taste, is it?” the fat man was saying. “You’ve never bought a single book of divination from me.”
“That’s because they’re all claptrap,” Aruendiel said.
“Not everyone’s of your mind, thank the gods. Most popular magical books I carry. What else? I have Ostr the Younger on strategy. No? Let’s see, there’s your own book on transformations—you wouldn’t be wanting a copy of that, I suppose.”
Aruendiel frowned briefly. “Burn it,” he said. “I knew nothing when I wrote it.”
The fat man shook his head. “You should do an updated edition. It still sells quickly enough, when I get hold of a copy. What else can I tempt you with? Well, I have some of Ierbe Norinun’s notebooks, that’s something you don’t see every day.”
Aruendiel inclined his head, and the fat man pulled himself upright to rummage on one of the bookshelves. His chair, Nora noticed, shrank to more normal dimensions as soon as he was out of it. After a minute, the shopkeeper turned back to Aruendiel with a half-dozen books bound in green cloth.
“How did you get your hands on them?” Aruendiel asked, opening a volume. “I thought that—what’s that wizard’s name?—Ruenc, Kelerus Ruenc had bought them all up years ago.”
“Oh, he did. But now—” The fat man clutched an imaginary glass and tilted the imaginary contents toward his mouth, then gave a sagacious nod.
“Ah,” said Aruendiel, still leafing through the notebooks. “Well, he’s not parting with the best stuff yet. This is very early, pure juvenilia.”
“Oh, your lordship should look more closely,” the fat man protested smoothly. “I’m no wizard—or magician—but there was another magician in the shop last week, could hardly tear himself away. Ice demons, he was interested in. And some unusual weather magic.”
“Who was it?” Aruendiel asked, sounding bored.
The fat man’s laughter took a few seconds to ripple through his huge body. “Your lordship knows I have to be discreet about my customers.”
“Obviously he didn’t buy them. You must be asking far more than they’re worth.”
“Ten gold beetles for the lot. Yes, it’s steep, but it’s a fair price for such a treasure, your lordship. I had to pay almost that much to the wizard Ruenc.”
“How much to have them copied?”
The fat man laughed again, even more heartily this time. “I never have original manuscripts copied, as your lordship well knows. If you buy them, you can be assured that no other magic-worker will have access to their secrets.”
“Unless they’ve already pawed through the notebooks themselves and set a copy imp to transcribe them.”
“I have a half-dozen protection spells on this shop to guard against it, all from different magicians. No offense, your lordship, but I’d challenge even you to steal words from my shop.”
“Be careful with your challenges, Gorinth,” said Aruendiel. “I might take you up on that boast. But assuming I want to pay for the goods I take, like an honest man—what if I work you another protection spell? That’s worth at least five gold beetles.”
“That would be kind of you, your lordship. But as I said, I already have six spells, so it’s hard to see how another protection spell would be worth so much to me.”
They went back and forth, with many throat-clearings on Aruendiel’s part and more laughter from the fat man, until finally it was agreed that the magician would pay eight gold beetles and work a protection spell in exchange for the notebooks and a three-volume history of the doomed republic of the Endueruvan wizards.
It took Aruendiel only a minute to do the spell. Nora could tell from the throb in her gut that he had not stinted on the magic, either. He was paying the shopkeeper the gold when the fat man said, “So is that the girl?”
“The girl?” Aruendiel said, frowning.
“The one that found the king’s chief magician locked away in a book.”
“Yes, that was me,” Nora said quickly.
“What were you doing looking in a book, miss?”
Nora shrugged. “I thought I might read it.”
The fat man laughed again, so hard that he had to sit down in his chair (which promptly extended its arms to embrace him). “That’s a good joke. I must say, it didn’t do me any good when that story got out. People got very nervous for a few days, wondering what might jump out at them if they opened a book.”
“I’ve actually read it once before,” Nora said.
The fat man was still chuckling as she and Aruendiel walked out of the shop.
“So you are famous,” Aruendiel said as they made their way through the marketplace. There was something waspish in his tone, as though he felt that she were stealing some of his glory for liberating Bouragonr.
You have no idea, she thought, remembering the gossip she’d overhead at the palace. Aloud she said, “Why did he think it was so funny that I might read the book? Because I’m a woman?”
Aruendiel’s only response was to make a disapproving sound at the back of his throat and to walk a little faster. When they came to a store that sold dry goods, he stopped and pulled a slip of paper from inside his tunic. “One more errand. For Mrs. Toristel.”
The interior of the shop was a cave made of bolts of cloth stacked, standing upright, or leaning aslant against the walls. Two thin, dark-haired women sat talking in the middle of the store, one knitting, one nursing a baby, their voices cushioned by the soft jumble around them.
“Four yards of black worsted, best quality,” Aruendiel read from the paper. “Five yards of gray, second-best quality. Six copper buttons.” The knitter put down her needles and slid off her stool to bring out the rolls of black and gray cloth.
As she was measuring, Aruendiel turned to Nora. “Pick out two lengths for yourself. You’ll need something heavier for winter.” Startled, she stared at him. He waved her toward the nearest pile of fabric. “I can’t have you taking any more of my housekeeper’s dresses,” he said.
Remarkable how a shop looked more inviting once you knew that you could actually buy something there. Nora prowled back and forth in front of the somber rainbow of fabric, trying to make out colors in the dim light, and finally picked out some thick, smooth-napped woolen cloth, one bolt rust red, one bolt sky blue.
The knitter measured out five yards of each color. “Six dozen and four silver beads for everything.”
Seventy-six, Nora thought, idly working the arithmetic in her head, as Aruendiel opened his money pouch and produced three gold pieces. They looked like thinner, cruder versions of Egyptian scarabs. As with scarabs, there was writing stamped onto the flat side.
The knitter dug through a box full of tiny, hollow silver cylinders with lettering on the sides, the same as the beads that Nora had seen Mrs. Toristel use in the village market.
“How many silver beads in a beetle?” Nora asked. Aruendiel looked at her with the sort of frown that implied she might be an idiot. “I just want to know how the money works here,” she said.
“Three dozen,” he said.
The knitter counted out twenty beads. Aruendiel pocketed them and motioned to Nora to pick up the bundle of cloth. Nora hesitated, running through some quick mental calculations. “She didn’t give you enough change,” she said.
Aruendiel frowned again, as though his earlier suspicion had been confirmed, and moved toward the door.
“Wait, she still owes you, um, a dozen beads.”
“Let us go, Mistress Nora.” He flung the words over his shoulder.
The knitter was scowling, too, beginning to bridle. “I’m sorry,” Nora said to her. “I think you just miscounted. You said it was six dozen and four silver beads?”
“Yes.”
“And he gave you three gold beetles. So that’s, let’s see”—one hundred and eight, she calculated—“nine dozen beads. You should have given him, um, two dozen beads plus eight.”
Before the knitter could respond, the other woman broke in. “She’s right, sister,” she said placidly, shifting the baby to her other breast. “Give them another dozen silver beads.”
