"Hah," Merrigan muttered. She would have been disappointed if they claimed to have designed clothes for royalty on this side of the ocean. The possibility of verifying their claims, even if it took moons for messengers to return, would give them a cachet of truth. Making claims about countries most of the people here had never heard of just proved they were liars. After all, no one should have believed her claims about sewing in Avylyn's and Carlion's courts. Look what had happened to the people who did.
The trick here was deciphering why the weaver and his wife were lying, and what they hoped to gain.
At long last, with great flourishes, the weavers flung open the shop doors. The curtains hiding the display windows fell. A long, loud sigh swept through the crowd waiting on the steps in front of the shop, and those in the first eight or ten rows, who could see into the windows. Gilda let out a little gasp and leaned into Aubrey. The young man stood utterly stone cold still.
The massive looms at the back of the shop were empty. The shelves that had once held large quantities of fine cloth—empty. The display tables in the front of the shop—empty. The counter where an ordinary cloth merchant or tailor would measure out and cut bolts of material—also empty. There was nothing else in the shop other than dust that swirled through the rays of light streaming through the windows.
The weavers hurried to the largest display table and moved with exaggerated care. For a moment, Merrigan could almost believe they were handling something delicate and draping. She could almost see the cloth between their fingers. Was it possible they had woven invisible cloth? Yet if they did, what good would it be? The cloth didn't turn anything invisible, because the table was certainly visible.
"Aren't these the most amazing colors you have ever seen? Isn't the shimmer amazing, unlike anything you have ever witnessed? See how the colors move as the cloth moves." The weaver went into raptures, describing the subtle shading from deep purple into lavender and then into rose, with streaks of amber here, the softest green of newly furled ferns there.
Merrigan crossed her arms inside her impervious cloak and shivered, hoping with all her might that whatever inimical magic might be at work in this place, the cloak would protect her. All the people who stood just a few steps away from the supposedly glorious cloth, the work of a lifetime, were silent. The ones behind Merrigan, however, whispered, hissing like the waves on hot sand, as one person after another repeated what the weaver said, passing his words to the people standing far back on the street.
"The most valuable characteristic of the cloth is that it ensures everyone in your employ, everyone entrusted with vital positions of responsibility and power, are absolutely worthy of their positions," the weaver said, stepping forward and bowing to Gilbrick and other well-dressed people standing inside the shop. "Never again will you fear that you have promoted someone too far above his station, or that those you entrust with vital missions will fail you. Only he who is worthy of his place, his duties, his rank, and his wealth can see this most miraculous cloth."
Merrigan choked back a shout of "Ah ha!" She held perfectly still, frozen in place by the sudden, overpowering stink of utter terror that exploded from everyone around her. She looked at those on either side of her as far as she could without turning her head. Every face paled, just enough to be noticeable. Every set of eyes widened. Sweat beaded several foreheads. More than a few people licked their lips, and glanced slightly to the right and left. Merrigan watched them as they stared at the empty table, the beaming weaver and his wife, the people around them, then back at the table. The weavers stepped back to the table and held up—seemingly—folds of the glorious cloth with the magical power of discerning worthiness.
"Astounding." Gilbrick's voice sounded like his throat was full of dust, while sweat darkened his hair and collar. "The value ... of such a miraculous ... such a work of art ... the value is incalculable. Don't you agree, Worton?" he said, turning to his senior manager.
"Sir." Worton swallowed hard and glanced sideways at the weaver and his wife. "Yes, sir. Beautiful beyond belief."
Merrigan wanted to shout they were all idiots, there was no cloth there.
Yet what if she was wrong, and all of them could see it?
As others around her chimed in after Worton and praised the beauty, the array of colors, the shimmer of the cloth, she wondered what they would do to her if she said there was no cloth there. For a moment, she slipped back to those cruel hours after Clara had cursed her, and brutes laughed in her face and said she was insane.
Sweat drenched her face, despite a chill that filled her marrow. She couldn't breathe. Carefully, moving slowly, bowing her head so she didn't look anyone in the eyes, she turned and slipped down the steps, through the crowd, and crept back to Gilbrick's grand house.
She curled up on the rug in front of the fire burning merrily in her guest room, wrapped a blanket around herself, and told Bib what had happened.
"What kind of magic is at work?" she said, ending on a sigh. "Is there something wrong with me, that I couldn't see the cloth? Or is everyone else wrong?"
"Just think for a minute, Mi'Lady. You are in a lowly but honest position. How could you ever be considered unworthy?" the book responded.
"True ..." Merrigan wrapped the blanket a
