40th Yaris 2719
All along the outskirts of Vienda a litter of tents, covered wagons and fire pits rotated with the seasons, sometimes hugging the city walls, sometimes further out. The Sep kuatanos never stayed in one place for long, but Olyver had an uncanny talent for finding them, when they didn’t get to him first. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he passed two, big, wolfish-looking dogs without collars on them that only wasted a passing glance on him. A Tyat in his twenties with twinkling eyes and patchy hair looked up from a game of cards and waved him over.
“I had a funny feelin’ I’d be seeing you today, Olly-boy,” said Djika.
He’d never liked that name, but good luck trying to make a wick change their ways.
“Is Brennan around?” Olyver asked.
Everybody who was anybody knew Brennan the Broker, though his real name was some guttural wick garbage that Olyver had given up trying to pronounce. One of Djika’s companions looked up from his cards with a cutting smile. His flowing hair draped over his skeletal frame like a blanket and he’d put his boots up on a big, heavy chest that also served as their table.
“Straight to business, eh?”
“You could join us Olly,” Djika grinned. “It’s easy, everyone gets seven cards to start-”
Olyver shook his head. “Maybe later.” That’s short for never. There wasn’t any game in existence he could win against Djika or any of the Sep kuatanos until he could convince one of them to teach him their sleight of hand. Would probably have to get one of them stupidly drunk to make them spill their secrets. Maybe later.
“Your loss then.” Djika groaned, put his cards under the log he’d been sitting on and beckoned for Olyver to follow. Within a minute they’d made it passed four dogs, several armed lookouts and into a large, round tent decorated by a madman. Yet whoever bought the junk Brennan collected had to be at least twice as mad, unless one happened to be looking for a shriveled head in a jar, some fermented lentils, a pearlescent broche and a variety of embalming fluids. The stacks of books and cages and chests reached so high that the tent’s interior was practically a maze.
“Your tallyboy s’here,” Djika called into the tent. Some grunting and shuffling later, Brennan emerged, dressed in hideous fur coat that smelled of smoke and deceased moths, fingering a heavy golden chain around his neck. He squinted at Olyver, curled one ring-laden wrinkled finger and said in that deep, full voice of his:
“You’re not bringing more spitch, are ye?”
That was Olyver's cue to unload. First thing he put on the counter (which was really just the least disorganised stack of books) was a pocket snuff box, fashioned from shell. Unfortunately it was marked with the initials H.M and empty, but otherwise in good condition. Second was a handkerchief, unmarked and finely made. Not the most valuable, but an easy sell at least. He put down a few more small items he’d fished out of unsuspecting pockets and purses until he arrived at his best: three rings, two silver, one gold and encrusted with a gemstone.
Brennan’s wrinkled features deepened as he fashioned a magnifying glass from his coat’s inner pocket. “Where’d you get these, boch?”
“Found ‘em.”
The wick scoffed. “Found ‘em.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Like erse you found ‘em," Brennan countered. He only had eyes for the rings now, picking each up, holding them against the light and scanning them with his dusty magnifying glass.
“As if you care-”
“Some o’ these are hot, boch,” Brennan cut in. “Can’t imagine there’s many people called Camillia Humfrey what’s married- let’s see, in summer of ‘14?”
Olyver barely caught the golden ring as it was flicked back at him.
“I can get you three shills for the lot, and that’s generous.”
Brennan the Broker was many things, but generous wasn’t one of them.
“That’s basically theft! I might as well give it all away...”
Brennan snorted loudly. “That’s rich coming from you, you crafty little bastard, you can take the one shill or-”
“One?”
“You borrowed some last time, remember? Begged me to, said you’d pay me back, so here we are, unless you got more?"
Borrowing from Brennan had to be at least as dumb as buying from him, but he'd needed the coin and had proved himself a reliable enough asset to keep his word. Not that he needed much persuading, Brennan the Broker wasn't just called the Broker because he could strike a good deal. Olyver chewed on his lips. He needed five shills for the rent alone, and at least two more for foodstuffs and medicine for old Anny. “Guess I’ll find someone else,” he sighed after a few seconds, then stepped forward to recollect his haul.
Brennan arched an eyebrow at him, but the rest of his face remained taut. When Olyver had pocketed the last of the rings, the elder wick turned around, indifferent to the boy's plight.
“That went well,” Djika muttered as he led the way out.
“Shut up,” Olyver grumbled. It’d taken almost a full house to get here, only for him to be waved away in mere minutes. Who else could he sell to? Pyke might take the 'chief, but not the rings, and any goldsmith was far more likely to call the authorities on him. But no sooner than he’d set a foot outside, a familiar voice called after him. “Olly my boy, what’s the rush?” It was Brennan. Still in his fur coat, his wide, unnatural smile making him seem twice as insane.
“Djika, get this boch something warm to drink. We’ll talk some more inside, eh?” The old crook swung a heavy arm around Olyver’s shoulder and pulled him back inside. “I’ve got just the way you could make up the difference to me…listen close.”
The bells tolled the 30th hour when he got up from behind a crumbling wall, trudged through some bushes, and shook the stiffness from his limbs like a dog shaking the rain from its furs. The lights in Woven Delights had dimmed hours ago, but he’d waited until he was certain every last curtain in the lonely street had been drawn. Brennan had only explained the essentials to him: he was to go around the shop and go through a backdoor that he insisted would be open. Within a minute he'd reached an alleyway that led to a solid wood door hanging askew in its hinges.
OK. I can do this. In and out.
He unhooked a dimmed lantern from his belt, opened it ever so slightly and held it out before him. The handle gave way without a sound, but the old hinges let out an agonising squeak when he opened the door and slipped inside. The room was dark as a crypt and smaller then he'd expected the shop to be. It didn't take long for him to discover he hadn't made it to the main shop area just yet, another door stood between him and it.
Please be open...
This one's hinges were better maintained. The door opened with a sigh and revealed a room lined with various kinds of fabrics. He didn't linger to take in the sight, though he couldn't deny it smelled nice. Homely, in a way.
He adjusted the blinder on the lantern some more, lighting the way as he tip-toed deeper into the shop. When he'd reached the center he rummaged with a small flask on the other side of his belt, pulled the cork loose with his teeth and spilled its contents on the wooden floor.
Brennan the Broker tolerated no competition. The Dives were his spot to sell cheap fabrics, and Ms. Weaver was a threat to that business. She had to make way.
Olyver crouched, the phosphorus flame hung dangerously low over a puddle of spirits. He wondered who owned the shop, and if they'd get out in time…
Something flashed by at the edge of his vision. Startled, he made a sudden turn on his heels and dragged the lantern through the flammable liquids. With a whoosh the floor was set alight, but so was the thing that had darted past. Screeching and hissing a cat fled from the column of fire and smoke, a blur of bright red and orange on its tail. The animal was quick, but Olyver was quicker. He caught the cat with both arms, tackled it to the ground and extinguished its smouldering tail with a flurry of violent pats. The panicked animal clawed at his arm, bit at his fingers and drew blood.
"Aah!"
Olyver was up again. The fire had grown, the cat taken refuge behind the counter and the exit… Smoke filled his view. Where was the door?
