Erik looked down the long winding road known as the King’s Highway. They had turned south after Grindle had passed the last toll station, entering the road near a town called Haverford. Twice before that patrols of armed soldiers had ridden past, but at no time did they even pause to look at Roo or Erik.
As Roo snapped the reins and the wagon started down the road toward the city, a patrol of city guardsmen rode toward them. Erik sat as calmly as he could in the rear, attempting to look as much like just another wagon guard as possible. Roo’s hands knotted on the reins and the rear left horse snorted at the tension in the line, not sure if she was asked to change pace or direction. Roo forced himself to relax and the two of them watched as the soldiers approached. Then, abruptly, the guards pulled up. “There’s a long wait,” said the guard sergeant.
Grindle asked, “What’s the holdup?”
“The King has entered the city. South gate by the palace is sealed off for his retinue. Everyone else is forced to use the north gates,” he said, waving in the general direction Grindle’s wagon was headed. “And the gate watch is searching the wagons.”
Grindle swore as the guards rode off.
Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Roo shook his head slightly, indicating Erik should say nothing about the wagon search. In conversational tones, he said, “That’s some city.”
“That she is,” replied Grindle.
Krondor sprawled at the head of a large bay, beyond which an expanse of blue stretched off to the horizon: the Bitter Sea. The old city was walled, but an extensive foulburg—the part of the city outside the walls—had grown up over the years, until now it was much larger than the inner city. Inside the walls, the view was dominated by the palace of the Prince of Krondor, which sat atop a hill hard against the south side of the bay. Ships, looking like tiny white slips of paper, rested at anchor or sailed in and out of the bay.
Roo said, “Master Grindle, what do you think are the best commodities to ship from this city?” Erik suppressed a groan as the merchant began his long answer. In the days since joining up with Grindle, Roo had been pestering the merchant for ideas on making money. At first the man was reluctant, as if Roo would somehow steal a thought from him and he’d be the poorer for it. Roo made several statements as if they were fact that got the old merchant going, telling the youth he was an idiot and would end up ruined before he was twenty years old. When challenged as to why, he’d open up with a sound argument. By cleverly asking questions, Roo would turn the conversation into an ongoing lecture on how to conduct business.
“Rare, that’s the thing,” said Grindle. “You can hear there’s a shortage of hides for making boots in Ylith. So corner all the hides in Krondor you can. By the time you reach Ylith, you find some lad from the Free Cities has already imported ten wagonloads of hides and you’re ruined. But rarities! There are always rich men looking for fine cloth, precious gems, exotic spices, and the like.” Glancing around to see he was not overheard, he continued. “You can build volume in commodities. You can be the largest wool shipper in the West, but one plague of anthrax on the sheep herds, one ship sunk on its way to the Far Coast, and bang!” He slapped his hands together for emphasis. One of the horses cocked an ear at the noise. “You’re ruined.”
“I don’t know,” said Roo. “People may not have money to buy luxuries, but they have to eat.”
“Bah!” said Grindle. “Rich people always have money to buy luxuries. Poor people often don’t have money to buy food. And rich people may eat better than poor, but one man can only eat so much, no matter how rich.”
“What about wine?”