A letter found in the Receipt and Commonplace Book of

Sidra, Lady Metril,

Attar Bay, Caladhria,

dated to the 10th year of Emperor Leoril the Dullard.

My dearest Sidra,

I have the most exciting news imaginable! Herist is newly home from his voyage and he has done it! As I write, we have rows of little spice plants all flourishing in our glass houses. Is it not wonderful? Better still, our head gardener is confident he should be able to grow them outside once they are big enough. Herist is not sure how long it will be before the bushes will bear berries, but once they do we will be able to sell all manner of spices and make our fortunes. I am sure people will much rather deal with us; after all, we will be happy to take properly minted gold and silver and not bother with endless arguments over barter and exchange. As long as the island savages cannot understand the concept of coin, I do not see how they can hope to compete, not when we have no shipping costs, neither.

Herist has a wondrous store of tales about his adventures among the barbarians. He traveled widely and was welcomed most warmly; they seem to be quite naive, almost child-like in some ways. Since Misaen in his unfathomable wisdom has seen fit to grant their islands vast riches in gemstones, fine jewels are to be seen on all the men and women, even those of quite inferior status. Yet they swap such things among themselves, in the manner of children exchanging baubles at a Solstice fair. Herist has brought me home pearls that will make you quite sick with envy, my dear, and acquired merely for a couple of old swords and a bag of nails.

Their rulers are all old men, gross from indulgence in every luxury of life. When I pressed him, Herist acknowledged their appetites are not merely for food and wine. Each has a flock of women kept at hand; they call themselves wives but I would rather describe them as concubines, from all Herist says. They dress themselves in the most scandalous style, all paint and adornments, and they have no other purpose in life than satisfying the lusts of whatever men will have them, it would seem. One can only assume they know no better, untutored and ungodly as they are. Herist assures me he did not succumb to temptation, though it seems the more depraved customarily offer travelers the choice of their doxies.

They seem to have no idea of kingship or proper government; each Warlord simply holds whatever islands he can seize by force of arms. They set great store in skills with sword and bow, knowing no other means of solving disputes beyond the exercise of brute strength. Accordingly, Herist had to be most circumspect in obtaining the seeds for the spice plants, since his life would not have been worth a penny’s purchase if the poor ignorant barbarians had had an inkling of his plans. Still, as he says, a bull is only dangerous if you rouse it, so he was quite able to elude their slower wits.

You must come and pay a lengthy visit, my dear. I long to show you my new jewels and all the other things Herist brought back for me, silks, curios and some carvings, that I swear will bring a blush to the most liberal cheek.

Written the 11th day of Aft-Spring, at our Derret Chase lodge.

Trini, Lady Arbel

I walked obediently behind the swordsman, who led me to a cabin at the stern of the ship. Faint sympathy flared in his eyes as he opened the door and gestured me through. I entered warily, ducking my head and trying to look as harmless as possible, not difficult given my bruises and prison-stained rags. My mind, meanwhile, was racing furiously; what was happening on the dockside?

The woman responsible for my present predicament was sitting on a heap of bright cushions, a complex embroidery in her hands as she matched silks with a critical eye. She glanced up and I didn’t trust the expression of malicious amusement on her sharp face for a moment. She called out something in a sweetly inviting tone and a younger woman swept through a second door, her expression of excitement turning rapidly to one of horror when she saw me.

The first woman was studying an intricate flower with a serene expression as the other girl gave me a scathing glance of contempt and stormed over to her. I watched with intense frustration as the woman sewing calmly replied to the newcomer’s tirade in tones of sweet unconcern. Finally the combination of rage and injured pride overcame the girl and she burst into furious tears as she flounced out of the cabin.

Left standing there without any idea what I should do, I forced myself to put aside the question of Shiv and the Elietimm, to lock it away in that box in the back of my mind. The others would have to look after themselves; they were together, they had allies in Relshaz, above all Livak was no fool. My first duty was to myself now; I had to concentrate on staying alive here until I could somehow return to the mainland. I was on my own and, I judged, in no little danger.

I looked at the woman but she was concentrating on her embroidery, a slight curve to her carefully painted lips and satisfaction in her almond-shaped eyes. A gesture from the swordsman caught my eye. Watching his mistress warily, he pointed to the door through which the weeping girl had fled. Keeping my face carefully expressionless, I went through the slatted door, which was still swinging on its pins from the fury of the girl’s passage.

I found myself in a large airy cabin whose long shutters opened on to a small private deck at the rear of the ship. The girl was no longer weeping but the hot tears were still wet on her face, ruining her intricate makeup. A blush swept up her cheeks and her lips narrowed. Embarrassment warred with fury in her stormy brown eyes as she took a deep breath. I judged it prudent to keep my expression as noncommittal as I could.

After a few minutes the girl shrugged with an enigmatic sigh, pushed a long curl of black hair off her face and sat on a pile of cushions, her elegant amber gown hitched above jewel-clasped ankles. They were nice ankles, though I noticed she had incongruously toughened feet. In fact she was a luscious blossom all together, about as tall as my chin, rounded hips and a plump bosom barely concealed by the loose, sleeveless silk. Her angry frown looked inappropriate on her round face but I could believe her full lips were used to pouting prettily. She pointed to the floor with a curt instruction, hitching her dress back on to one smooth brown shoulder.

It seemed the Aldabreshi didn’t believe in chairs, so I sat on the floor and tried for an ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the Aldabreshi tongue.”

The girl frowned and tried again in Relshazri; I shrugged in mute apology. This was a new problem for me; in those few instances when I find myself dealing with a backwoods peasant who has no Tormalin, I have enough Caladhrian and Dalasorian to fall back on if pressed. I had never imagined I would need to learn the language of the Archipelago. I couldn’t even think of anyone I knew who could have taught me.

“You are Tormalin?” the girl asked after a few moments, her words hesitant and thickened by a strong Aldabreshi accent.

I bowed awkwardly from the waist, not knowing what else to do. “My name is Ryshad.”

She repeated it a few times to herself, splitting the syllables and coloring them with an Aldabreshi intonation. “Rhya Shad.”

I’d better get used to answering to that then, until I found some way out of this maze.

The girl nodded with satisfaction and then pointed to herself.