Thealos nodded. “I’ll meet you at the Foxtale then.” Pulling his cloak over the blade of Jade-Shayler to hide the glint of Silvan steel, Thealos rested his hand over the hilt. As he joined the main road crowded with horses, carts, sailors, and merchants, Thealos felt the press of bodies. He turned to look back and Jaerod was gone. He craned his neck, trying to see him. Pin-pricks of gooseflesh danced on the back of his neck. He had the feeling he was being watched, but there was no sign of the Sleepwalker. Sighing with impatience, Thealos continued in the press of bodies toward the docks. Occasionally, a hand whisked on his clothes, but he kept a firm grip on his things and stayed along an open furrow on the rear side of the crowd.
There were other Shae within Sol. He hadn’t really been looking for any, but their pale skin and light-colored hair was alarmingly obvious. He frowned. Some were obviously well-dressed moneylenders or barters attending to business. Others had lanky hair, cheap earrings, and thin beards. They shouted at everyone passing by, tempting them with deals on Silvan wine, palm-reading, some even hawking jewels from the Silverborne treasures. Thealos saw one juggle knives for a capful of coins. Kilshae, he remembered darkly. The banished ones. Over the years, how many had left Avisahn as he had? Did they miss wandering through acres of twisting oaks when the first green leaves were budding? Or did they miss the languid, peaceful lifestyle even more – the music, the flavors of wines and cheeses, the clear voices of a trained chorale? Many of the Shae he saw were filthy. There were other races as well. Stocky Drugaen longshoremen with wizened eyes and tangled beards shoved their way through the crowds. The Drugaen were a slave race that had thrown off their masters centuries ago. From what Thealos remembered, they were shorter because they had originally been bred to mine ore. They could be found doing hard labor throughout the world, but only so long as they were paid for it. The best Sheven-Ingen blacksmiths were Drugaen-born, smiths who could hammer without tiring until the moonrise. The sights of Sol dazzled his eyes all at once, and he secretly wished he were with Jaerod, to see the city as a Sleepwalker did.
Closer to the piers, Thealos found a tailor shop called The Silver Needle. He did not want to be recognized shopping in one of the Shae businesses that his Correl had dealings with. The owner was a large human woman with tight arms and long fingers. She gazed at him, watching his hands. He chose a thick pale green tunic sewn with silver-threaded trim and dotted across with studs, a heavy wool travel cloak that was ash gray, and he even found a padded leather vest lined with wool. He paused where the gloves were, tried on a few sets, and then put them back.
“You planning on paying for those clothes, Shaden?” the woman said from the counter. “Or are you just hoaxing me?”
Thealos turned to her. “Is my gold not welcome?”
She didn’t flinch. “Just as long as you plan on leaving some of it here. It’s not easy selling clothes that a Shaden touched.”
Anger seeped into his cheeks, and he clenched the fabric of the cloak and tunic. He knew his clothes were bloodstained and shabby. He was accustomed to being treated deferentially as a barter’s son. But it was obvious she didn’t trust the Shae.
“I’ll take these,” he said, setting them down on the counter top.
She eyed him and then unfolded the cloak and shook it out. After examining the other clothes that way, a trick to be sure he hadn’t bundled anything inside them, she propped her hand against her wide hip and said, “Five pieces.”
“Of what?” he demanded.
“Gold,” she answered firmly.
“You can’t be serious,” he said, feeling the barter’s game begin. “The fabric isn’t worth one piece, but I’ll buy it for that. One Aralonian piece.”
“One piece?” she laughed. “Get out of my shop. I sew each of these by hand with a silver needle. It’s worth five, and that’s all that I’ll accept. If you don’t like the prices, complain to the Silvan King.”
“I could buy a new sword for five,” Thealos countered. He raised the cuff on the tunic disdainfully. “If this were made by Silvan Weavers, I would pay five. Look how the hem is creased and stitched. Two lines of thread, not three. These barely meet the stitch-marking guidelines.”
“How do you know about the…?”
“Or about the loose threads here along the hem,” Thealos snapped icily. “It’s fair work, Madame, but I know quality when I see it. And maybe I’m not an ignorant Shaden you can cheat.” He reached in his money purse and laid two Aralonian pieces. They glimmered with a clean Avisahn mint. “They are worth one piece, but I’m in a hurry. It’s two or nothing.”
She hesitated, staring greedily down at the coins. It was obvious he could afford to pay, and that he knew the true value of the items. In the end, she accepted the gold Aralonian coins, and Thealos left after changing into the handsome tunic, cloak, and vest.