I grinned back at him. “Let’s just say I’ll be glad to be on my own feet again. He’s good for another ten miles I’d guess. But I can’t say the same for myself.”
The tinker looked over the horse again and gave a gusty sigh. “Well, as I said, you’ve got me over a bit of a barrel. How much do you want for him?”
“Well,” I said. “Keth-Selhan here’s a full-blood Khershaen, and his color is lovely, you have to admit. Not a patch on him but isn’t black. Not a white whisker—”
The tinker burst out laughing. “I take it back,” he said. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I said a little stiffly
The tinker gave me an odd look. “Not a white whisker, no.” He nodded past me toward Selhan’s hindquarters. “But if he’s all black then I’m Oren Velciter.”
I turned to look and saw that Keth-Selhan’s left hind foot had a distinct white sock that went halfway up to his hock. Stupefied, I walked back and bent down to look. It wasn’t a clean white, more of a washed-out grey. I could smell the faint odor of the stream we had splashed through on the last leg of our journey: solvents.
“That shim bastard,” I said incredulously. “He sold me a dyed horse.”
“Didn’t the name tip you off?” the tinker chuckled. “
“His name means twilight,” I said.
The tinker shook his head, “Your Siaru is rusty.
I thought back to the horse-trader’s reaction when I’d picked the name. No wonder the fellow had seemed so disconcerted. No wonder he had dropped the price so quickly and easily. He thought I knew his little secret.
The tinker laughed at my expression and clapped me on the back. “Don’t sweat it, lad. It happens to the best of us from time to time,” he turned away and began to rummage through his bundles. “I think I have something you’ll like. Let me offer you a trade.” He turned around and held out something black and gnarled like a piece of driftwood.
I took it from him and looked it over. It was heavy and cold to the touch. “A lump of slag iron?” I asked. “Are you out of magic beans?”
The tinker held out a pin in his other hand. He held it about a handspan away then let go. Instead of falling, the pin snapped to the side and clung to the smooth blob of black iron.
I drew in an appreciative breath. “A loden-stone? I’ve never seen one of these.”
“Technically, it’s a Trebon-stone,” he said matter-of-factly “As it’s never been near Loden, but you’re near enough. There’s all manner of people who would be interested in that beauty down Imre-way ...”
I nodded absently as I turned it over in my hands. I’d always wanted to see a drawstone, ever since I was a child. I pulled the pin away, feeling the strange attraction it had to smooth black metal. I marveled. A piece of star-iron in my hand. “How much do you figure it’s worth?” I asked.
The tinker sucked his teeth a little. “Well I’m figuring right here and now it’s worth just about one full- blooded Khershaen pack mule....”
I turned it over in my hand, pulled the pin away and let it snap back again. “Trouble is tinker, I put myself into debt with a dangerous woman in order to buy this horse. If I don’t sell it well, I’m going to be in a desperate way.”
He nodded. “Piece of sky-iron of that size, if you take less than eighteen talents you’re cutting a hole in your own purse. Jewelers will buy it, or rich folk who want it for the novelty.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But if you head to the University you’ll do better. Artificers have a great love for loden-stone. Alchemists too. If you find one in the right mood you’ll get more.”
It was a good deal. Manet had taught me loden-stone was quite valuable and difficult to come by. Not only for its galvanic properties, but because pieces of sky-iron like this often had rare metals mingled with the iron. I held out my hand. “I’m willing to make it a deal.”
We shook hands solemnly, then just as the tinker began to reach for the reins, I asked, “And what will you give me for his tack and saddle?”
I was a little worried that the tinker might take offense at my wheedling, but instead he smiled a sly smile. “That’s a clever lad,” he chuckled. “I like a fellow who’s not afraid to push for a little extra. What would you like then? I’ve got a lovely woolen blanket here. Or some nice rope?” He pulled a coil of it out of the donkey’s packs. “Always good to have a piece of rope with you. Oh, how about this?” He turned around with a bottle in his hands and winked at me. “I’ve got some lovely Avennish fruit wine. I’ll give you all three for your horse’s gear.”
“I could use a spare blanket,” I admitted. Then a thought occurred to me. “Do you have any clothes near my size? I seem to be going through a lot of shirts lately.”
The old man paused, holding the rope and bottle of wine, then shrugged and began to dig around in his packs.
“Have you heard anything about a wedding around these parts?” I asked. Tinkers always have their ears to the ground.
“The Mauthen wedding?” He tied off one pack and began to dig through another. “I hate to tell you but you missed it. Happened yesterday.”
My stomach clenched at his casual tone. If there had been a massacre the tinker would certainly have heard. I suddenly had the horrible thought that I’d put myself in debt and run halfway to the mountains on a goose chase. “Were you there? Did anything odd happen?”
“Here we are!” The tinker turned around holding up a shirt of plain grey homespun. “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but it’s new. Well, newish.” He held it up to my chest to judge the fit.
“The wedding?” I prompted.
“What? Oh no. I wasn’t there. Bit of an event though, from what I understand. Mauthen’s only daughter and they were sending her off proper. Been planning it for months.”
“So you didn’t hear of anything odd happening?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my gut.
He shrugged helplessly “Like I said, I wasn’t there. I’ve been up around the ironworks the last couple days,” he nodded to the west. “Trading with panners and folk up in the high rock.” He tapped the side of his head as if he’d just remembered something. “That reminds me, I found a brassie up in the hills.” He rummaged in his packs again and brought out a flat, thick bottle. “If you don’t care for wine, maybe something a little stronger ... ?”
I started to shake my head, then realized that some homemade brand would be useful cleaning my side tonight. “I might be....” I said. “Depending on the offer on the table.”
“Honest young gent like yourself,” he said grandly “I’ll give you blanket, both bottles, and the coil of rope.”
“You’re generous, tinker. But I’d rather have the shirt than the rope and the fruit wine. They’d just be dead weight in my bag and I’ve got a lot of walking ahead of me.”
His expression soured a little, but he shrugged. “Your call, of course. Blanket, shirt, brand, and three jots.”
We shook hands, and I took time to help him load Keth-Selhan because I had the vague feeling that I’d insulted him by turning down his previous offer. Ten minutes later he was heading east, and I made my way north over the green hills into Trebon.
I was glad to walk the last half-mile under my own power as it helped me work the stiffness from my legs and back. As I crested the hill, I saw Trebon sprawling out below, tucked into a low bowl made by the hills. It wasn’t a large town by any means, perhaps a hundred buildings sprawling around a dozen winding, packed-dirt streets.
In the early days with the troupe, I’d learned how to size up a town. It’s a lot like reading your audience when you’re playing in a tavern. The stakes are higher of course, play the wrong song in a tavern and people might hiss you, but misjudge an entire town and things can get uglier than that.
So I sized up Trebon. It was off the beaten path, halfway between a mining town and a farming town. They weren’t likely to be instantly suspicious of strangers, but it was small enough that everyone knew by looking at you that you weren’t one of the locals.
I was surprised to see people setting up straw-stuffed shamble-men outside their homes. That meant that despite the proximity to Imre and the University, Trebon was truly a backwater community. Every town has a
