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The Travels of Biturian Varosh

Trading in Corflu

The High Priest was a Lunar peasant named Falabdur, with a vile humor and unhidden dislike for Lightbringers. I did not argue the finer points of dogma, merely demanding that he fulfill his traders' obligation and sell me a place upon which to display my goods. He did what he had to do.

He gave me the worst spot, a soggy plot near the latrines. And he was the only person to stop at my site in the first week, drunken at that and pretending to believe my spot to be where he could relieve himself! Morak threw rocks at him and drove him off.

Three different barbarian groups visited the market, each stopping at my site, for they are careful traders. Since I was short of food I traded trinkets for meat, but they cheated me and it spoiled. Norayeep pretended no knowledge of this, yet it happened each time.

Fishing boats landed several times. They traded fish, but were stingy in the extreme. I needed the food, and I did not mind parting with some silver-handled eating implements popular in the Lunar Empire. When one of these wealthless fishers pulled into port, the High Priest called on us to 'seed' the fisher's catch so that he would relate his luck at other ports. I protested, but those looney brains forced me into it for the sake of the brotherhood. It cost me four porcelain knuckle-bones which would leap up and cast themselves a second time if so commanded. He was canny, that fisher.

In Movement week of Storm season, a Wolf Pirate ship hoved to off-shore. The greasy High Priest dashed about, urging everyone to strengthen the defenses of this magnificent market, and some did make that day a holy day by reinforcing the market spell. The High Priest then came to me with a stumbling assortment of caravan guards and said that I, as the only Goldentongue present, would lead the mobile defense force. As if I had martial ardor!

But only a single female swam from the ship, striding dripping through the market, carefully studying each booth. None tried to speak to her but I. She wasn't buying.

The Pirates never landed or raided. The poverty of our market was plain to see, even to a sea barbarian.

I hoped the Sacred Time would help. I took no interest in the Lunar ceremonies. The Etyries cultists seemed anguished -- Issaries protect me from their magnitude of sacrifice!

Then my mules sickened, and the Lunars chuckled at my agony as the animals died, bloated and gagging. Norayeep wept and tried to comfort the creatures as they went. But then the Lunar horses and mules caught the disease as well. A gang of baboons got rich dragging the bodies away and burying them. Everyone prayed.

On Clayday of Disorder week, Spring of 1615, a ship pulled into Corflu. No elbows jammed in the market, but a jingle of silver came, and an exchange of exotic items. The foreigners came to my booth and expressed surprise to see a Lightbringer here. Did I not realize this place gave off a crimson glow warning every Holy Country ship to steer clear?

As I packed to leave that night, the High Priest appeared, blubbering and begging. He tried no tricks or subtlety, and I could see he was half-drunk. He held a patch of leather with some odd writing on it. My Issaries senses recognized it immediately as a patch of skin from the dead god, Genert. The High Priest hoped that I would take it, and he muttered for a moment as if starting a half-forgotten speech, urging me to accept my destiny as one of the great Desert Trackers. I glanced at the desert, the barren fringe of which is called Vulture's Country. If I did not take the skin, the High Priest would have to set off into the desert within the week. He offered one-half of his wealth if I'd do the job. Two-thirds! I am sure I could have gotten even more, but I found enough profit for myself just in saying "No."

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