‘Well now, sire, he probably was eager to see an orc demon up close. I don’t know my letters, and so I don’t know its worth, and it would be confiscated from me if I tried to sell it to any battlemage, since it was stolen from one of their own.’ He spread his arms, his face a picture of innocence.
‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘I will likely hand it over when I get to the elven front. But if I can make a few shillings on the side, knowing that the book will reach a battlemage eventually regardless, well, who could begrudge me that, after carrying the man halfway across the jungle?’ He lowered his head in false modesty, peeking through his greasy locks. The crowd was uneasy, unsure which party to side with. Didric was certainly popular, especially when he was being free with Caspar’s money in the tavern. Yet the soldier was exciting, and Fletcher could see the crowd wanted this story to be true, even if they knew in their hearts that it was not.
Even as the crowd jeered and Fletcher began to grin at the bully losing this battle of wits to a common soldier, Didric interjected.
‘Wait. Did you not say earlier that you knew the focus of his studies by looking through the book? Surely you would need to read to know about any of this? You are a liar and a fraud, and I have a good mind to send for the Pinkertons. They might even throw a desertion charge at you too.’ He laughed as the soldier spluttered.
‘You have him dead to rights now,’ Jakov said, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘There are pictures in the book . . .’ the soldier stammered, but was immediately shouted down by the crowd, who had begun to mock him. Didric raised his voice and held up a hand for silence.
‘I’ll tell you what. I like the look of the book. It is curiosity and the need for learning that drives me, not the desire for riches,’ he declared nobly, even as the gold trimming on his clothing glinted in the sunlight.
‘I will come by later to pick it up. Shall we call it . . . four shillings? I just so happened to sell a pair of fine antlers for the same price last night,’ he said, giving Fletcher a gloating look. He did not wait for an answer, but instead strode off in triumph, followed by Jakov and most of the soldier’s customers.
The soldier looked after him in fury, but soon dejection took over. He sat down on the crate with an audible sigh, dropping the book on to the ground in defeat. Crestfallen at Didric’s victory, Fletcher watched as the wind sent the pages riffling.
He did not know how, but Didric was going to pay that night. One way or another.
6
The day went by excruciatingly slowly. Berdon was having a busy day, but the acrid stench of burning hooves was beginning to become unbearable. Every few minutes a soft pile of horse manure tumbled to the ground behind him, adding to the existing odour. There had only been one sale that day: a small dagger sold to a merchant who had decided to cut his haggling short to get away from the smell, producing a small windfall of twelve silver shillings.
The soldier across the road had not been as vocal as before, but he had still done very well for himself, selling most of the items that had been spread out on the cloth before him. There were only a few trinkets left, as well as the iron-tipped rhino horn and, of course, the book. Fletcher believed most of the soldier’s story, yet he suspected that the book did not contain any secrets of value. He did not understand why the man would lie; whatever it contained, the book would provide fascinating insight into the secretive life of the battlemages. That, in itself, was a valuable prize, one that even now Fletcher would be bartering over if he did not so desperately want that leather jacket.
As he stared at the book, the soldier caught his eye and gave him a knowing smile. Seeing there were no likely customers in the vicinity, he sauntered across the road and fingered one of the better swords on Fletcher’s stall.
‘How much?’ he asked, lifting it from its seat and twirling it in a practised manner. It thrummed the air like a swooping dragonfly, the man’s dexterity and speed remarkable, given his greying hair and wrinkled face.
‘It’s thirty shillings, but the scabbard that comes with it is another seven,’ Fletcher replied, ignoring the glitter of the spinning blade and eyeing the soldier’s other hand. He knew every trick in the book, and the soldier’s behaviour reminded him of a classic. Misdirect the eye by making a show of an expensive piece, then slip a smaller item, like a dagger, into a deep pocket while the vendor was distracted. The soldier rapped his knuckles on the table to get Fletcher’s attention back to the item at hand.