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corded the transaction in the appropriate languages on parchment, which
was then torn and divided among the principals. In theory, there was no
need for shouting, but the clamor along the wharf was guaranteed to give
all but the deaf a headache.
Chests and bales were still coming off the ship, to be opened on the first
empty patch of wharf the merchant encountered. There was no such
thing as a clear path and the indigenous criminals were having a field
day. Walegrin spotted a light-fingered youth in the act of lifting a sizable
purse. Their eyes met, and the thief kept lifting. A half-dozen overflowing
chest separated the law from the lawbreaker, and even if they hadn't,
Walegrin had all he could do to keep up with the woman.
She strode past more gimcrack and gewgaw dealers than Walegrin
cared to count. Personally, he saw nothing that would tempt him to
crack his next egg. But he was a soldier; women were supposed to be
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different.
There was a hierarchy in the disorder. The frivolities which the fish
judged most likely to please the natives were crammed together at the
landward end of the wharf. The consignment goods destined for the
exiles were more carefully displayed closer to the ship. Midway between
them three silk sellers displayed bolts of cloth and finished garments.
Silk had been known since the Ilsigi Kingdom. Mainland silks were
thick and brittle compared to the fiber the Beysib Empire produced in
560 STEALERS' SKY
vast quantities. They took dye poorly and, in any event, not even the
Ilsigi alchemists had conjured colors like those the Beysib set in their
silks. They shimmered in the sunlight; any fool could see Beysib silks
were worth their weight in gold.
Walegrin was not, therefore, surprised when the woman stopped to
examine them, although how she thought she could buy silk when she
was scared witless by a two-soldat fine was a question he couldn't answer.
Why she would buy it was another puzzling question. For all its beauty,
Beysib silk was not selling well in Sanctuary. It came in two equally
impractical varieties: gossamer sheer that snagged and tore on a whisper
and damasked over a horsehair foundation so stiff that the cloth sup-
ported itself.
Perhaps in the Beysib Empire, where it was both cool and dry the year
around, such cloth could be made into wearable garments. In Sanctuary,
a person could be noticed in Beysib silk, but never comfortable. It was
comfort, more than any sense of propriety, that drew Shupansea and the
other Beysib women out of their bare-breasted costumes and into tradi-
tional Rankene gowns.
The woman studied each length of fabric. She twisted it, and tugged it,
and got down on her knees to examine the underside. The merchants
began to get hopeful, then she started walking again.
"What are you looking for?" Walegrin protested as his companion
neared the expensive end of the wharf. "It's not going to get any
cheaper."
She looked at him as if he'd grown another head. *T haven't seen what
I need," she announced, and kept moving.
Walegrin tossed a round-bottom jug back to its owner and scurried to
catch up with her. They approached the stem gangplank. Beysibs were
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r r
buying from Beysibs, wailing in their peculiar language over merchandise
only a fish could find attractive. The woman was moving slower now. She
stopped beside a greasy man hawking ceramic snakes and indicated that
she wished to bargain.
The Beysib was almost as confused as the commander. The woman
slashed her hand and shook her head as he lifted one garish reptile after
another out of its case. Walegrin had a very crude understanding of the
Beysin language, but if he had any hope of getting off the wharf before
midday, he was going to have to intervene.
He confined the woman's gesturing hands in his own. "The man's
shown you everything he's got. You keep pointing at empty boxes, and he
keeps telling you that there's nothing in them to sell."
"You understand him . . . ? Then, tell him I want to buy the dross."
"The what?"
WEB WEAVERS
561
"The dross . . . Dross the packing around his wretched statues!"
"Dross?"
Walegrin shook his head. He knew several fish words for garbage, a
few of which would likely turn the merchant's bald scalp a brilliant shade
of red. He knew the fish word for purchase if buying a woman's time at
a brothel was the same as buying something from a merchant. He opened
his eyes as wide as he could and started talking. If his luck ran true to
form he was about to create a scandal.
The merchant roared with laughter. He slapped his naked belly and
turned the crimson color Walegrin had so hoped not to see. His eyes
bugged out. "You joking."
Walegrin swallowed hard and, adding more gestures than he'd used the
first time, tried again. He got the feeling that the greasy fish understood
him well enough and that the third and fourth tries were simply for the
amusement of the other Beysib who'd wandered over to watch the bar-
barian make a fool of himself. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]