Book 7: Chapter 41: Ivory knives
By the look on his face, Marcus likewise recognised Martel. He immediately threw up his hands. “Look, I didn’t know! I left Aster. Sol’s Eye, I left the continent!”
Eleanor looked from one to the other. “You know each other?”
“We do. Marcus here is a mercenary, and some of his companions tried to kill me. Twice. Though I guess the second time doesn’t count; it was a poor attempt.”
Eleanor stared at him. “Martel.”
A pulse of magic told Martel that the mercenary did not wear any gold on him. “You can take your hands down.”
“Thanks,” Marcus mumbled. “We don’t have any quarrel, right? I was just asked to meet a pair of Asterians here and be helpful.”
Martel stared at him. “I have no quarrel if you don’t.”
“I don’t,” Marcus hurried to say. “Are you hungry? I know the best taverna nearby.”
Martel turned to look at Eleanor. “I could eat.”
“There I am, barefoot and underground, the remains of my boots and socks still smouldering after his magic!” Marcus laughed. “I’m thinking that this stone city’s going to be my tomb! I sneak back, hoping I can follow and maybe get a chance to escape, when I hear them talk about surrender. I got no choice, do I, but stride in with bare toes and ask to surrender as well!” He grabbed a small cup from the table and raised it in the air. “Cheers!”
The two mages followed his gesture, each wringing their faces. “This wine tastes unusual,” Martel remarked.
“And it is quite strong,” Eleanor added.
“Made from rice,” Marcus explained helpfully. “They don’t have grapes here, but there’s rice enough to make everything from. Food, wine, paper, they’ll use it for everything.”
“Wait, Martel, you said some of Marcus’s companions tried to kill you. But in this story, he was clearly present,” Eleanor questioned.
“Right, I was thinking of the last two times the Night Knives tried to kill me. I forgot about the first time, it happened much further back,” the firemage explained casually.
“Martel.”
“But you’re a battlemage now,” Marcus inserted.
“I was. I’m not in the legions anymore. Neither of us are.”
“You look the part, red robes, chain armour – remember training you to fight in that? Just missing the staff.”
“It broke.” Martel shrugged and watched as the servants placed a handful of small plates on their table, all with different dishes.
“Just go ahead and fill your plates as you want,” Marcus instructed them, doing the same to his own. “Though hey, you should get a new staff while you’re here!”
“You have not really had need of one, have you?” Eleanor considered, looking at her companion while carefully pushing some manner of breaded meat onto her plate.
“Not as such. I don’t really fight up close.”
“But we have the best timber in the world!” Marcus exclaimed. “If you came here on a Consortium ship, you must have seen it.”
“The black wood?”
“Aye! Strong as steel but light in weight. You’ll find no better staff.”
“As said, it’s not something I urgently need…”
“Wait, I have a brilliant idea,” Marcus interjected. “Two days from now, I’m taking a boat to the neighbouring island where the Consortium harvests the wood. Come along! You’re their guests, they’ll gladly let me take you. It’s a beautiful island with lovely waters for swimming, white beaches, and we can pick out a staff for you!”
Martel’s first thought was to reject the idea, having no interest to go elsewhere when they just arrived in Port Verde. Yet hearing Marcus out, he warmed to the thought. After fivedays at sea on a cramped vessel, only to arrive in a crowded city, a sojourn to less populated lands sounded appealing. He gave Eleanor a questioning look.
She returned his gaze before turning toward Marcus. “A trip to warm waters sounds delightful.”
With departure in two days, the travellers had time to rest and spend a full day in Port Verde. As the crossroads between Cathai and Aster, it possessed markets that put all others to shame. Endless rows of merchants selling all possible goods to the locals, brought to the city either by small, local vessels or the big Consortium ships traversing the ocean.
They had sold a few gems to the local traders – under the strict eye of a Consortium man ensuring they got a fair price – giving them currency to spend. Martel did not have much he desired to buy, besides the occasional bite to eat, but he did peruse the local apothecaries. They had many herbs unknown to him, and Martel wished he had time – and the skill in language – to learn their properties; as it were, he simply stocked up on medicine against nausea.
He looked in vain for any peddler of magical wares; such trade was restricted and fully under the control of the Consortium.
“Martel! Martel!” Eleanor pushed through the throng of customers at the market to reach his side. “The price of silk is one third of Morcaster!”
“Oh, really? That’s cheap.”
She stared at him. “Do you understand how many clothes we can afford?”
“But we’re on the road. What do we need silk garments for?”
Eleanor exhaled and spoke with a patient voice, “For the day we are no longer travelling. I am getting us half a bolt. Enough for several dresses, shirts, and more.”
“Whatever you consider wisest,” Martel replied, only too happy to leave such decisions to her.
“This place is incredible. Since silver is sparse and gold is controlled by the Consortium, they use all manner of metals for jewellery, with the strangest gemstones I have never seen before,” Eleanor continued in excited manner.
“I wonder if they have magical properties,” he considered, frowning. Rubies helped intensify his fire magic; emeralds aided earth, sapphires worked with water, and diamonds for air. But the Archeans had used other gems; the rare topaz for mental magic, as Martel recalled, and probably others.
“We should get some examples that we may find out.” Eleanor smiled and grabbed his sleeve, and Martel found himself dragged toward the jewellers of Port Verde.