Priestess of the White

could be used to apply a shot of anesthetic to a precise location, and antiseptic straps of seaweed. She had added to this a few bags of ground firespice, which had grown in plentiful quantities around the lighthouse, and several potent herbs.

A few items of no medicinal but high monetary value had found their way into her bag. Most were aphrodisiacs. Generally these had no genuine physical effect, but most people became so excited by the thought they were indulging in a “cure” that stirred sexual desire that they mistook their excitement for the effect of the “cure.” Of course, these “cures” came either from some fierce creature, like the teeth of the giant garr she had found washed up on a deserted beach, or they looked like sexual organs, like the dried sea worms, fleshy phallic wemmin flowers and sea bell she’d found tangled in some floating weed. The latter she would consider selling only as a last resort. It was rare and valuable, and no shopkeeper was going to pay a passing traveller what it was truly worth. One day she might be in a better position to barter.

Noise and light drew her to her destination. Large awnings, each hung with lanterns, formed two tunnels along each side of a long street of shops. Musicians added a cheerful note to the voices of the thin crowd of shoppers. Some sellers bellowed out inviting descriptions of their wares. Others made bold promises of reasonable prices and fair deals.

Emerahl bought a loaf of bread, a stick of grilled ner - she was heartily tired of fish - some overpriced fruit and a cup of sweetened, fermented shem milk. As she continued along the street the smells of food were replaced by the acrid smell of smoking herbs and incense. Here she found what she was looking for.

The first shop of cures was large and busy. A counter stretched across the front of the store and jars of many sizes and shapes filled shelves along the back wall. She brought her bag to the counter and waited patiently to be noticed. The seller was a middle-aged bald man with sharp eyes. As soon as he finished selling a dubious cure for footrot to a young soldier, he turned to her.

“What can I help you with, young lady?”

She smiled at his attempt at flattery. “My poor arm aches,” she told him. “So I am hoping to sell some of my bag’s contents.”

His sharp eyes flashed with amusement. “Is that so? And you hope to sell them to me?”

“Yes.” She opened the bag and drew out the jar containing the sacs of yeryer venom. “Would you have a use for these? They’re fresh. I collected them no more than a week ago.”

As she opened the jar, his eyebrows rose. “A week, you say? Perhaps I could spare a few coin for them.” He eyed her bag, which was smelling somewhat fishy. “What else do you have?”

She drew out a few more items, then the bartering began. He was interrupted several times by a younger man, perhaps his son, who eventually disappeared into the back of the shop. Emerahl concentrated on her customer. He was selective, spending long moments in consideration, though she judged she was offering her goods at low prices. He did not meet her eyes, and she found herself wishing she had managed to keep up her skill at sensing emotions.

I’m going to have to regain it, she thought. It will make it easier to adapt to the changes in the language, too. I’d assumed the villagers strange way of speaking was a result of their low background, but it seems Toren speech has changed in general.

The seller had seen only half of the items in her bag now. Growing tired of this man’s slow manner, she decided to pretend this was all she had to sell, and asked for her money.

He slowly counted out coins from a purse, stopping midway when his assistant returned to have a whispered conversation.

“I’d like to get to my bed sometime soon,” Emerahl interrupted. She put her hand on top of the jars he’d agreed to buy and took a half-step back from the counter. “Aren’t my prices good enough for you?”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, lady, but my assistant has a rather delicate and urgent matter to attend to.” He returned to the counter and counted out the rest of the coins. She pushed the jars toward him, swept the coins into her bag and cut his long farewell short.

As she left the shop, she let out a sigh of irritation. Had he been hoping she’d lower her price just to get him to hurry up? Had she looked like she was in a hurry?

Puzzling over this, she wandered into a nearby liquor seller’s and bought a measure of spicewater. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she raised the glass to her lips and looked across the street to the cure-seller’s shop.

She nearly choked as she saw two priests step out of the door. The seller appeared and pointed toward the liquor shop. As the priests headed toward her Emerahl’s heart began to race.

They probably just want a drink, she told herself. But they were looking at everyone in the street. As an old woman passed them, they paused and stared at her intently. No, it’s not a drink they’re looking for.

Suddenly the seller’s behavior made sense: his evading her eyes, his delaying her. His assistant disappearing. The whispered conversation between them.

“... a rather delicate and urgent matter to attend to.”

The matter of an old woman selling cures? Had the shop owner been told to watch for her? I don’t know that for sure, she told herself. This could be a simple coincidence. The priests might be looking for someone else. The fact that she had just been driven from her home by one was making her suspect them all of seeking her.

Coincidence or not, I’m not waiting around to find out. Emerahl opened her bag, pulled out her oiled waterproof sea tawl and shrugged into it. Removing the shawl about her head, she replaced it with a broad-brimmed sailor hat, tucking her hair inside. Then she wrapped her bag in the shawl and put it under her arm.

The priests were only a few strides from the liquor seller’s now. She stepped out of the door, paused to make the sign of the circle with one hand in their direction, then moved away, walking with the rolling, unhurried gait of a sailor.

She waited for them to call out, but only the boasting of the sellers broke the general hubbub of the market. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the end of the street.

Once there, she quickened her pace a little and kept to the shadows.

Am I being pursued? If I am, how could the priests have guessed that I would come to the Porin night market to sell cures?

The answer was clear. If the priest at Corel had travelled up the coast he would have heard of the strange old woman selling cures who sailed alone in a boat. He would have recognized her and alerted priests in towns ahead by telepathy, telling them to watch for an old curer woman passing through. It was sheer luck that she hadn’t been confronted by another priest before now.

But why? These priests couldn’t possibly know who she really was.

Maybe the priest at Corel was curious to know who the cranky old sorceress was who had been living in a remote lighthouse for so long...

Oh. Her stomach sank. If he asked the villagers how long I’d been there, they might have told him generations. That would make him suspect I am immortal. Even if he doesn’t believe it, he’s probably obliged to check.

As she neared the docks, she slowed. Creeping closer, she searched her surroundings. In the distance she could just see her little boat tied up to the pier. Finding a darkened corner, she sat down and waited.

She did not have to wait long. As the dockmaster emerged from his shack she glimpsed the corner of a chair and the back of someone wearing something white with a blue edge.

Goodbye, little friend, she thought at the boat. I hope you find a good owner.

Then, with a pang of regret, she turned away and slipped into the shadows of the city.

The stranger had taken a seat at the back of the room and had spent the last two hours watching the other occupants of the drink shop. Roffin hadn’t liked the look of the man from the moment he had walked in. Too well groomed, he was. Trussed up in a big tawl. A foreigner, with an arrogance to his manner that suggested highborn ways. Roffin didn’t like the way the man watched everyone come and go.

“You lookin‘ at our mystery guest again?” Cemmo murmured.

Roffin turned to regard his companion. Cemmo was a wiry man, one of the youngest of the local fishermen.