Chill uncertainty rose in Leftrin. The man had not made a threatening move but his earlier comment about his 'efficient barge' now took on an ominous meaning. Leftrin continued to lean back in his chair and to smile. But the smile didn't reach his pale eyes. 'Let's set a price for the grain and be done. I'd like to be heading back up the river by the turn of the tide.'

'As would I,' Sinad concurred.

Leftrin took a swig from his glass. The rum went down warm but the glass seemed unusually cold against his fingers. 'Surely you mean that by the turn of the tide, you hope to be back to sea.'

Sinad took a gentlemanly sip from his own glass. 'Oh, no.

I am most careful to say exactly what I mean, especially when I am speaking in a tongue once foreign to me. I am hoping that by the time the tide turns, my grain and my personal effects will be loaded on your barge. I expect that we will have settled a price for my grain and for your services, and that you will then take me up your river.'

'I can't. You must know our rules and laws in this matter. You are not only a foreigner, you are a Chalcedean. To visit the Rain Wilds, you must have a permit from the Bingtown Traders' Council. To trade with us, you must have the proper licences from the Rain Wild Council. You cannot even travel up the river without the proper travel papers.'

'Which, as I am not a fool, I have. Stamped, sealed, and signed in purple ink. I also carry letters of recommendation from several Bingtown Traders, attesting that I am a most honest and honourable trader. Even if I am a Chalcedean.'

A drop of sweat had begun to trickle down Leftrin's spine. If the man actually possessed the paperwork he claimed to have, then he was either a miracle worker or a most adept blackmailer. Leftrin could not recall a time in his life when he had seen a Chalcedean visiting the Rain Wilds legally. They had come as raiders, as warriors and occasionally as spies, but not as legitimate traders. He doubted that a Chalcedean would know how to be a legitimate trader. No. This man was trouble and danger. And he had deliberately chosen to approach Leftrin and the Tarman. Not good.

Sinad set his glass carefully back on the small table. It remained half full. He smiled at it and then observed blandly, 'This vessel of yours fascinates me. For instance, it interests me that propelling it once demanded a dozen oarsmen. Now, it is said, you crew it with only six men, counting yourself. For a barge of this size, I find that startling. Almost as surprising that your tillerman can hold his place here at the river's mouth with apparent ease.' He lifted the glass again and held it to the light as if admiring the small stars.

'I redesigned the hull to make the barge more efficient.' A second drop of sweat joined the first in its journey down his back. Who had talked? Genrod, of course. He'd heard, a few years ago, that the man had moved from Trehaug to Bingtown. At the time Leftrin had suspected that the money he had paid him for his work on Tarman had financed the man's move. Genrod was an amazing artisan, a master in the working of wood, even wizardwood, and four years ago Leftrin had paid him well, very well indeed, for both his skill and his silence. The results of his efforts had far surpassed Leftrin's wildest hopes, and he recalled now, with a sinking heart, that more than once Genrod had mourned that his 'greatest work must remain secret and submerged forever'. Not money, but Genrod's egotistical need to brag was what had betrayed Leftrin's trust. If he ever saw the skinny little wretch again, he'd tie a knot in him.

The Chalcedean was regarding him closely. 'Surely I am not the only one who has noticed this? I imagine that many of your fellow Traders envy your new-found efficiency, and doubtless they have importuned you to know the secret of your new hull design. For if you have modified a ship as old as yours, one that, I am told, is among the oldest of the Trading vessels built from the marvellous dragon wood, then surely they will wish to do the same with theirs.'

Leftrin hoped he had not gone pale. He abruptly doubted that Genrod was the source of all this information. The carver might have bragged of working on Tarman, but Genrod was Trader through and through. He would not have spoken openly of Tarman's pedigree as the eldest liveship. This trader had more than one source of gossip. He tried to bait a name out of him. 'Traders respect one another's secrets,' was all he said.

'Do they? Then they are like no other traders I have ever known. Every trader I know is always eager to discover whatever advantage his fellow has. Gold is sometimes offered for such secrets. And when gold does not buy the desired item, well, I have heard tales of violence done.'

'Neither gold nor violence will buy what you seek from me.' Sinad shook his head. 'You mistake me. I will not go into whether it was gold or violence, but I will tell you that the exchange has already been made, and all that I need to know about you and your ship, I know. Let us speak plainly. The High Duke of Chalced is not a young man. With every year, nay, with almost every week, that passes some new ailment frets him. Some of the most experienced and respected healers in all of Chalced have attempted to treat him. Many have died for their failures. So, perhaps, it is expediency that now makes so many of them say that his only hope for improved health and long life will come from medicines made from dragon parts. They are so apologetic to him that they do not have the required ingredients. They promise him that as soon as the required ingredients are procured, they will concoct the elixirs that will restore his youth, beauty and vigour.' The merchant sighed. He turned his gaze to the cabin's small window and stared off into the distance. 'And thus, his anger and frustration passes over his healers and settles instead on the trading families of Chalced. Why, he demands, can they not procure what he needs? Are they traitors? Do they desire his death? At first, he offered us gold for our efforts. And when gold did not suffice, he turned to that always effective coin: blood.' His gaze came back to Leftrin. 'Do you understand what I am telling you? Do you understand that, no matter how much you may despise Chalcedeans, they, too, love their families?  Cherish  their elderly  parents and  tender young sons? Understand, my friend, that I will do whatever I must to protect my family.'

Desperation vied with cold ruthlessness in the Chalcedean's eyes. This was a dangerous man. He had come, empty-handed, to Leftrin's vessel, but the Rain Wilds Trader now perceived he had not come without weapons. Leftrin cleared his throat and said, 'We will now set a reasonable price for the grain, and then I think our trading will be done.'

Sinad smiled at him. 'The price of my grain, trading partner, is my passage up the river and that you speak well of me to your fellows. If you cannot procure what I need, then you will see that I am introduced to those who can.

'And in return, I will give you my grain and my silence about your secrets. Now what could be a better trade than that?'

Breakfast had been delicious and perfectly prepared. The generous remains of a meal intended for three still graced the white-clothed table. The serving dishes were covered now in what would be a vain attempt to keep the food at serving temperature. Alise sat alone at the table. Her dishes had already been efficiently and swiftly cleared away. She lifted the teapot and poured herself another cup of tea and waited.

She felt like a spider crouched at the edge of her web, waiting for the fly to blunder into her trap. She never lingered over meals. Hest knew that. She suspected it was why he was so frequently late to the table when he was home. She hoped that if she sat here long enough, he'd come in to eat and she'd finally have the chance to confront him.