Chapter 30

Early morning, around four or five, the sky was still black. Most of the city slept, but Aldersberg’s market was already alive; the city’s hardest workers were pouring sweat into it.

Musclemen with bare arms hauled fruit- and vegetable-laden carts through the stalls, shouting as they strained; sellers shivered in the cold dawn wind, hands moving like they were knitting as they neatly arranged their wares; a freckled youth with stubble basted skewers over coals, the smoke and roasting meat thick in the air; livestock dealers argued price with red-faced customers beside pens of bawling animals.

Roy squeezed past crates of parsley and watercress, still flecked with field soil, and drifted toward an herb stall. The seller was a man in his forties, wearing a thick felt hat and a gray cloak, hands tucked in his sleeves and rubbing together in rhythm. His honest, weathered face was creased like orange peel; his dark eyes had the shrewd glint of a trader.

“Little brother, what’re you buying?” the vendor asked, his gaze crawling over Roy’s still-boyish face. He rubbed his fingers together in a way that was equal parts mysterious and lecherous. “Medicine for hemorrhoids and fistulas?”

Hemorrhoids and fistulas? Roy blinked, offended, the expression of someone who’d just swallowed a fly. “I’m not here to buy herbs. My name’s Roy. I just came to Aldersberg and I’m looking for work — heard the market needs hands.”

“Is that so ... Roy,” the man said, folding his arms and studying him again. “You don’t look very strong; that rules out most heavy labor. Can you do sums? Read? Any other skills or talents?”

“I can do arithmetic, but I don’t speak Common Speech,” Roy replied, scanning the vendor’s shelves with a practiced eye. He’d already Scryed the dozen or so herbs on offer and smiled faintly. “Also, I know herbs. That centerpiece root in the five-year slot is mandrake root; it’s good for rheumatism, sores, and coughs.”