“I suppose you’re right,” Wolf said. “I hate to lose the time, but there’s no help for it.”
“The roads will be better after a day’s drying,” Silk pointed out, “and wagons travel faster empty.”
“Are you sure you can sell them, friend Silk?” Durnik asked.
“I am a Drasnian,” Silk replied confidently. “I can sell anything. We might even make a good profit.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Wolf said. “The turnips have served their purpose. All we need to do now is to get rid of them.”
“It’s a matter of principle,” Silk said airily. “Besides, if I don’t try to strike a hard bargain, that too would be remembered. Don’t be concerned. The business won’t take long and won’t delay us.”
“Could I go along with you, Silk?” Garion asked hopefully. “I haven’t seen any part of Darine except for this inn.”
Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol.
She considered for a moment. “I don’t suppose it would do any harm,” she said, “and it’ll give me time to attend to some things.”
The next morning after breakfast Silk and Garion set out with Garion carrying a bag of turnips. The small man seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits, and his long, pointed nose seemed almost to quiver. “The whole point,” he said as they walked along the littered, cobblestoned streets, “is not to appear too eager to sell – and to know the market, of course.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Garion said politely.
“Yesterday I made a few inquiries,” Silk went on. “Turnips are selling on the docks of Kotu in Drasnia for a Drasnian silver link per hundredweight.”
“A what?” Garion asked.
“It’s a Drasnian coin,” Silk explained, “about the same as a silver imperial – not quite, but close enough. The merchant will try to buy our turnips for no more than a quarter of that, but he’ll go as high as half.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s customary.”
“How many turnips do we have?” Garion asked, stepping around a pile of refuse in the street.
“We have thirty hundredweight,” Silk said.
“That would be-” Garion’s face contorted in an effort to make the complex calculation in his head.
“Fifteen imperials,” Silk supplied. “Or three gold crowns.”
“Gold?” Garion asked. Because gold coins were so rare in country dealings, the word seemed to have an almost magic quality.
Silk nodded. “It’s always preferable,” he said. “It’s easier to carry. The weight of silver becomes burdensome.”
“And how much did we pay for the turnips?”
“Five imperials,” Silk said.
“The farmer gets five, we get fifteen, and the merchant gets thirty?” Garion asked incredulously. “That hardly seems fair.”
Silk shrugged. “It’s the way things are,” he said. “There’s the merchant’s house.” He pointed at a rather imposing building with broad steps. “When we go in, he’ll pretend to be very busy and not at all interested in us. Later, while he and I are bargaining, he’ll notice you and tell you what a splendid boy you are.”
“Me?”
“He’ll think that you’re some relation of mine – a son or a nephew perhaps – and he’ll think to gain advantage over me by flattering you.”
“What a strange notion,” Garion said.
“I’ll tell him many things,” Silk went on, talking very rapidly now. His eyes seemed to glitter, and his nose was actually twitching. “Pay no attention to what I say, and don’t let any surprise show on your face. He’ll be watching us both very closely.”
“You’re going to lie?” Garion was shocked.
“It’s expected,” Silk said. “The merchant will also lie. The one of us who lies the best will get the better of the bargain.”
“It all seems terribly involved,” Garion said.
“It’s a game,” Silk said, his ferretlike face breaking into a grin. “A very exciting game that’s played all over the world. Good players get rich, and bad players don’t.”
“Are you a good player?” Garion asked.
“One of the best,” Silk replied modestly. “Let’s go in.” And he led Garion up the broad steps to the merchant’s house.
The merchant wore an unbelted, fur-trimmed gown of a pale green color and a close-fitting cap. He behaved much as Silk had predicted that he would, sitting before a plain table and leafing through many scraps of parchment with a busy frown on his face while Silk and Garion waited for him to notice them.
“Very well, then,” he said finally. “You have business with me?”
“We have some turnips,” Silk said somewhat deprecatingly.
“That’s truly unfortunate, friend,” the merchant said, assuming a long face. “The wharves at Kotu groan with turnips just now. It would hardly pay me to take them off your hands at any price.”
Silk shrugged. “Perhaps the Chereks or the Algars then,” he said. “Their markets may not yet be so glutted as yours.” He turned. “Come along, boy,” he said to Garion.
“A moment, good friend,” the merchant said. “I detect from your speech that you and I are countrymen. Perhaps as a favor I’ll look at your turnips.”
“Your time is valuable,” Silk said. “If you aren’t in the market for turnips, why should we trouble you further?”
“I might still be able to find a buyer somewhere,” the merchant protested, “if the merchandise is of good quality.” He took the bag from Garion and opened it.
Garion listened with fascination as Silk and the merchant fenced politely with each other, each attempting to gain the advantage.
“What a splendid boy this is,” the merchant said, suddenly seeming to notice Garion for the first time.
“An orphan,” Silk said, “placed in my care. I’m attempting to teach him the rudiments of business, but he’s slow to learn.”
“Ah,” the merchant said, sounding slightly disappointed.
Then Silk made a curious gesture with the fingers of his right hand. The merchant’s eyes widened slightly, then he too gestured.
After that, Garion had no idea of what was going on. The hands of Silk and the merchant wove intricate designs in the air, sometimes flickering so rapidly that the eye could scarce follow them. Silk’s long, slender fingers seemed to dance, and the merchant’s eyes were fixed upon them, his forehead breaking into a sweat at the intensity of his concentration.
“Done, then?” Silk said finally, breaking the long silence in the room.
“Done,” the merchant agreed somewhat ruefully.
“It’s always a pleasure doing business with an honest man,” Silk said.
“I’ve learned much today,” the merchant said. “I hope you don’t intend to remain in this business for long, friend. If you do, I might just as well give you the keys to my warehouse and strongroom right now and save myself the anguish I’ll experience every time you appear.”
Silk laughed. “You’ve been a worthy opponent, friend merchant,” he said.
“I thought so at first,” the merchant said, shaking his head, “but I’m no match for you. Deliver your turnips to my warehouse on Bedik wharf tomorrow morning.” He scratched a few lines on a piece of parchment with a quill. “My overseer will pay you.”
Silk bowed and took the parchment. “Come along, boy,” he said to Garion, and led the way from the room.
“What happened?” Garion asked when they were outside in the blustery street.
“We got the price I wanted,” Silk said, somewhat smugly.
“But you didn’t say anything,” Garion objected.
“We spoke at great length, Garion,” Silk said. “Weren’t you watching?”
“All I saw was the two of you wiggling your fingers at each other.”
“That’s how we spoke,” Silk explained. “It’s a separate language my countrymen devised thousands of years ago. It’s called the secret language, and it’s much faster than the spoken one. It also permits us to speak in the presence of strangers without being overheard. An adept can conduct business while discussing the weather, if he chooses.”
“Will you teach it to me?” Garion asked, fascinated.
“It takes a long time to learn,” Silk told him.
“Isn’t the trip to Muros likely to take a long time?” Garion suggested.
Silk shrugged. “As you wish,” he said. “It won’t be easy, but it will help pass the time, I suppose.”
“Are we going back to the inn now?” Garion asked.
“Not right away,” Silk said. “We’ll need a cargo to explain our entry into Muros.”
“I thought we were going to leave with the wagons empty.”
“We are.”
“But you just said-”
“We’ll see a merchant I know,” Silk explained. “He buys farm goods all over Sendaria and has them held on the farms until the markets are right in Arendia and Tolnedra. Then he arranges to have them freighted either to Muros or Camaar.”
“It sounds very complicated,” Garion said doubtfully.
“1t’s not really,” Silk assured him. “Come along, my boy, you’ll see.” The merchant was a Tolnedran who wore a flowing blue robe and a disdainful expression on his face. He was talking with a grim-faced Murgo as Silk and Garion entered his counting room. The Murgo, like all of his race Garion had ever seen, had deep scars on his face, and his black eyes were penetrating.