There are no other customers in the shop, so the proprietor comes out to greet me, assuming I am one. I see him approach out of the corner of my eye as I peer through the racks into the street beyond.
He stops for a moment when he sees me, perhaps deciding what to make of me. Unlike most shop owners, however, he greets me heartily even after seeing me and making his judgments.
“Dear, dear customer!” he warbles in a high-pitched voice.
Perhaps I am wrong about this being the proprietor and it is merely his son or apprentice instead. I venture a look. He is in his forties, with peppered grey hair, a cherubic face, and a body whose fleshy softness is not camouflaged by his well-structured robes.
“How may I help you, sir? Looking for anything in particular today?”
His antics are distracting me and I have a hard time concentrating on the street traffic. Stepping back out would give me away, were anyone following, so I decide it’s better to keep up the ruse.
“Have you any Varish silks?” I ask, already knowing he’s likely to not. My homeland’s silks are the treasure of our deserts and are considered a luxury outside of the Varashti Empire. I haven’t been able to find them very often, and certainly not in my price range.
“Ah!” he remarks, “one of exquisite taste, you are! I do indeed carry a treasure from the east.”
He does? This isn’t even the good side of town.
“Come inside to where I keep my finer cloths.” He heads back toward the building.
My curiosity is piqued as to whether he has actually got authentic Varish silk or not, but I came to kill a man, not look at thread counts. If I want to keep my vantage point, I’ll need to find a way to stay put.
“In a moment,” I say. “Tell me. Why would you not have already sold such a prize to the clothiers in the noble’s district?”
“I see you are a shrewd shopper. And that is a fair question,” he turns and takes a few steps back toward me as he answers.
I step forward to have a better view of the street, but turn toward the mercer and watch the street in my peripheral vision. To a passer by, it should appear that I am talking to the mercer. To the mercer, he should think I am looking at him and his shop.
He continues, “I loathe to think what those hacks would do to such a delicate and fine material, the likes of which they will have undoubtedly never seen! Imagine if they chopped through it with their knives like they do their cottons, or beat them as they do their wools?!” His chirping voice rises even higher, seemingly aghast at the very thought.
A man strides through my peripheral vision and stops before the door of the bar. I glance over without turning my head and see him look around before going in. He must not have looked very hard because he doesn’t appear to notice me. The man is portly, with knee length trousers, a loose-fitting farmer’s shirt, and short, black hair.
Curses. I don’t want to go inside the mercer’s shop even more now. If that is the guy, there’s no telling how long the exchange will take. I need to be ready to follow him at a moment’s notice. However, I also don’t want to appear to be waiting for him when he comes out. I come up with a plan—the best I can think of in this impromptu stake out.
“Verish silks are best viewed in natural light,” I tell the mercer. “Bring it out here so I can see it.”
“Say, fellow, where do you hail from? You’ve got quite a particular…quality about you. Are you from the east, perhaps?” The mercer heads back toward his shop but continues to make chit-chat.
Usually no one asks about me or where I am from, and it takes just a moment to register. Is there any reason to hide my origin? I process the scenario quickly and decide there isn’t.
“Varasht,” I say to him as he steps through the threshold of his shop.
He turns and gives me an apprising look, but doesn’t say anything except for, “Hmm!” in an amused tone.
Well, usually people are intimidated by me, but the odd ones seem to find me a novelty. I suppose it’s safe to assume into which category this mercer falls.
I take a few steps to try to get an angle that allows me to see inside the cutout frame that acts as a window for the bar. The frame bears no glass. A simple shutter is propped up above the opening to act as either canopy or cover, depending on its position.
From my new vantage point I can see patrons inside. I see Rakatha and the dark-haired man talking at a table. It’s hard to see through the glare of the sun and shadow of the interior, but the man is maybe in his thirties and has some kind of blemish across much of his face, though I can’t see clearly enough to tell what. It might be anything from scars to a sunburn.
The mercer comes back, whistling to himself, carrying a bolt of deep indigo. He walks over to a patch of sun and bids me to come over. He holds the cloth at an angle for me to inspect.
I reach out a hand to feel the cloth and the material is like liquid, smooth and supple. I roll the silk between my fingers and feel for the weave pattern. It slides easily against itself when moved diagonally, but catches ever so slightly on itself when moving vertically.
Bending at the waist, I peer at the weave—after checking that the dark-haired man is not yet leaving—and can see that the thread count is quite high. Whether it is authentic or not, the quality of the fabric cannot be denied.
The properties of the desert plant that Verish silk is made of, along with its fine weave, impart a water resistance to the fabric. Sometimes this property is counterfeited through waxing the imitation fibers, but there are two easy tests to tell for certain.
I reach for my waterskin and empty a small amount into my cupped hand. Dipping a finger in from my other hand, I let a few droplets fall onto the fabric. The mercer is clearly not certain what I am up to, but doesn’t pull the fabric away.
The droplets bounce onto the surface of the fabric and bead into perfect orbs.
The mercer senses that it passed my test and says, “You see? Among the finest materials in the known world!”
I keep looking for movement at the bar’s door, but nothing yet. I reach into my component pouch and produce the small pair of scissors I keep for herb trimming. I grab a the end corner of the fabric and place the scissors to cut a sliver from the bolt.
“May I?” I ask the man, whose pleasant demeanor seems strained at this.
He laughs nervously, like a warbling bird, and asks, “What are you doing?”
“Testing for authenticity.”
He laughs again, that trill sound grating on my ears.
“I assure you, it’s authentic!” he sounds defensive, but still polite. “I had it shipped from Malscheme in Dromatica. The trader who runs the route, I’ve known for quite a long time and never have I known him to be anything less than perfectly discerning.”
“That may be,” I say calmly, “but there is a simple way to know for certain.”
He scoffs, “This bolt is in perfect condition! If I let you cut some away, it will be unwhole.”
What an odd reaction. He is either hiding something or is truly passionate about his fabrics.
“Won’t it be cut when it is made into garments or drapery?” I pose to him.
“Drapery!?” he quavers in such a high pitch that a dog barks from somewhere nearby. He pulls the cloth to his chest protectively. “Perish the thought! Now unless you intend to purchase this, I can’t abide by tarnishing it in any way. It will lower the value of the bolt.”
“So how do you intend to prove authenticity to the buyer before purchase?” I ask, matter-of-factly.
He hesitates.
The door to the bar swings open and I see the dark-haired man exit in my peripheral vision.
I put my scissors away. Time to work on my exit.
“If I cannot verify it, I cannot purchase any,” I say. The man in my peripheral vision turns back toward the way he came and starts off.
I take a step toward the exit and the mercer scuttles into my path.
“I give you my word it is authentic. I just wish for such a fine thing to be treated as such.”
He might be protective of the cloth, but he still wants to make a sale, naturally.
The dark-haired man disappears from my line of sight.
“I will need to think about it,” I say and step around him. Three strides and I am back out on the street. I peer into the bar and Rakatha is now alone, save for his two mugs of ale. I doubt he’ll be leaving any time soon.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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