the Vestrits, the Carrocks were one of the original Bingtown Trader families. It did nothing for her fears to see the other old families foundering as hungry young merchants moved into Bingtown, buying up old holdings and changing the ways things had always been done. They'd brought the slave-trade to Bingtown, at first as merchandise on their way to the Chalced States, but lately it seemed that the flow of slaves that passed through Bingtown surpassed every other trade. But the slaves didn't flow through anymore. More and more of the fields and orchards were being worked with slaves now. Oh, the landowners claimed they were indentured servants, but all knew that such “servants” were routinely sent on to Chalced and sold as slaves if they proved unwilling workers. More than a few of them wore slave tattoos on their faces. It was yet another Chalcedean custom that seemed to have gained popularity in Jamaillia and was now beginning to be accepted in Bingtown as well. It was these “New Traders,” Ronica thought bitterly. They might have come to Bingtown from Jamaillia City, but the baggage they brought with them seemed directly imported from Chalced.
Ostensibly, it was still against the law in Bingtown to keep slaves except as transient trade goods, but that did not seem to bother the New Traders. A few bribes at the Tax Docks, and the Satrap's treasury agents became very gullible, more than willing to believe that folk with tattooed faces and chained in coffles were indentured servants, not slaves at all. The slaves would have gained nothing by speaking the truth of their situation. The Old Traders' Council had complained in vain. Now even a few of the old families had begun to flout the slavery law. Traders like Davad Restart, she thought bitterly. She supposed Davad had to do as he did to stay afloat in these hard times. Had not he as much as said so to her last month, when she had been worrying aloud about her wheat fields? He'd all but suggested she cut her costs by working the fields with slaves. He'd even implied he could arrange it all for her, for a small slice of the profits. Ronica did not like to think of how sorely she'd been tempted to take that advice.
She was writing the last dreary entry into her account books when the rustic of Rache's skirts broke her attention. She lifted her eyes to the servant girl. Ronica was so weary of the mixture of anger and sorrow she always saw in Rache's face. It was as if the woman expected her to do something to mend her life for her. Couldn't she see that Ronica had all she could cope with between her dying husband and tottering finances? Ronica knew that Davad had meant well when he'd insisted on sending Rache over to help her, but sometimes she just wished the woman would disappear. There was no gracious way to be rid of her, however, and no matter how irritated Ronica became with her, she could never quite bring herself to send her back to Davad. Ephron had always disapproved of slavery. Ronica thought it was something that most slaves had brought on themselves, but somehow it seemed disrespectful to Ephron to condemn this woman to slavery when she had helped care for him as he was dying. No matter how poorly she had helped.
“Well?” she asked tardy of Rache when she just stood there.
“Davad is here to see you, lady,” Rache mumbled.
“Trader Restart, you mean?” Ronica corrected her.
Rache bobbed her head in silent acknowledgment. Ronica set her teeth, then gave it up. “I'll see him in the sitting room,” she instructed Rache, and then followed the girl's sullen eyes to where Davad already stood in the door.
As always he was immaculately groomed, and as always everything about his clothes was subtly wrong. His leggings bagged slightly at the knees, and the embroidered doublet he wore was laced just tightly enough that he had spoiled the lines of it: it made his modest belly seem a bulging pot. He had oiled his dark hair into ringlets, but most of the curl had fallen from them so it hung in greasy locks. Even if the curl had stayed, it was a style more suited to a much younger man.
Somewhere Ronica found the aplomb to smile back at him as she set down her pen and shut her account book. She hoped the ink was dry. She started to rise, but Davad motioned her to stay as she was. Another small gesture from him sent Rache scurrying from the room as Davad advanced to Ephron's bedside.
“How is he?” Davad asked, softening his deep voice.
“As you see,” Ronica replied quietly. She set aside her irritation at his calm assumption of welcome in her husband's sickroom. She also put aside her embarrassment that he had caught her at her totting up, with ink on the side of her hand and her brow wrinkled from staring at her own finely penned numbers. Davad meant well, she was sure. How he had managed to grow up in one of Bingtown's old Trader families and still have such a hazy idea of good manners, she would never know. Without invitation, he drew up a chair to sit on the other side of Ephron's bed. Ronica winced as he dragged it across the floor, but Ephron did not stir. When the portly Trader was settled, he gestured at her accounting books.
“And how do they go?” he asked familiarly.
“No better nor worse than any other Trader's these days, I am sure.” She evaded his prying. “War, blight and pirates trouble all of us. All we can do is to persevere and wait for better days. And how are you today, Davad?” She tried to recall him to his manners.
He put a splay-fingered hand on his belly meaningfully. “I have been better. I have just come from Fullerjon's table; his cook has an abominable hand with the spices, and Fullerjon has not the tongue to tell it.” He leaned back in his chair and heaved a martyred sigh. “But one must be polite, and eat what is offered, I suppose.”
Ronica stifled her irritation. She gestured toward the door. “We could take our conversation to the terrace. A glass of buttermilk might help to settle your indigestion as well.” She made as if to rise, but Davad did not budge.
“No, no, thank you all the same. I've but come on a brief errand. A glass of wine would be welcome, however. You and Ephron always did keep the best cellars in town.”
“I do not wish Ephron disturbed,” she said bluntly.
“Oh, I'll take care to speak softly. Though, to be frank, I would rather bring this offer to him than to his wife. Do you expect him to wake soon?”
“No.” Ronica heard the edge in her voice, and coughed slightly, as if it had been the result of a dry throat. “But if you wish to tell me the terms of whatever offer you bring, I shall present it to Ephron as soon as he awakens.” She pretended to have forgotten his request for wine. It was petty, but she had learned to take her small satisfactions where she could.
“Certainly, certainly. All Bingtown knows you hold his purse-strings. And his trust, I might add, of course.” He nodded jovially at her as if this were a high compliment.
“The offer?” Ronica pushed.
“From Fullerjon, of course. I believe it was his sole purpose in inviting me to share his table this noon, if you can credit that. The little upstart seems to think I have nothing better to do than act as his go-between with the better families in town. Did I not think that you and Ephron could benefit from his offer just now, I'd have told him as much. As things stand, I did not want to alienate him, you understand. He's no more than a greedy little merchant, but…” He shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “One can scarce do business in Bingtown these days without them.”
“And his offer was?” Ronica prompted.
“Ah yes. Your bottom lands. He wishes to buy them.” He espied the platter of small biscuits and fruits that she kept at Ephron's bedside and helped himself to a biscuit.
Ronica was shocked. “Those are part of the original grant lands of the Vestrit family. Satrap Esclepius himself granted those lands.”
“Ah, well, you and I know the significance of such things, but newcomers such as Fullerjon…” Davad began placatingly.
“Also understand. The granting of those lands was what made the Vestrit family a Trader family. They were part of the Satrap's agreement with the Traders. Two hundred leffers of good land, to any family willing to go north and settle on the Cursed Shores, to brave the dangers of life near Rain Wild River. There were few enough willing to in those days. All know that strangeness flows down the Rain Wild River as swiftly as the waters. Those bottom lands and a share in the monopoly on the trade goods of the Rain Wild River are what make the Vestrits a Trader family. Can you seriously think any Trader family would sell off their grant lands?” She was angry now.
“You needn't give me a history lesson, Ronica Vestrit.” Davad rebuked her mildly. He helped himself to another biscuit. “Need I remind you that my family came here in the same expedition? The Restarts are as much Traders as the Vestrits. I know what those lands mean.”
“Then how can you even bring such an offer here?” she demanded hotly.
“Because half of Bingtown knows how desperate things have become for you. Look here, woman. You
