He took the groceries and hurried home through the rain. When he got back, he found his father arguing with an Algarvian military mage. He took the beans and olives and chickpeas up to his mother, then went back down to see if his father needed any help. The mage was gesturing violently. “No, no, no!” he exclaimed in excellent, excitable Jelgavan. “That is not what I said!”
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Traku said stubbornly.
“What’s going on?” Talsu asked. His father seldom got that worked up when talking with an Algarvian. For one thing, Traku didn’t think it was worth the effort most of the time. For another, arguing with redheads was dangerous.
Bowing, the Algarvian military mage turned to Talsu. “Perhaps you, sir, can explain to your . . . father, is it? ... that I am not saying he ought to do anything that would in any way violate his conscience. I only suggested--”
“Suggested?” Traku broke in. “Powers above, this fellow says I don’t know how to run my own business, when I’ve been at it as long as he’s been alive.” That was an exaggeration, but not by much; the mage was somewhere in his thirties, about halfway between Traku and Talsu.
“I was seeking to buy a new tunic,” the Algarvian told Talsu with dignity, “and I discovered the handwork your father proposed to put into it, and I was appalled--appalled!” He made as if to tear his hair to show how appalled he was.
Stiffly, Traku said, “That’s what makes fine tailoring, by the powers above: handwork. You want ready-to-wear, you can get that, too, and it’s just as ready to fall apart before very long. No, thank you. Not for me.”
“Handwork, aye,” the mage said. “But needless handwork? No, no, and no! I know you are a Kaunian, but must you work as folk did in the days of the Kaunian Empire? I will show you this is
Traku stuck out his chin and looked stubborn. “How?”
“Have you got a tunic--of any style--cut out and ready to be sewn and spelled together?” the Algarvian asked. “If I ruin it, two gold pieces to you.” He took them out of his belt pouch and dropped them on the counter. They rang sweetly.
Talsu’s eyes widened. He’d seen Algarvian arrogance before, but this went further than most. “Take him up on it, Father,” he said. “You’ve got a couple of tunics under the counter.”
“So I do,” Traku said grimly. He took out the pieces for one and glared at the mage. “Now what?”
“Sew me a thumb’s width of your finest seam, anywhere on the garment,” the redhead told him. “Then lay out thread along all the seams, as you would before you use your own spells.”
“That’s not near enough handwork,” Traku warned, but he did it.
The Algarvian praised his work, which made him no happier. Then the mage murmured his own spell. It had rhythms not far removed from those Jelgavan tailoring sorcery used, but quicker and more urgent. The thread writhed as if alive--and the tunic was done. “Examine it,” the mage said. “Test it. Do as you will with it. Is it not as fine as any other?”
Traku did examine it. Talsu crowded up beside him to do the same. He held the seams close to his face to look at the work. He tugged at them. The mage was scribbling something on a scrap of paper. Reluctandy, Talsu turned to his father. “I don’t quite know how it’ll wear, but that’s awfully good-looking work.”
“Aye.” The word came out of Traku’s mouth with even greater reluctance. His eyes were on those gold pieces, the ones he couldn’t claim.
Even as he eyed them, the mage scooped them up again. He set down the paper instead. “Here is the spell, sir. It is in common use in Algarve. If that is not so here, you will have more profit from it than these two coins, far more. A pleasant day to you--and to you, young sir.” He bowed to Talsu, then swept out of the shop.
Traku snatched up the spell and stared at it. Then he stared out the door, though the Algarvian was long gone. “No wonder they won the war,” he muttered.
“Oh, they’re always coming up with something new,” Talsu said. “But they’re still Algarvians, so a lot of the new is nasty, too. It’ll bite ‘em in the end, you wait and see.”
“I hope so,” his father said. “It’s already bitten us.”
After so long away, after so long at the leading edge of the war, where its teeth bit down on land previously peaceful, Sabrino found Trapani curiously unreal, almost as if it were a mage’s illusion. Seeing people going about their business without a care in the world felt strange, unnatural. His eyes kept going to the cloudy sky, watching out for Unkerlanter dragons that would not come.
