“Gamelords,” Peter hissed. “I thought that family done with. Is there no end to them?” He began to enumerate them, coldly ticking them off with his fingers. There was Huld’s father, Blourbast the Ghoul. Huld killed Blourbast, and Mavin saw him do it. Then Mavin herself killed Pantiquod the Harpy, Huld’s mother, and that other harpy, Foulitter, Huld’s half sister. All that was long ago, before I was even born. Then I came along to fall victim to Huld’s son-thalan, Mandor. He died by his own act, though Huld held me at least partly responsible. I thought all were gone but Huld, and him we did away with on the Wastes of Bleer. That should have been an end to it! Now we hear there’s another one yet alive? That Huld had a twin?”
“That and worse,” I said from the doorway. “You also did away with King Prionde on the Wastes of Bleer. But he had a sister-wife, Valearn. Their son, Valdon, was killed by the Faces some eighteen or nineteen years ago, so Mavin told me, though it is unlikely they ever knew Mavin’s part in that...”
“My mother seems to have confided greatly in you both,” said Peter, not altogether pleasantly.
“Peter, before we began this journey, you may recall that you and I and Mavin and Himaggery and a great mob of people all traveled together to Hell’s Maw, a trip of some days’ duration, during which time I got to know her rather well. She told me her life’s story, as she would have been glad to tell you if you’d ever taken time to sit down and listen. I continue: Out of grief, it is said, Valearn turned Ogress and feasted upon the children of our region. Those of us from the lands around the Stonywater in the south were warned to fear her more than her late husband, the King. And now these two are allies with the Duke of Betand? I heard of these dangerous alliances in Xammer!” (Actually, I had heard of them at the Citadel of the Wize-ards, but that was no one’s business but mine.) “Now, what is going on here? What is the reason for these alliances?”
Brom was looking from one to another of us, his worried face growing more haggard with each word he heard us say. “It would be more likely for the Cloth Merchants’ Council to award you ten thousand bonus points than for me to know anything about that, lady. Do you think the Dream Merchant consults me? Do you think he asks a Merchant’s man, “May I take an ally?” He sends us crystals to sell, and sometimes he summons us up to Fangel for some do or other, and that’s all I know about the monsters you’re talking of. And I’m supposed to go be part of a welcoming deputation!” He sobbed. “I would as soon walk into a gnarlibar’s jaws.”
“Ah, well,” I said comfortingly. “It is the Merchant’s man who is to go, is it not?”
“I. Me. The Merchant’s man, yes.”
“And on the festival of Finaggy-Bum, tomorrow, the arbiters of Bloome will select their Merchant’s man?”
“From among the least stylish, yes. But you have found me out. You were not naifs at all. My chances of laying the job off on one of you are next to nothing.” So saying, he burst into angry tears, letting them flow down his face and into his beard without bothering to wipe at them at all. The truth tea had this effect of truth telling even upon emotions. Chance patted the fellow on the shoulder, commiserating, while Queynt tried to hide his smile.
“I think we may assure your stylishness tomorrow,” I told him. “And one of us will wear your old clothes, friend Brom, thus guaranteeing that it will be one of us who goes to Fangel as Merchant’s man of Bloome.” Of course, which one of us it would be was another matter.
“One of us, then,” I said to the troupe. “Whoever wishes to act the part?”
“I,” said Queynt. “Peter and Chance may be known to Huldra or Valearn. You traveled in the High Demesne, didn’t you, my boy? Some three or fours years ago?”
“We did, yes. But I never saw Prionde’s wife. Chance, did you?”
“I didn’t see any such lady. Oh, there was talk of a wife hiding somewhere in a tower, but I never saw her.”
“Still, she may have seen you. You, Jinian, will be needed for something else. Therefore, it must be me.” Queynt smiled again, posturing. “I will make a very good Merchant’s man.”
“We are not too different in size,” said Brom. “The old things would fit you. But... but no matter what we do, it may be the Cloth Merchants’ Council will still hold me to the position. They’ve said I’m not bad at the job. Or maybe they just hate me. Oh, it may be hopeless!”
“We will see to that,” I promised him. “Do they meet at any given time and place?”
“They will meet tonight,” he answered. “In the loft of the weaving mill.” He turned away, his face working, murmuring as he went, “Think of it. Riding out of Bloome. Titty-tup, titty-tup, along Tan-tivvy Boulevard. Not to Fangel. No. West, I think. Or even south. Tittytup, titty-tup.” He went down the corridor, galloping as though he had a hobby between his legs, lashing one thigh with an imaginary whip.
“Mad,” said Queynt almost affectionately. “Quite mad.”
The great mill of Bloome crouched upon the eastern edge of the city, a heaped monstrosity, glaring banefully through a hundred eyes, growling and munching as it ate the provender brought by the citizens, spewing out its cloth in endless lengths to be rolled into bolts and carried away. Day and night those who were not involved in the festivals of Bloome were involved in feeding the mighty machine or carrying its excreta away.
Just now all the shoulder-high slots
