afternoon and brought bright-eyed Kul out from behind his bolts of cloth.
‘Your grace?’ he fawned.
‘I shall require a double length of your finest silk. The colour is not
important – the texture is. The silk must flow like water and a candleflame must
be bright through four thicknesses.’
Kul thought for a moment, then rummaged up an armload of samples. He would have
displayed each, slowly, in its turn, but his customer’s eyes fell on a sea-green
bolt and Kul realized it would be folly to test the priest’s patience.
‘Your grace has a fine eye,’ he said instead, unrolling a half-length and
letting the priest examine the hand and transparency of the cloth.
‘How much?’
‘Two gold coronations for both lengths.’
‘One.’
‘But, your grace has only recently arrived from the capital. Surely you recall
the fetching-price of such workmanship. See here, the right border is shot with
silver threads. It’s certainly worth one-and-seven.’
‘And this is certainly not the capital. Nine Rankan soldats,’ the priest
growled, reducing his offer further.
Kul whisked the cloth out of the priest’s hand, spinning it expertly around the
bolt. ‘Nine soldats … the silver in the cloth is worth more than that! Very
well. I’ve no choice, really. How is a bazaar-merchant to argue with Molin
Torchholder, High Priest of Vashanka? Very well, very well – nine soldats it
is.’
The priest snapped his fingers and an adolescent temple-mute scurried forward
with the priest’s purse. The youth selected nine coins, showed them to his
master, then handed them to Kul who checked both sides to be certain they