4th Day of Summer 515 AV He'd come in the wrong way. That was about all that was remarkable about the man, ignoring the fact that he was so very obviously looking for trouble. For the most part, merchants came from outside the city, bearing wares. He, he came from inside the city and bore arms and armor.
Lashander wasn't an imposing man by any stretch of the imagination. Most of the arrivals didn't even notice him and so he had to resort to elbowing his way through the milling crowd, and shouldering past people going the other way and at one point even pushing a burly man from him with the blunt end of his glaive. The teamster gave him a dirty look, but Lash just grinned. He grinned and turned the glaive around, showing off the leather sheath covering its blade. He didn't need to speak. Yes, certainly, there were guards, but none of them would be there in time.
However, Lash had more important things to do. He was looking for a peculiar cart in this caravan, one he couldn't miss. It was huge and the brightest blue you could paint on old wood and studded with brass like a travelling night sky. But a dozen shoulders and elbows later, Lash had reached the end of the throng, the tattered trail of the poorest merchants, without pack animals or carts, just the things on their backs. No dark blue cart, no rolling night sky, just clouds of trail dust following the caravan, soon to be blown away by the closing gate.
"You there!" Lash stopped the last merchant to have come through the gate, his left hand on the old man's shoulder. The bones poked into his palm even through his gloves and the old man's coat. "I'm looking for Ebdon's cart. Was it not part of this caravan? Dark blue, studded with brazen stars? You couldn't have missed it." In response, the old merchant just stared at Lash, then slowly shook his head.
"But you do know who I'm talking about?" Lash's voice grew in volume with every syllable, but the old man just kept staring. Eventually, slowly, as only a frail old man might, he unslung the big bag from his shoulder, set it on the ground and unwound the closure. Lashander regarded him with an undecided mix of curiosity, impatience and sheer disdain. Just his luck to speak to the one merchant whose tongue had shrivelled up on the trip from Nyka.
Ignorant of or unconcerned by the steady sound of Lash's teeth grinding against each other, the old trader simply proceded to point at the wares in his bag (which seemed to consist of smaller bags dyed a brownish red or green and filled with whatever the old man was peddling) then held out an open hand. Lash huffed, but at this point he was getting desperate. He'd invested pretty much all of his disposable funds for, well, the rest of the year in Ebdon's venture, and when his cart would come in, full of Nykan finery, he'd be set for several years. When. If.
Resigning, Lash counted three silvers into the old man's palm. It remained open. Curiously, the young man scanned the wrinkled, weathered face of the merchant, but there was still not the hint of any emotion. Not even the amount of constipation Lash would expect out of the dried-up old wretch. So he gave him another silver-rimmed Miza. And another one. By the time the old one closed his fingers, Lashander had a running bet with himself whether the shrivelled hand would fall off from the weight of the coins before the old one spoke. When the hand did close, a dozen silver Mizas lay in it. The man with the glaive hoped the trader would have valuable information for him, else the weapon might just have to speak for him.
"I know whom you speak of." the old one finally wheezed. "Know Ebdon and his rolling whorehouse of a cart I do. He was in Nyka when I was there, but he left for Zeltiva, two or three days before our caravan left for Ravok."
At first, Lash blinked. Then he gripped his glaive tighter. He meant to speak, but if what the old man said was true, then Ebdon would not be returning to Ravok in this lifetime... and if he ever did that lifetime might as well be over. Anger welled up in his throat and blocked it so no words could come out. Meanwhile, the merchant just moved on, trying to push one of the pouches from his bag in Lash's clenched hand but settling for shoving it in his coat when the hand didn't open. As he trotted off, Lash finally found some calm in the storm of emotions whirling up inside him. He clung onto it, cooled down, but when he moved to speak the old man was gone.
What to do now, he wondered. Ebdon might have family in the city who could be held accountable. It was unlikely, but at the very least Lash knew. Which put him a step ahead of all the other investors in getting his due. And since he was probably also the investor with the most gambling debts, he could really use that money if it found its way back to him one way or another.
For now, he needed to get back to the ferry before that caravan managed to board it. As he walked, he blindly felt the pouch the old man had given him and wondered what a dozen silvers had gotten him. Probably a funny hat. Did they make funny hats in Nyka?
His mind was unravelling. There was no way he could concentrate, especially this early in the day. He needed a drink. Get back to Ravok, get a drink, find out if Ebdon had a permanent residence or a family or business partners. Something he could squeeze money out of.
But first that drink. |
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