Halfway down the lane, a pair of merchants sat on stools across from each other, their voices floating languidly through the silence. One was a human, broad and grossly fat, with the puffiness of his face visible even under his neatly trimmed beard. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair was thin and limp and hung from underneath his brimless leather cap. In one hand the merchant idly waved a fan, stirring away the flies that swarmed around him.
His companion was a dwarf dressed in sturdy workman’s clothes of leather huffed as brightly as the gilt wooden sign shaped like an anvil that swung overhead. On his stool, the little goldsmith seemed no less tall than his human companion, but Teldin guessed the dwarf could not have been more than four feet high. A thick, curly, black beard tapered down to a point, dangling just above his waist, incongruously balanced by his sheared, stubbly scalp. The smith’s lightly tanned face was dominated by a flat nose, singed and smoked with the fires of the forge. Hands folded upon his spacious chest, the small craftsman let a long churchwarden pipe rest in his palms. At that moment, the dwarf was pointing the stem significantly toward the human trader.
Teldin stayed at the mouth of the aisle, at first preferring not to venture into its gloomy recesses. “Let me do the talking, and I’ll get a good price,” the farmer cautioned the cloth-draped giff. Teldin’s words echoed louder than he wished down the avenue, causing the two merchants to notice their potential customers.
Gomja’s brows beetled as he mulled over Teldin’s words. “Good price … You really mean to sell the cloak, don’t you, sir?” he asked in accusing tones.
“Of course I do,” Teldin snapped, irked that only now the giff was going to protest. “How do you think I’m going to rebuild my farm?” The farmer could not help suspecting that the giff knew all along and only raised his objections now, when it was far too late to get rid of him.
The merchants rose in greeting, both barely concealing their interest in the two strangers who approached. If alone, Teldin, tall and lanky in his frayed farmer’s clothes, would hardly have seemed a prospective customer to dealers in exotic wares, though the fine, black cloak that swung from his shoulders was unusual. It was the broad giant lumbering behind the farmer that piqued the tradesmen’s interest. With his face muffled in a thick, coarse blanket and pudgy, ashen-blue hands, the strange creature assured the merchants that the two customers were more than common rabble. “Greetings to you, sir, breathed the human as he rolled his obese bulk forward in a cramped bow. “Welcome to the shop of Master Mendel, myself who is before you.
The fat merchant steered the unresisting Teldin toward his shop. “What is it you seek, sir? Perhaps a fine piece of crystal from the isle of Ergoth, or perhaps this brooch, said to have been made for the clan-master of Thorbardin himself?” As he named each thing, Master Mendel held up an intricate bauble or pointed to an exotic piece lurking in the shadows at the back of his stall. The merchant continued on, proudly enumerating his wares. At last Teldin was able to get in a word.
“I’ve come to sell, not buy.”
The tradesman’s manner instantly underwent a subtle change in tone as he shifted from selling to buying. The man’s eyes seemed to gleam brightly from within their deep folds of flesh as he evaluated Teldin’s character. “Indeed, and what would you have to sell that I might want?” He feigned polite disinterest, the first phase of any negotiation.
“This cloak.” Teldin turned to the dwarven smith, who was still watching the pair with great interest. “I think it might be dwarven work. Perhaps you know?” Teldin held the fabric out for the dwarf to see.
The goldsmith gave a snort of contempt. “We’re rock- eaters, boy, not tailors. We don’t make cloaks.” The dwarf tapped Teldin’s chest with the end of his pipe. In the background, Gomja tensed then relaxed when he realized the dwarf meant no harm.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Teldin corrected as he leaned down to show the dwarf the silverwork that hung around his neck. “It’s the clasp. It won’t open and I think it has some secret catch. That’s why I thought the dwarves had made it.”
“Hmmmmm.”
Mendel’s curiosity was suddenly piqued. The merchant knew his neighbor well enough to interpret the dwarf's measured “Hmmms” as a sign of great interest. He tried to peer over Teldin’s shoulder.
The dwarf now took the chain in two hands and pulled it close to his eye, dragging Teldin’s chin forward with it. “Hmmm,” the smith commented again. “Uh-hmmm.”
Abruptly the dwarf finished his examination and hopped off the stool. “Not dwarven work, I warrant, but fine work all the same. Too small a thing for the gnomes. Can’t tell who made it.” Mendel, dealer in rare antiquities,raised a very interested eyebrow.
“So you don’t know how to get it off?” Teldin asked with some alarm. He had been certain that the dwarf would know the trick, and all at once that hope was dashed.
“No,” was the blunt answer.
Teldin sagged. He was getting tired of defeats at every turn. Why couldn’t something just go right for once?
It was Mendel the merchant who spoke ftom behind the farmer. “The fabric does not seem to be of much account,” he drawled even while fingering the dark, silky cloth. “If I get the cloak off, I’ll give you ten steel for the clasp.” The merchant pressed quickly to close the deal.
“A hundred steel,” Teldin countered.
Counteroffer followed counteroffer as the two men haggled over the price. Just as they were about to close the deal, the cloaked Gomja stepped forward and laid a hand on Teldin’s shoulder, as if to try to shake off the whole bargain. With a dark glare, Teldin warned the giff back, and, in the next instant, sold the cloak, or at least its parts.
“Master Stonebiter,” the vendor asked of his dwarven friend, “if you’d bring some tools, we could free this young man from his problem.”
Interested in the outcome in his own right, the dwarf quickly produced a sharp knife, the blade decorated with hammered silver coils. “This should do the job just fine.” With a quick step, he hopped back onto the stool and prepared to cut the clasp free. Gomja drew himself up to his most menacing height and stepped forward, one hand on his own knife. It was clear to Teldin that the giff was struggling to restrain himself, but whether the creature meant to protect Teldin or prevent the damage, the farmer had no idea.
Just as the blade was about to touch fabric, Teldin closed his eyes, fearfully certain that the giff was going to do something rash-such as hurl the dwarf down the lane. He braced for the trooper’s onslaught. Instead, Teldin’s body was seized by a tingling blast that jangled every one of his nerves. The farmer’s eyes flew open in shock and his body involuntarily jerked and was flung backward until he crashed in a heap near the door to Mendel’s stall. There he sat dazed and gasping like a trout from a stream while the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to crawl up and down his scalp of their own will.
Master Stonebiter had fared no better. While Teldin sat stupefied, the dwarven smith twitched and jerked about, hooting and hopping as if in the grip of some convulsive dance. The blade had dropped from his nerve-numbed grasp.
An astonished Gomja and Mendel each hurried to their respective concerns. It took some time for Mendel to get his neighbor quieted down, and by the time the merchant succeeded, Gomja had Teldin back on his feet. “G-g-great Paladine,” stammered Teldin, “what was that?”
“It was the Dark Queen’s curse!” shouted Stonebiter as he struggled to calm down the little tics and seizures that afflicted him. “The damn thing’s cursed.”
Teldin shook his head to clear it. “I didn’t mean-”
All at once, the two merchant’s eyes were wide and staring at a point over Teldin’s shoulder. Stricken by their horrified looks, the farmer’s heart leaped with fear. He spun about, expecting the worse, only to find Gomja standing there, uncloaked. In the excitement, the giffs head-cloth had slipped to his shoulders, revealing his broad, blue-gray jowled snout and pert ears.