“What will you pay?” she was saying in a disinterested tone, fingers toying with the edges of her papers.

“I have enough for the expenses of the journey, but not enough to pay you, if you see what I mean. The people you take her to will give you your fee.”

Dhulyn lifted her brows and bared her teeth again.

“Slavers?” she said.

Without being aware that she was doing so, Weaver leaned away from the table. Parno touched Dhulyn lightly on the wrist with a finger. He knew that she had been a slave herself, though she rarely spoke of it. Knew, too, what kind of people buy children and youngsters, and to what use they put them.

Knowing nothing of this, the townswoman puffed indignantly, like all those who’ve had no personal contact with the trade.

“She’s no slave! Mar’s of our own fostering, orphaned of a House. We send her to her blood kin. It’s they who want her, having just learned of her, though don’t ask me how. And it’s they who’ll pay you for her delivery, safe and sound.”

Dhulyn looked at Parno, blood-red brows arched. Parno nodded. Very possible for a House of Imrion to have a minor Holding or even a Household in Navra. Distant kin, but kin nonetheless.

“And the girl wishes to go?”

Weaver glanced at the girl standing so sedately at her side. The young girl met her foster mother’s eyes steadily until the woman lowered hers and looked back across the table. “We would have kept her and happily, for she’s a fine worker-reads, writes, and is learning to clerk. But she has little of her own, and we have no wedding gift for her, not with three of our own to pay for. This is her own kin.” The Weaver seemed to be repeating a well-rehearsed speech. Perhaps there was someone at home-a son, maybe-who had needed to be convinced. House or no, the woman was content that the girl was going. “There may be property, there may be money for her. Caids know there should be,” the woman muttered, looking sideways at the girl.

Not by smile or change of expression did Dhulyn acknowledge how much the Weaver had unintentionally revealed. “I only wished to know if we must take her bound.” She tossed off the mug in front of her-hot sweet cider, no alcohol after the valerian-and handed it to Parno. He sighed and got to his feet, signaling to Nikola where she stood behind the bar.

“Thirty weights,” Dhulyn said. “In gold.” The Weaver gasped in outrage, and Parno stopped paying attention. He threaded his way between the empty tables, to where the girl was pouring out for him. Two men had come in while the Weaver had been talking and were leaning against the bar.

“I don’t care how well the Sleeping God sleeps,” the shorter man said in the careful diction of one who’s been drinking all afternoon. Nikola exchanged a look with Parno. “Turchara’s a good enough god for any sailing man. What I want to know is, why should they set their own prices? These are essential,” the man had some trouble with the word and had to repeat it, “essential services. We shouldn’t have to pay for them, and they shouldn’t be allowed to withhold them.” The man looked over and saw Parno for the first time-sure sign, were any needed, of just how drunk he was. “Not like they had to be Schooled, eh, Mercenary? No years hard training for them. They’re born with the Mark. It’s cost them nothing to get it, and look what they charge!”

“I’d lower my voice if I were you,” Nikola said, taking the cups from in front of the two men. “There’s a Jaldean at the door.”

The drunk who’d been speaking turned slowly in a great show of control, but Parno had to put out a hand to stop the man’s elbow from slipping off the bar. The doorway, as he’d known all along, was empty.

“Might have gone to report you,” Nikola said as she wiped off the bar. “Best be off home before he gets back with a Watchman.”

Parno watched as the man’s friend helped him out the door, before giving Nikola a wink and carrying the cider back to where Dhulyn sat with the Weaver woman. He put the Wolfshead’s cup down in front of her and turned his attention to the girl he had no doubt would be their fare to Gotterang.

Even had he not been told, her heart-shaped face made it obvious Mar was no blood of the Weaver’s, and it was likely enough that she was indeed orphan of a House. She was already taller than the admittedly short towns woman, though manifestly young; she looked a marriageable age for a town girl if he was any judge-and he was. Unlikely that she would grow any taller, but she had inherited a good length of bone, regular features, good teeth, and abundant hair, though it did not shine much in the taproom’s lamplight. All testimony to good blood and good health. And what was more, sufficient luck to be fostered in a family which fed her well enough to let her keep these advantages.

“So we’re agreed?” Weaver was saying as she pulled a pouch from the wallet at her belt.

Dhulyn was still considering. Finally, she lifted her chin from her fist and held out her hand, palm up. “Give me your hand, girl,” she said. Parno tensed. What could Dhulyn be thinking? Better she didn’t touch anyone than to actually invite a Vision. Weaver looked at the young woman and nodded, but Mar was already holding out her square, ink-stained hand, palm down, for Dhulyn to take in her long scarred fingers.

“Are you afraid?”

“I am,” the girl said in a voice little more than a whisper. “But I will go.”

Dhulyn nodded, retaining her grip on the girl’s hand. Her pale gray eyes became fixed so markedly upon something over the girl’s shoulder that Mar turned around to see what it was. Dhulyn stared at nothing. Mar tried to pull her hand away. Dhulyn did not even seem to notice. Parno touched her foot with his under the table.

“She will need a pony,” Dhulyn said, finally releasing the girl’s hand without comment. “Forty silver weights and we are agreed.”

Weaver opened the small pouch, shook its contents into her hand and, coin by coin, counted out the forty weights. Most of the coins were the old minting, ship on one side, the old Tarkin’s head on the other, and dull with tarnish, but there were six gold pieces. Parno lifted his right eyebrow.

“It is enough,” Dhulyn said. Weaver drew shut the strings of the pouch and slipped it back into her wallet.

“When will you leave?”

Dhulyn looked at Parno. He knew that her bargaining had taken into account several things besides the price of a pony, the purchase of heavy clothing, and provisions for traveling. There was the lodging they already owed Linkon Grey-besides the packhorse they’d bought from him and the extra cot for their room. Linkon might be an old acquaintance, but Nikola had four brothers and sisters who had to be provided for. Parno lifted his left eyebrow.

Dhulyn turned back to Weaver. “Tomorrow.”

“I’ll leave her now, then,” Weaver stood up. “The letter from her kin tells where to go. You can read it yourself better than I,” the woman added with a nod to the pages neatly piled on the table. Dhulyn looked up quickly, astonishment replacing the amusement on her face. The expression on the girl’s face hadn’t changed.

“Stay, stay my good woman. If we’re to have charge of her now, then it’s not enough.” Dhulyn tapped the coins on the table with a long index finger. “You’ll have to pay for her lodging tonight, if you expect us to keep her here.”

Weaver chewed on her bottom lip. Mar looked away indifferently. A great sigh, and Weaver took another two copper coins out of the wallet at her waist and placed them with the rest on the table. Parno swept them all into his own pouch.

“Behave yourself, child,” the Weaver’s voice was gruff as she rose to her feet. “Let your House know how much we’ve done for you.” She did not offer to embrace the girl; her arms hung awkwardly at her sides. Parno caught Dhulyn’s eye and widened his own.

“I will, Guillor. I will.” The girl was soft-voiced, her tone neutral, or was there a hint of steel? Weaver nodded, but Parno suspected the older woman did not leave entirely content.