small independent moneylenders-small fish compared to the leviathan of the Medean bank-set up their green felt boards and beam balances. Travelers and sailors came up from the docks to admire the chaos. Merchants called out their wares: bread and fish and meat, cloth and spice and spiritual guidance and never two days in the same configuration.
Every morning before the first light of dawn, merchants lined up at great kiosks waiting for the queensmen to arrive, escorting ornate iron chests from the governor’s palace. Each merchant paid a fee and drew a ticket from the chest saying which of the thousands of alcoves and intersections would be theirs for the day. No moneylender, butcher, baker, or farmer could rely on making his fortune by holding a particular space. Or so it would be if the system weren’t rigged. Cithrin had only been twice, but she doubted anything so carefully designed to give the appearance of fairness could keep from corruption.
She bought herself a burlap pocket of fire-warmed raisins and honey nuts, preparing herself for the search, but it wasn’t long before she found the dressmaker she’d been hoping for, and only five alcoves from where she’d seen him last. The proprietor was a full-blood Cinnae man, thin and tall and pale, with rings on every finger and teeth that looked as if they’d been filed sharp. He had five tables arranged in a half circle with a sixth in the middle with his best wares on display. Cithrin paused, looking up at three dresses as if she were only passing time. The Cinnae stood at the side, shouting at a Firstblood woman who had her arms crossed and her face set in an almost godlike scowl. A crate lay between them, the pale wood soaked dark.
“Look! Look what the water’s done to the dye!” the merchant said.
“I didn’t drop them off the boat,” the woman said.
“Neither did I.”
“You signed papers for ten dresses. Here’s ten dresses.”
“I signed for ten dresses I could sell!”
Cithrin stepped closer. From what she could see, the dresses were simply cut. The seawater had run the dyes, yellow into blue into pale pink, and stippled all with spots of white like a handful of scattered sand. The Cinnae shot a look at her, annoyance narrowing his eyes.
“You need something?”
“A dress,” Cithrin said around a mouthful of raisins. The merchant looked at her skeptically. Cithrin took her purse from her pocket and opened it. The silver caught the sunlight, and the merchant shrugged.
“Let me show you what we have,” he said, turning away from the still-fuming Firstblood woman. From the center table, he took the first dress. Blue and white with embroidered sleeves, it seemed to breathe lavender petals. The merchant smoothed the cloth.
“This is our finest piece,” he said. “Expensive, yes, but worth every coin. For a hundred and twenty silver, you won’t find a better garment anywhere in the market. And that includes recutting it for your frame, of course.”
Cithrin shook her head.
“That’s not the one you sell,” she said.
The merchant, replacing the dress on its stand, paused. Her phrase had struck him.
“You don’t sell that one,” Cithrin repeated. “It’s not there to be sold. It’s to make the next one seem reasonable. You offer the rose-colored one next? If you’re starting at a hundred and twenty, you’ll price it at… What? Eighty?”
“Eighty-five,” the Cinnae said sourly.
“Which is too much,” Cithrin said. “But I’ll give you forty-five. That covers your cost and gives you a little profit.”
“Forty- five?”
“It’s a fair price,” Cithrin said, taking another handful of raisins.
The merchant’s jaw hung open an inch. The Firstblood woman beside the crate chuckled. Cithrin felt a sudden warmth in her belly, a release like the first drink of strong wine. She smiled, and for the first time in days, it came easily.
“If you give it to me for forty,” Cithrin said, nodding at the ruined dresses, “I’ll help you turn a profit on those.”
The merchant stepped back, his arms crossed in front of him. Cithrin feared she’d overplayed him until he spoke.
“How would you propose that?” he said. His words had a touch of amusement.
“Forty,” she said.
“Convince me.”
Cithrin walked back to the crate and rifled through the dresses. They were all the same design. Cheap cloth with tin hooks and thread eyes, a bit of embroidery at the sleeve and collar.
“Where do you see the fewest goods from?” she asked. “Hallskar?”
“We don’t see much from there,” the merchant agreed.
“So switch out these hooks for silver,” Cithrin said. “And put glass beads here at the collars. Three or four, but bright. Something to catch the eye.”
“Why would I waste good silver and beads on trash like this?”
“You wouldn’t,” Cithrin said. “That’s the point. If they have silver and beads, they must not be trash. Call them… I don’t know. Hallskari salt dyes. New process, very rare. No other dresses like them in the Grand Market. Start them at two hundred silver, drop down to one hundred thirty.”
“Why would anyone agree to pay that?”
“Why wouldn’t they? When it’s a new thing, no one knows its fair price. If nobody knows better, you can do anything.”
The merchant shook his head, but it wasn’t refusal. The Firstblood woman’s eyebrows crawled toward her hairline. Cithrin dug out a honeyed nut. The roar and echo of voices around them was as good as silence. Cithrin waited for the space of four breaths as the merchant wrestled in his mind.
“If only one person in the whole Grand Market believed it,” Cithrin said, “you’d cover the cost of all ten dresses. Hooks, beads, and everything. If two people did…”
The merchant was quiet for two breaths more.
“You know entirely too much about dresses,” he said.
I don’t know anything about dresses, she thought. The merchant barked out a laugh. He reached for the rose dress and tossed it at Cithrin in mock disgust.
“Forty,” he said to her, then turned to the Firstblood woman. “Do you see this? Look at this face. That is a truly dangerous woman.”
“I believe you,” the Firstblood said as Cithrin, grinning, counted out coins.
An hour later, she was walking down the half-open ways of the Grand Market, her dress folded in a tight, rose-colored bundle under one arm, and the world around her a bright, benign place. The dress would need altering to make it fit her body, but that was a minor point. More than any object she’d gained, she enjoyed the idea of being a truly dangerous woman.
The sun had only just begun its slide into the west. Cithrin took herself toward the public baths, thinking of an hour’s time in warm water and steam. Maybe even a few coins spent on a balm to drive away the fleas and lice that travel and her new, tiny rooms had given her. The baths sat at the northern edge of a wide public square. Pillars rose into the air, tall as trees, though whatever shelter they’d supported had been gone long enough that the rain had worn channels in the supports. Patches of brown, winter-killed grass lay like carpets in the open spaces, and twig-fingered bushes caught dead leaves and scraps of cloth. Cithrin walked past a cart selling hot soup and a weedy Kurtadam with a pair of marionettes dancing at his feet beside a beggar’s bowl with a few bronze coins. Across the square, a troupe of players had changed their cart to a stage, edging out a pair of disgruntled puppeteers. Pigeons wheeled overhead. A group of Cinnae women walked together, pale and thin and lovely, their dresses flowing around their bodies like seaweed in the tide, and their voices all accents and music. Cithrin wanted to watch them, but without being seen. She’d never known a full-blooded Cinnae well. And yet her mother had been one, would have looked in place as part of just such a group.
The women turned up the wide steps that led to the baths, and Cithrin had started to follow when a familiar voice caught her up short.
“Stop!”
She turned.
