Irons in the Fire Read Online Free PDF

as well expect sense from hounds snapping over a mouldy bone."
    Tathrin's jaw tightened with indignation. As he looked away, lest his expression betray his resentment to the other merchants' attendants, he noticed that the disgruntled furrier's loud voice was turning heads nearby.
    "I wouldn't trust anything to the Great West Road. If you're looking to trade into Tormalin, Wyess, send your goods down the White River to Peorle. Have them carried across Caladhria by wagon, and then ship them down the Rel on sail-barges. The Relshazri will cut themselves a fat slice from your profits but it'll still be worth your while paying to get the goods onto a galley that can take them straight to Toremal."
    What of the livelihoods of all those people, his own family included, who earned their bread by sheltering and supplying the travellers along the highway? Tathrin burned to ask Kierst that question.
    "I don't think I'd send goods by that route," Garvan said thoughtfully. "If Parnilesse goes to war, mercenaries will flock to the ports all along the Lescari coast. The ones who can't find a captain to hire them often turn pirate."
    Tathrin saw that one of the other merchants was listening intently. An older man, his bushy white brows were drawing together in a frown.
    "Risk good furs on the road through Lescar and brigands will seize the lot." Kierst shook his head disdainfully. "Appeal to whichever duke supposedly rules the land where your goods were taken and he'll just throw up his hands, claiming it's nothing to do with him." He laughed without humour. "When the chances are better than even that the thieves were in his pay all along and he'll be selling your goods to line his own pockets."
    "You can prove such accusations, Kierst?" The white-haired merchant strode over to poke a gnarled finger hard into the fur trader's chest. "You can introduce me to someone who's actually suffered such a loss and been scorned by a duke? Or is this merely one of your tales, some friend of a cousin's misfortune?"
    "Everyone knows--" Kierst began feebly.
    "No one knows," the white-haired merchant snapped before turning on Wyess. "You'll let him abuse our countrymen, will you? Not a word in defence of your Carluse blood?"
    "Come now, Gruit." The philosophical cloth merchant raised placatory hands.
    "Come now, Malcot," the white-haired merchant mocked. "You should be ashamed of yourself," he said with sudden savagery. "Is that all warfare in Lescar means to you? Opportunity to lend money for profit? Why not lend money to both Draximal and Parnilesse and be certain of a good return, whoever wins? No need to concern yourself if the coin comes stained with blood. Innocent or guilty, water and lye will wash it off."
    "No one wishes warfare on anyone," Garvan protested.
    "No?" Incensed, Gruit rounded on him. "When half the Smiths' Guild keeps journeymen busy through the winter hammering out swords and spear-points? Selling wire to the mail-makers so they have a stock of hauberks ready and waiting? Don't you think there might be a year without fighting if you weren't so ready to sell blades and armour to whichever dukes Malcot and his cronies lend their coin to?"
    The entire room fell silent as the last threads of other conversations died away. Everyone stared at the white-haired merchant.
    "Have you nothing to say for yourselves?" Gruit challenged them all. "I hope you have some answer when Saedrin calls you to account at the doors to the Otherworld!"
    "What's it to you if Draximal and Parnilesse go to war?" Kierst rallied. "You're from Marlier."
    "What of it?" Gruit picked a stony-faced man out of the gathering with a jab of his forefinger. "You were born in Draximal. And you--' he fixed another individual with a ferocious glare "--how many brothers did you leave in Carluse?" His probing finger found another target, and another, and another. "Your wife's from Triolle, isn't she? As were your mother and father. You, you've one grandsire from Sharlac and the