightly gritty. "Can I taste it?"

"That depends on how much money's in your pocket." Lolligan smiled and gestured grandly. "Be my guest."

Dante touched his fingertips to his tongue and rolled the grains around his mouth, letting them dissolve. "It's different. Sharper. Almost a little sweet."

"Exactly. Sprinkle that on a steak, and you'll never again be able to pass a cow without taking a nibble off the flank."

The trip had taken the better part of three days. From Bolling Island, Lolligan had rigged up his flat-bottomed sailboat and cruised north across the lake to a gap carved straight through the hills. A shallow canal led them to another lake that was notably squatter than Gallador proper. From there, Lolligan docked at a busy little town, hired a pack of rugged, shorthaired horses with funny, pushed-in snouts, and led them beyond a craggy ridge. The land descended through a hellscape of sharp, broken rocks, steaming, sulfurous pits, and hot pools on top of bulbous yellow rock that looked like frozen snot. After another row of barren hills, they finally reached the salt flats, a pink sea even stranger than anything they passed along the way.

Lolligan passed the voyage telling them how he'd made his fortune as the first son of a wealthy tea merchant, he'd inherited enough wealth to last an era, then swiftly lost it through a series of bad investments and worse bets. After twelve years of living hand-to-mouth, including four years as a mate on a single-masted cog, he returned to Wending on Gallador, gambled all his savings on high-altitude plots the other tea-men had utterly failed to turn fruitful, and promptly sowed the soil with seeds picked up during his years at sea. The resulting tea leaves were scrawny, little larger than the last joint of your pinky. His friends feared he'd be ruined a second time.

But his tiny leaves made delicious tea. Since they were so small, supply was scarce. Demand soared—and prices with it. In the two decades between then and now, others had moved in with small-leafed brews of their own; that elevated him to the fringes of respectability, but the politicking of the traditional tea-growers kept Lolligan excluded from the inner circles. Including the TAGVOG Jocubs ruled over. Lolligan seemed to regard this exclusion with equal parts "who needs 'em" humor and needling resentment.

"Not bad," Blays said there on the pink plain. He licked his fingers. "Salty."

"Where do you get your salt in Narashtovik?" Lolligan said.

"The sea?" Dante shrugged.

Blays wagged his head. "The salt fairy."

"The salt—?" Lolligan pressed his palms together, elbows splayed. "Look, why don't you take a box back with you? Narashtovik hasn't been much of a market for a long time, but I get the impression all that has changed."

He barked orders at a boy. The boy sprinted toward a wagon parked just past the flats, sandals flapping.

"Is this why you took us in?" Dante said. "To sell us salt?"

"It's
a
reason. I like to have more than one."

"I thought good traders didn't make their wants known."

"Except when they do. Such as when the product's quality speaks for itself." The boy returned with a small wooden box. Lolligan took it and gazed at the woman and children chipping and scooping the pink field. "Some people use norren, you know. They can sure haul their weight. Have a bad habit of dropping dead in the summer, though. I don't think they're built for this heat."

Blays blinked against the crystal-reflected sun. "We came all this way for
salt
?"

The trip back took just as long as the journey out. Dante wanted to be in top shape for the meeting with the TAGVOG, leaving a single night to peruse the city and take in a drink. At Lolligan's manor, Dante gathered up the team and took the boat into town. They passed one nondescript pub, then took up a bench in the second they found, a three-story watering hole with a tented roof. Its second floor rested on pilings above the lapping shore, open to the cool lakeside winds.

Blays demanded they try the local flavor, a murky white liquor called mullen that tasted nutty and earthy and mixed well with hot and sweetened tea. They drank from slender, square-bottomed glasses like fluted vases.

Fann turned his glass in a slow circle. "Talk, that immortal butterfly, made the rounds while you were out."

"Oh yeah?" Blays said. "What kind of flowers did it assault?"

"The rose of trade. I heard several proposals that Gallador's support in Setteven could be acquired through an exclusive deal or three with Narashtovik. As well as Cally's commitment to pave the main roads."

"Too good for dirt, are they?"

"That sounds promising," Dante said. "Mutually beneficial, even."

Fann tipped his head to one side. "I got the impression there was the expectation of heavy profit. There was talk of sheep."

"Cost us less than raising an army, won't it?" Blays said. "Or holding a funeral for every person in Narashtovik."

"Unless we got a mass grave," Dante said.

"You'd probably like that. All jammed up like that, you might be able to force a woman to touch you."

"I'll just have to pray the gravediggers finish their work before rigor mortis wears off."

"I think I'm off to bed," Fann smiled tightly. He rose. Mourn joined him on the brief walk to the piers. Lira stayed, scanning every patron as they came and went.

"I hope this isn't too boring," Blays said to her. He pointed to Dante. "I find it pretty dull myself, and he at least
pretends
like I have some influence around here."

Lira smiled at the steam rising from her tall glass. "You think I find your company disinteresting?"

"His? Definitely."

"In the last few weeks, we've attacked a nobleman, freed a passel of slaves, foiled an assassination attempt, and traveled halfway around the empire speaking to some of Gask's most powerful men." Lira sipped her mullen. "Before that, getting left for dead by pirates was the most exciting thing to happen to me in years."

Blays turned to Dante, laughing. "I think she actually likes this."

"Spent too much time around you, no doubt," Dante said.

"No such thing. That's like having too much summer."

"Summer's awful," Lira said. "If I have to sweat, I prefer to earn it in other ways."

"Like what?" Blays said, straight-faced. "Long runs and cold baths?"

Talk came easy, but a couple hours later, even Blays was ready to leave. They stood, buttoning cloaks, draining the last of their mullen.

Lira adjusted her collar. "I think we may be followed home."

"Oh yes?" Dante said. "Is that because you're crazy?"

"It's because we were followed here."

"What?"

"Man in the northwest corner. Blue cloak. Don't look."

Dante scowled. "I wasn't going to."

"Well," Blays murmured, "that raises an interesting question, doesn't it?"

Dante shot him a look. "Oh no. No, we don't know this city well enough for that."

"Is the big bad wizard afraid of one hired goon?"

"If he has a knife? Or friends in a dark alley? Yes. Yes I am."

Lira clunked down her glass. "What's being talked about like I'm not here?"

Dante patted his chest, ensuring his brooches were in place. "Whether to catch a boat straight home, or take a leisurely stroll through the city."

"I think we should walk," Blays said.

"We know what you think."

"Do I get a vote?" Lira said.

Dante glanced at the door. "Depends if it's a good one."

"If he means us harm, it's better to draw him out now than be attacked unaware."

"Damn it." Dante snugged his cloak around his neck. "Let's go for a walk."

The open-walled pub had been plenty chilly, so the transition to the outside air was minimal. The wooden steps rocked under Dante's feet. He hit the damp streets and headed up the slope toward the heart of the city. A minute later, wood creaked behind them.

Dante forced himself not to look. He tightened his cloak again and passed beyond a circle of lamplight—the lamps here were few, placed only at major squares and the tall brass swappoles. Faint haze diffused the shine of the stars and half-moon. Blays whistled "Reeling Rilla," as out of tune as usual. Lira spent a lot of time gazing into any glass windows they passed. It was a bit after ten and the streets were sparse with people—plodding drunks, hurrying pedestrians, women standing in tight wraps and knee-high skirts while men sat behind them, fiddling openly with knives or clubs. Dante made a left turn toward a well-lit square of short grass and broad, crablike trees that had just begun to grow new buds.

He strolled straight through the park, pausing often to admire the artfully trimmed trees, and stopped in the light of another pub to hold a false discussion about whether it looked like their kind of place. He and Lira "overruled" Blays. They moved on. Occupied with memorizing landmarks and routes and keeping their orientation straight, Dante could no longer tell if they were being followed. Instead he led them through a meandering semicircle that brought them back within a bowshot of the docks, where he stopped in front of an empty, gaping warehouse.

Lira risked a look behind them. "Nothing the last five minutes."

"Ready to head home?" Dante said.

Blays nodded. Dante crossed the slick stones to the docks. The skiff's oars stirred the black water. They spoke of nothing important until they were back within the warm walls of Lolligan's house.

"Must have just been scouting us," Blays said then. "That dawdle through the park was an engraved invitation to stab us."

"That's what I was going for." Dante turned to Lira. "What'd you see?"

Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. "Short. Thin. Male. Unobtrusive. Dark hair. Hitch in his step."

"A hitch? Like this?" Dante limped in a circle.

"That's a wobble. This was more of a hiccup." She demonstrated, jerking her spine straight with every other step. "Not that exaggerated, but you get the idea."

"Maybe it's Robert," Blays grinned. "After us for rum money."

"We could use him about now," Dante chuckled. He unclasped his cloak. "It's probably just one of Jocubs' men making sure we're on the up-and-up. But keep your eyes peeled."

"Well, I'm in for nightmares now," Blays said. "Have you ever thought about how gross that expression really is?"

The day before their meeting passed with blessedly little excitement. A letter arrived from Jocubs. The TAGVOG had its quorum. They would meet at his house at one o'clock the following day.

The morning of the event, Dante rode a skiff into the city and took a long walk in the early sunshine. He felt calm and ready. He returned to Lolligan's at noon and, accompanied by Blays and Fann, was rowed to Jocubs' island. A servant showed him to the carpeted dining hall. A dozen-odd merchants were already there, primarily old and male, but disrupted here and there by unwrinkled or female faces. Servants danced between the men of means, bearing gold trays of olives and figs and sweet port that tasted of chocolate and prunes. They brought fish, too. Dante lost count at ten different kinds—one type red as beef, two baked and headless, three fried whole in skins and heads and tails, one mashed up with soft cheese in a salty, savory paste which the merchants ate on thin slices of toast. More and more old men filtered into the vast room, accompanied by one to three servants and secretaries apiece, who drifted around their fat employers like pilot fish. Dante was introduced to face after face, forgetting the names attached to them as each new one shuffled up to greet him. The room was in constant, dizzying motion, a slow whirl of forty estate-holders and a hundred attendants.