“You should have told me,” Wolf said, glancing back at the pack train.
“They’re not really in bad shape yet,” Hettar informed him, “but they’re starting to feel sorry for themselves. They’re exaggerating of course, but a little rest wouldn’t hurt them.”
“Exaggerating?” Silk sounded shocked. “You don’t mean to say that horses can actually lie, do you?”
Hettar shrugged. “Of course. They lie all the time. They’re very good at it.”
For a moment Silk looked outraged at the thought, and then he suddenly laughed. “Somehow that restores my faith in the order of the universe,” he declared.
Wolf looked pained. “Silk,” he said pointedly, “you’re a very evil man. Did you know that?”
“One does one’s best,” Silk replied mockingly.
The Arendish Fair lay at the intersection of the Great West Road and the mountain track leading down out of Ulgoland. It was a vast collection of blue, red and yellow tents and broad-striped pavilions stretching for a league or more in every direction. It appeared like a brightly hued city in the midst of the dun-colored plain, and its brilliant pennons snapped bravely in the endless wind under a lowering sky.
“I hope I’ll have time to do some business,” Silk said as they rode down a long hill toward the Fair. The little man’s sharp nose was twitching. “I’m starting to get out of practice.”
A half dozen mud-smeared beggars crouched miserably beside the road, their hands outstretched. Mandorallen paused and scattered some coins among them.
“You shouldn’t encourage them,” Barak growled.
“Charity is both a duty and a privilege, my Lord Barak,” Mandorallen replied.
“Why don’t they build houses here?” Garion asked Silk as they approached the central part of the Fair.
“Nobody stays here that long,” Silk explained. “The Fair’s always here, but the population’s very fluid. Besides, buildings are taxed; tents aren’t.”
Many of the merchants who came out of their tents to watch the party pass seemed to know Silk, and some of them greeted him warily, suspicion plainly written on their faces.
“I see that your reputation’s preceded you, Silk,” Barak observed dryly.
Silk shrugged. “The price of fame.”
“Isn’t there some danger that somebody’ll recognize you as that other merchant?” Durnik asked. “The one the Murgos are looking for?”
“You mean Ambar? It’s not very likely. Ambar doesn’t come to Arendia very often, and he and Radek don’t look a bit alike.”
“But they’re the same man,” Durnik objected. “They’re both you.”
“Ah,” Silk said, raising one finger, “you and I both know that, but they don’t. To you I always look like myself, but to others I look quite different.”
Durnik looked profoundly skeptical.
“Radek, old friend,” a bald Drasnian merchant called from a nearby tent.
“Delvor,” Silk replied delightedly. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“You look prosperous,” the bald man observed.
“Getting by,” Silk responded modestly. “What are you dealing in now?”
“I’ve got a few Mallorean carpets,” Delvor told him. “Some of the local nobles are interested, but they don’t like the price.” His hands, however, were already speaking of other matters.-Your uncle sent out word that we were to help you if necessary. Do you need anything?”What are you carrying in your packs?” he asked aloud.
“Sendarian woolens,” Silk answered, “and a few other odds and ends.” Have you seen any Murgos here at the Fair?
-One, but he left for Vo Mimbre a week ago. There are some Nadraks on the far side of the Fair, though
-They’re a long way from home-Silk gestured. Are they really in business?
It’s hard to say-Delvor answered.
-Can you put us up for a day or so?
I’m sure we can work something out Delvor replied with a sly twinkle in his eyes.
Silk’s fingers betrayed his shock at the suggestion.
-Business is business, after all-Delvor gestured. “You must come inside,” he said aloud. “Take a cup of wine, have some supper. We have years of catching up to do.”
“We’d be delighted,” Silk returned somewhat sourly.
“Could it be that you’ve met your match, Prince Kheldar?” Aunt Pal inquired softly with a faint smile as the little man helped her down from her horse in front of Delvor’s brightly striped pavilion.
“Delvor? Hardly. He’s been trying to get even with me for yearsever since a ploy of mine in Yar Gorak cost him a fortune. I’ll let him think he’s got me for a while though. It will make him feel good, and I’ll enjoy it that much more when I pull the rug out from under him.”
She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
He winked at her.
The interior of Delvor’s main pavilion was ruddy in the light of several glowing braziers that put out a welcome warmth. The floor was covered with a deep blue carpet, and large red cushions were scattered here and there to sit upon. Once they were inside, Silk quickly made the introductions.
“I’m honored, Ancient One,” Delvor murmured, bowing deeply to Mister Wolf and then to Aunt Pol. “What can I do to help?”
“Right now we need information more than anything,” Wolf replied, pulling ofi’ his heavy cloak. “We ran into a Grolim stirring up trouble a few days north of here. Can you nose about and find out what’s happening between here and Vo Mimbre? I’d like to avoid any more neighborhood squabbles if possible.”
“I’ll make inquiries,” Delvor promised.
“I’ll be moving around too,” Silk said. “Between us, Delvor and I should be able to sift out most of the loose information in the Fair.” Wolf looked at him inquiringly.
“Radek of Boktor never passes up a chance to do business,” the little man explained just a bit too quickly. “It would look very strange if he stayed in Delvor’s tent.”
“I see,” Wolf said.
“We wouldn’t want anything to spoil our disguise, would we?” Silk asked innocently. His long nose, however, was twitching even more violently.
Wolf surrendered. “All right. But don’t get exotic. I don’t want a crowd of outraged customers outside the tent in the morning howling for your head.”
Delvor’s porters took the packs from the spare horses, and one of them showed Hettar the way to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair. Silk began rummaging through the packs. A myriad of small, expensive items began to pile up on Delvor’s carpet as Silk’s quick hands dipped into the corners and folds of the wool cloth.
“I wondered why you needed so much money in Camaar,” Wolf commented dryly.
“Just part of the disguise,” Silk replied. “Radek always has a few curios with him for trade along the way.”
“That’s a very convenient explanation,” Barak observed, “but I wouldn’t run it into the ground if I were you.”
“If I can’t double our old friend’s money in the next hour, I’ll retire permanently,” Silk promised. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ll need Garion to act as a porter for me. Radek always has at least one porter.”
“Try not to corrupt him too much,” Aunt Pol said.
Silk bowed extravagantly and set his black velvet cap at a jaunty angle; with Garion at his heels, carrying a stout sack of his treasures, he swaggered out into the Great Arendish Fair like a man going into battle.
A fat Tolnedran three tents down the way proved troublesome and succeeded in getting a jeweled dagger away from Silk for only three times what it was worth, but two Arendish merchants in a row bought identical silver goblets at prices which, though widely different, more than made up for that setback. “I love to deal with Arends,” Silk gloated as they moved on down the muddy streets between the pavilions.
The sly little Drasnian moved through the Fair, wreaking havoc as he went. When he could not sell, he bought; when he could not buy, he traded; and when he could not trade, he dredged for gossip and information. Some of the merchants, wiser than their fellows, saw him coming and promptly hid from him. Garion, swept along by the little man’s enthusiasm, began to understand his friend’s fascination with this game where profit was secondary to the satisfaction of besting an opponent.
Silk’s predations were broadly ecumenical. He was willing to deal with anyone. He met them all on their own ground. Tolnedrans, Arends, Chereks, fellow Drasnians, Sendars – all fell before him. By midafternoon he had disposed of all of what he had bought in Camaar. His full purse jingled, and the sack on Garion’s shoulder was still as heavy, but now it contained entirely new merchandise.
Silk, however, was frowning. He walked along bouncing a small, exquisitely blown glass bottle on the palm of his hand. He had traded two ivory-bound books of Wacite verse to a Rivan for the little bottle of perfume. “What’s the trouble?” Garion asked him as they walked back toward Delvor’s pavilions.
“I’m not sure who won,” Silk told him shortly.
“What?”
“I don’t have any idea what this is worth.”