Blue Heart

'I thought — on a night like this one, in the deeps of winter — you would enjoy this,' he continued, and smiled. 'It is the story of the Blue Heart, Your Majesty; a regional legend of the mountains near White Foal Pass.'

Selenay sighed, and relaxed again. Just a story, after all____

And oddly enough, she was suddenly in a mood to hear a story.

'In those mountains,' the Herald continued, 'there is a small and isolated village. Its population is less than two hundred, and most of them make their living from the fine wool of the long-haired goats they raise.'

'I know that wool!' the Queen said in surprise. 'Very soft and fine, and very expensive.'

The Herald nodded. 'It is indeed. And it is with that wool that the story begins....'

The trader examined the sample of wool cloth with pleasure and delight. It was soft as a puff of down, warm and light as a purring kitten, and a lovely shade of blue-gray. He'd never seen such cloth, nor anything of so fine a weave. Plush was the word he'd put to it, and he was already calculating his profits. He already had a customer in mind, a man of wealth and power in military and secular service of Sunlord Vkandis. Baron Munn — who had led his own private, household troops against the Unbelievers, and as a consequence was high in the favor of the Son of the Sun. The Baron made no attempt to conceal his fondness for luxuries, and he was a good, if choosy, customer.

'It will be hard to find customers for so unusual a weave, but I can take all you have at ten coppers the bolt,' he said, expansively, with a condescending smile as if he were doing the rustics a favor.

But the village headman only shook his head sorrowfully. 'Oh, Trader Gencan, that giving a mood we're not in,' he said, just as condescendingly, and sighed. 'It's a been a hard year, that it has. We need so many things, so many things, or there'll be no wool for next year, for we'll have had to eat our goats to stay alive.' His voice hardened as he bent to the bargaining. 'Thirty coppers it'll have to be, or nothing at all.'

'What?' Gencan yelped, taken by surprise. Why — that was exactly what he'd expected to sell the stuff for! These mudfoots weren't nearly so green as they looked!

And neither was his former competitor, from whom he'd stolen — ah — acquired this trade route. Perhaps this was why he had not fought to retain it. There was nothing worse than a tradesman who knew the value of his goods!

He bent to the bargaining with a will, and sweated until he'd brought them down to something reasonable.

Something a man could make a decent profit on. Sixteen coppers a bolt was one copper more than he'd wanted to pay, but at least it allowed him a profit margin....

They had just settled on that price, when he happened to look out the window and froze in surprise at what he saw wandering by.

'Who is that?' he gasped, wondering if he had somehow stumbled on a creature like one of the fabled Hawkbrothers. The headman followed his gaze and smiled.

'Our lovely butterfly,' he said, with a smile of pure pleasure. 'That's our butterfly.'

'She's your daughter, then?' the trader replied, unable to take his eyes from the girl.

But the headman laughed. 'No. Oh, no, Trader. In a way, she belongs to the whole village.'

Now Gencan spared him a sharp glance. 'The village? What's that supposed to mean?'

But now the headman frowned, just a little. The girl drifted out of sight, and Gencan was able to gather his scattered wits about him again. 'It's a strange story, Trader,' the headman said at last. 'And not altogether a happy one.'

Gencan pursed his lips and nodded sagely. 'Well, then,' he replied. 'What say we drink to our bargain and you can tell me her story.' He signaled to his servant to bring in the wine. 'Nothing makes a bitter story more palatable than a good wine!'

He poured the headman a cup of the strong, smooth wine, then settled in to listen with as good a will as he'd bargained.

Leaving his caravan in the charge of his most trusted assistant, he rode out that very night, pushing hard for Karse. Eight days later he was kneeling, forehead to the floor, before Baron Munn. The cost of a private audience had been steep, but the results of this audience could make him wealthy beyond the income brought by any trade route. He would be able to retire and hire others to lead his caravans, while he directed them like a great lord with his retainers.