"Then go visit a money trader. They should have coffers deep enough, and I will have that money now!"

Harbend sat down and spread his hands in resignation. "There are things more valuable than coins," he tried without any hope to change Arden's mind.

"That's a novel opinion coming from you, but I almost forgot that you already made a fortune in Belgera."

There is no reasoning with this man. Then, how could he know I have come to change my mind about what gives life a real meaning. He wouldn't insult the pig. He wouldn't demean himself, he thought when his temper started to flare.

"Last time I checked the word in Khi for 'greed' was Harbend and now you're telling me that 'lie' is pronounced Garak!"

"That is quite enough!" Master de Dagd's voice cut through both Arden's insult as well as Harbend's growing anger. "Darkness! I have to get my money all the way from my treasury in Dagd. You," he stabbed a finger at Arden's chest, "have less than an eightday with courier to Krante and back."

"I'm losing an opportunity here, and the greedy whore-son’s refusing me to get a loan from Trader Wallman. It's not like I'm not going to pay him back."

"I said that's quite enough. I dislike repeating myself, and what you suggest is theft, no matter if you plan to repay him or not. How you could even think of borrowing money without asking the lender first goes beyond me."

Harbend kept his silence. Olvar de Dagd was handling the situation far better than he could have expected to do himself. But it hurt to have his family name dragged into the dirt by a stinking shit digger elevated far above his proper station.

"Trader Wallman has more money than he can possibly spend. All I'm asking..."

"Silence! Don't you even dare! This topic is closed. You will wait for your funds to arrive here, just as the outworlders will continue to arrive here. Moron! They're still expanding that sky port. Raised twelve of those windmills that fuel their machines this very year, they did. Do you really believe they'd make that kind of investment if they planned to decrease the number of arriving sky ships?"

Arden wisely kept his mouth shut, but Harbend could see that he hadn't let go of his newest brainchild. Master de Krante truly was an idiot. Olvar was right about that. Stupidity and the manners of a peasant combined to produce the offal Gring loved to use as an example of why only suffragans were fit to inhabit the world. If enough of Arden's kind showed up Harbend was tempted to help her in her quest for genocide.

That is unfair. A stain on her honour She deserted her own to save Arthur. Wherever you are I apologize. I am in your debt for my filthy mind. He forced the thought away. It made him long for Nakora. She was still out there, somewhere. I love you.

"Now, when that is taken care of, let's proceed with today's items. We have a request from General Markand to levy troops. Raise the Merchant Brigade back to full strength to replace the escort they sent for our benefit he called it, but we've never had more than a small maintenance staff employed for over a lifeyear, so levy troops it is."

Harbend listened to the dissatisfied murmur spreading in the trade hall, but rumours were cheap, even true ones, and they had known before coming here.

"But the cost? Who's going to pay?"

House Hardanum, but it could have been any of them. Spending money for no return tastes like dirt to all them. All of us, he corrected himself. We would not be good merchants otherwise. He would pay, of course.

"We share the cost according to standing," Olvar responded.

"That's outrageous! You would ruin my house?"

And yet you want your share of opportunities according to standing, Master de Hasselden. I failed to see your palace burning when we arrived here, Harbend mused. He almost wanted to spit out the accusation loud enough for all to hear.

"We share the burdens the way we share the gifts," Olvar did instead. In a much more polished way than Harbend would, but from the glares in the hall it was clear that the true meaning had come through just as clearly. Not all glares were hostile to Master de Dagd. A large majority of the houses stood to gain from Olvar's forced justice, or lose less at least. A handful trading houses made up for more than half of their total wealth, and now they were to pay that share.

"That's only fair," a thin female shouted from a corner. Harbend didn't recognize her. A minor house to begin with, and the former master merchant dead during the winter most likely.

"There are some good news mixed with the problems we face. It will take some time for us to get three thousand men here." Nods from the benches showed they understood this as well as Olvar. He made a pause. "As long as we make certain they don't arrive before sowing we should avoid the cost for feeding them for a few eightdays." And another pause.

Harbend read smiles from almost all present. It was a brilliant move. Dangerous, but brilliant.

"We follow the law," Olvar said when his real message had filtered through the resentment most of them were bound to share. "The boys help out on the farms and receive food and lodging in return, and we get basic training more or less paid for."

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Fair or not, he is still a true merchant with a merchant's heart. Have to admire him.

Harbend grinned. It would still be a heavy cost, but Arden had been right in one thing. Harbend could afford it now. If only they could all afford what lay behind the shadows looming over them. Manning a brigade. Replacements they were told. He didn't believe it. He could smell a war coming. He'd seen the shipwrecks, and with the raiders gone, why shouldn't Keen try to flex its muscles?

He groaned inwardly. Money. That meant Arthur. Arthur who was certain to express his joy at paying for even more uniforms with vile curses. He hated all things military, and Harbend nursed no illusions about what he would think of merchants wanting to play a game of wanton destruction.

Arthur, Arthur, a uniform is not always the shell of a killer. Sometimes it serves only as a scarecrow. But this time, Harbend agreed, they were buying killers, and he didn't intend to be wholly honest with Arthur when the time came to ask for money.

***

Arthur walked down Artist Street, steered clear of hawkers and peddlers, threw a glance at the theatre he had visited last summer and passed it after checking what play was on schedule for tonight. His errand, though, was not that of an audience. Tonight, as most nights, he had a show of his own. Weaving, spreading the news and living a full life.

Late, for once. Meeting with Harbend had stretched out longer than he had planned. Harbend needed to borrow money, which was fine, but there was something fishy about what he needed the money for, and he wouldn't tell. Well, if Harbend wanted his secrets, so be it. Arthur wasn't going to start complaining now. Not when life once again showed its sunnier side. He continued half a block and turned at the discreet sign announcing the Taleweaver's inn. Every city had one, but he hadn't known when he last visited Verd. Damn, he hadn't know about Weaving either.

And now for my adoring fans. And where the hell are those fans? Strange. There had been a long queue each evening for weeks, but then he recalled. Late, forgot I'm late.

He closed to the door and knocked. Moments later a wrinkled old man opened. He could have been the twin to the one at the Roadhouse, or the one in Belgera, and as it was unlikely that there were three identical twins Arthur accepted that it was simply part of whatever magic enshrouded any Taleweaver's inn.

"Your errand?"

"I'm Arthur Wallman, taleweaver. I come to Weave."

The guardian blinked. That was not the normal response. There was a glimmer of surprise in his eyes, which was absurd as Arthur had been through this door almost daily the last weeks. "You may enter," he finally said.

Arthur frowned but said nothing. Shaking off a moment of discomfort he made his way through the narrow corridor, turned right and entered the tavern.

What the bloody... The stage was already taken.

***

It came as a welcome surprise that the Taleweaver's inn was filled almost to capacity when he arrived. If memory served him he usually needed an eightday or two before he could count on having the place packed, but a lot could have happened in thirty years. The theatre, a rather shabby thing as he recalled it, must have attracted a rich audience and perhaps some of it spilled over.

Later he would get a room in Thengrandil's Palace, the gaudy hotel he preferred when in Verd. He deserved that luxury. A full season on ships was punishment enough, even for one as used to travelling as Ken Leiter de Ghera. But first, as he had done each time he'd visited Verd the last four hundred years, he would Weave. And, of course, find out how and when another born on Earth had managed to make his or her presence known here without Ken ever knowing of it.

That could wait. Now he had to care for the visitors. They had been fed, everyone but the tall latecomer back at the fireplace. So be it. It wouldn't do to have them all wait for one guest to finish his meal. Even an important one, if all the looks he received from those close enough to notice him were anything to go by.

"My, my. This is a stately crowd if I ever saw one," Ken started. Time to release some of the tension. It wasn't everyday a taleweaver came visiting. "No reason to look so awed," he addressed the latecomer. "I won't eat you, not even take a tasty bite of your wife." That won him a round of laughter, but it was more nervous than he had counted on. "In difference from a dragonling, I guess, but I am a bit tall for one," he continued and flexed his shoulders in an attempt to flap wings that weren't there. More nervous laughs.

"Now," he began. Unholy gods! I've scared the living daylight out of the man. "I have a tale to Weave, about the very raiders who have plagued your coast," Why? Has he seen a raid, or experienced one? "so that you may learn a little of their beliefs, their justification for coming here," I have to talk with him later. "which is, as always, the reason to share a Weave. To learn and understand. To know what has been, what is, the here and elsewhere. To become part of the Weave."

Ken finished the traditional speech a little faster than he had planned. He really had to talk with the man later.

Not now, later. He drew breath. He climbed into his mind and touched the hopes of his audience, inviting them to his world. He remembered. He Wove.