Annev’s eyes moved upward, following the path of the waist-thick branches, which tapered and split on their way towards the top of the forest canopy – and then he saw it: four feet off the ground, crouched in the low crook of one of these fatter branches, was a large round man. Brown-faced and ruddy-cheeked, he was draped in a thick cloak the colour of moss and sat smoking a long-stemmed pipe. Wisps of scraggly brown beard sprouted from his cheeks, half tucked into the folds of his chin and neck.
‘Had to keep meself warm,’ he called, and grinned around the bit of his corncob-smoker. ‘Been wanderin’ about the forest all night, and when I finally found help, you bastards wouldn’t even give me the courtesies of a roof.’ He snorted, chewed something, swished his pipe to one side, and spat. A loping string of liquid splashed onto the forest floor less than a yard from Annev’s boots.
Annev grimaced, taking a step back, but maintained eye contact with the man in the tree. ‘I’ve been sent to guide you out of the Brake,’ he said coolly.
‘Guide me, eh? And who exactly is my guide?’ The stranger puckered his lips when he pronounced his Os, drawing them out into long, round vowels. It reminded Annev of the way Sraon the blacksmith spoke, though the pedlar’s accent was more pronounced.
Annev had his response ready. He was going to kill the man, so it didn’t matter what he told the merchant, and the truth was always easiest to keep straight.
‘My name is Ainnevog. People call me Annev.’
‘Ainnevog, eh?’ The merchant chewed on this for a bit. ‘Means “phoenix”, doesn’t it?’ Annev nodded, surprised. ‘And Annev means “rare”. Heh. Fancy name.’ The merchant drew a hand from the folds of his cloak and rubbed his stubbly cheeks with black-stained fingertips, scratching both corners of his mouth before plucking the corncob pipe from his teeth.
‘I’m Cragcarac,’ the merchant offered.
‘Crack-crack?’
The pedlar shook his head, grey-streaked locks spilling over his shoulders. ‘Crag-ca-rac.’ He emphasised the syllables by dotting the air with his pipe, then threw his cloak back over his shoulders, stretched, and hopped down to the ground, sinking half an inch into the moist topsoil. ‘It’s an old name,’ he said, shaking out his cloak. ‘It means … well, its meaning is less impressive than yours. Just call me Crag.’ He grinned.
Annev stared at the merchant’s chapped lips, a mouthful of half-yellow teeth gaping back at him. The smile was a genuine one, though, and Annev found himself returning it.
‘Crag then,’ Annev said, in a friendly tone. ‘What brings you to the Brakewood, Crag?’
‘Business.’ Crag waved a hand at the cart behind the tree, then trudged towards it. ‘Business brings me to the Brakewood. I’ve come from Northern Odarnea with palm vine, kola nuts, warana, dragon’s blood tree resin. Rare goods, specially this far south.’
‘Why the Brake rather than Luqura?’
‘Luq’ra!’ Crag shook his head at Annev, pulling his cart out of the silver maple’s shade and onto the forest path. He gave the cart one last yank, placing it squarely beneath a patch of scattered light. ‘You go to Luq’ra, you get taxed. You sell your goods in Luq’ra, you have to match the prices of the merchants’ union and you have to pay the merchants’ union for the chance. Better to sell in Banok – or Port Caer, though that’s a long way off.’
‘Is that where you’re headed?’
‘Yessir. I left Banok four days ago for Hentingsfort, and then on to Port Caer. I was takin’ a shortcut through the Brake. Least I thought I was. If I’d gone the long way round like a good street pedlar, I’d be halfway there.’ Crag hacked, spitting another long string of mucus at the ground. ‘Damnable forest lost me a day’s journey.’
‘Two days,’ Annev said. ‘Wherever you got to, you wandered back to the west side of the Brakewood. You’re on the edge of it right now.’
The news left Crag’s mouth hanging half open, his face contorted in surprise and painful disbelief. Annev had seen that same face during his sparring matches at the Academy, normally after an avatar got kicked in the stomach. It took a moment before Crag seemed able to catch his breath.
‘Back on the west side?’ he asked. ‘But how’s that possible? Banok’s the closest town that side of the Brake. Thought for sure I’d passed on to the south.’ Annev shook his head. ‘Where the Gods am I?’ Crag asked.
‘Chaenbalu,’ Annev said, sealing the merchant’s fate as he said the name. He couldn’t possibly let him live now.
‘Chanblue?’ Crag shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. And I know every small town between Odarnea and Lochland.’
Annev shrugged. I suppose that takes care of the first part of Tosan’s task. The man doesn’t have a clue how he got here.
Crag clawed at his thinly bearded chin and scratched the sides of his mouth again.
‘Chanblue,’ he said again, turning the word over in his mouth. He glanced down the forest path, studying the farmland outside the forest’s edge, then he looked back at Annev. ‘Must be a secret place, then. That why the fellow in the red pyjamas wouldn’t let me through?’
‘Something like that,’ Annev said, prepared to be open, since the man would be dead before nightfall.
‘Well, damn him then – damn this whole forest. First I lost Cenif, now I’ve lost meself.’
‘Stop your spitting and moaning. I said I’m here to guide you. I’m also interested in trading with you.’
‘Spittin’ and moanin’?’ Crag reached beneath his cloak and deerskin vest for a silver flask, sucked down a portion of its contents, swished his mouth and swallowed, never once breaking eye contact. ‘Not sure what they’ve been teachin’ you in that secret village, but it sure ain’t respect for your elders.’ He sucked at his teeth, replacing the flask.
Annev bounced Tosan’s coin purse in his hand. ‘You said you had palm vine and dragon’s blood tree resin.’
‘That’s right. How much do you need?’
Annev hesitated, realising Tosan hadn’t told him. ‘Ten sticks of wood and four bottles of resin,’ he said, pulling the numbers out of the air. He emptied half the pouch into his hand, picking out the largest coins from the pile. ‘I’ll give you three silver moons.’ Crag stepped away from his cart and inspected the meagre handful of coins.
‘For that, I’ll trade two sticks and a bottle,’ Crag announced.
‘I said three moons. Not staves.’
‘And I said two sticks and a bottle. Are you deaf? But I’ll do you a deal, seeing as you’re helping me out. You can have the lot for twelve moons.’
Annev emptied the rest of the pouch into his hand: he had five moons, a score of copper stars, and less than half as many silver staves. Not a gold beam or sun in the lot – it was a little more than half what he needed. Either the pedlar was hustling him or Annev had vastly underestimated the value of the goods he was buying.
‘I’ll give you a moon for each bottle—’
‘Two.’
‘—and a score of coppers for the palm vine wood.’
Crag laughed. ‘I’ll do you a favour. Give me that whole pouch of coin – every star, moon and stave you got – and you can have half your order. Two bottles and five sticks. Won’t find a better offer than that.’