A plain-looking young woman, plump, with light brown hair pulled back under a modest fillet of dark cloth. Her blue eyes were narrow with suspicion, but she said, “Wait inside, sir.”
Roo and Duncan stepped inside. The girl turned and Roo noticed she wore simple but well-made and well-cared-for clothing. A possibility crossed his mind and he let his face cloud over.
“What?” whispered Duncan when they were alone.
“I hope that’s the maid” was all Roo said.
A few minutes later a narrow-shouldered, stooped-over man entered, glanced at Roo, and said, “Avery! I had heard you’d been hung.”
“Pardoned by the King himself,” said Roo, “and any who don’t believe me are free to inquire at the palace. Tell them to ask for my good friend Duke James.”
A lively light came into. Grindle’s eyes. “I may have someone do that.” He motioned through a curtained doorway. “Come inside.”
They left the plainly decorated hallway and entered a very finely finished sitting room. The decor was what Rupert expected, and was consistent with what he had learned of Grindle when he and Erik had ridden along with him on the road to Krondor.
Grindle was a merchant who specialized in luxury goods, small and easily transported, which he moved across the Kingdom in ordinary wagons that looked to be carrying unremarkable wares. In fact they contained more gold in value per square font than Roo had seen in any cargo during a young lifetime spent loading and unloading wagons.
The young woman returned and Grindle said, “Karli, bring us a bit of wine.” He motioned for the two men to sit, and Duncan did. Roo introduced his cousin to the merchant, then said, “I hope we’re not intruding.”
“Of course you’re intruding,” said Grindle with no hint of tact. “But I suspect you’ve got some scheme or another that you think would interest me, and I find that sort of nonsense occasionally diverting.” He glanced at the bundle that Duncan and Roo had put down, now propped against the side of Duncan’s chair, and said, “I suppose it has something to do with whatever you have in that large canvas bundle.”
The girl whom Roo—with an an inward sigh of relief—took to be the maid, returned with a tray, three silver cups, and a carafe of wine. Roo sipped and smiled. “Not your best, but not your worst, either, Master Merchant?”
Grindle smiled. “You’re from Darkmoor, now that I think on it. Wine country. Well then, maybe if you can show me something worthwhile, I’ll pull the cork on something rare. What is your plan and how much gold do you need?”
His tone remained light, but Roo could see the suspicion in his eyes. This was as shrewd a man as Roo had ever encountered and one who would smell a confidence job before Roo could dream it up. There was nothing to be gained by trying to dupe the man.
Roo nodded and Duncan put down the bundle and slowly unwrapped it. When he had the canvas open, he began unwrapping the linen, and when at last the silk was revealed, Duncan stepped away.
Grindle quickly knelt and inspected the cloth, gently picking up a corner and thumbing the weave. He moved part of the bolt and calculated the weight and from that the length. From the size of the bolt, he knew the width. “You know what you have here?’ he asked.
Roo shrugged. “Keshian, I’m guessing.”
“Yes,” said Grindle. “Imperial. This silk is supposed to go to the Plateau of the Emperor. It is used to weave the little skirts and other light clothing worn by the Keshian Truebloods.” A calculating look entered his eyes. “How did you come to possess this?”
Roo said, “Something like salvage. No one appeared who could prove ownership—”
Grindle laughed as he sat back down in his chair. “Of course not. It’s a capital offense to smuggle this silk from the Empire.” He shook his head. “It’s not that it’s the best in the world, you understand, but the Truebloods have a strange sense of ownership with anything associated with their history and traditions. They just don’t like the idea of anyone but one of their own possessing such items. Which makes them all the more valuable for those vain nobles who want something they’re not supposed to have.”
Roo said nothing. He simply looked at Grindle. At last the old man said, “So, what does this rare bit of contraband have to do with whatever plan you have rattling around in that devious skull of yours, Rupert?”
Roo said, “I don’t really have a plan.” He outlined his attempts to import wine from Darkmoor in bulk, and, surprisingly enough, Grindle didn’t comment unfavorably on the idea. When he explained his encounter with the Mockers and the fatal outcome for Sam Tannerson, Grindle waved him to a halt.
“You’re at the heart of the matter, now, boy.” He sipped his own wine. “When you deal with this sort of item”—he waved at the silk—“you’re dealing with the Mockers or those businessmen who must needs deal with them regularly.” He tapped his chin with his bony finger. “Still, there are dressmakers who would pay dearly for silk of this quality.”