Page 57 of Bonded To The Arena Master

The merchant wants five jetons for a measure of sun-starved nimond beans.

I offer two and a vial of vespid-sting remedy.

He looks at the vial as if I placed gutter waste on his black cloth.

"Four jetons," he says. "Keep the human tonic."

"Two jetons, the remedy, and first choice of my next goligan shipment."

The merchant's bronze-scaled face remains unreadable. He is Trolvor, broader than a human and shorter than Draxon, with a blunt snout and a line of small horns sweeping back from his brow. Gold wire binds one folded wing close to his body. The other extends behind his stall to shield locked trays from the charged wind.

His wares occupy three tiers beneath a canopy of black metallic leaves. Rirzed pods gleam blue in shallow dishes. Nabella spice fills narrow crystal tubes. At the center, protected beneath stormglass, lie the nimond beans I need.

They are pale silver instead of their usual bronze, grown where the western spires block most of Galmoleth's weak light. Sun-starved nimond produces a stronger medicinal oil and a bitter flavor nobles dislike. That makes it difficult to sell and valuable to me.

The merchant knows only one of those facts.

"Three jetons," he says. "No goligan promise."

"The beans have been sitting under that glass for twelve days. Their edges are beginning to oxidize."

His yellow eyes narrow. "They are sealed."

"Poorly. The lower corner has a red line where dust entered. In another week, the entire tray will taste of metal and you will sell it to dark elf kitchens for half a jeton."

He examines the corner without turning his head.

The neutral market fills the broad space between three lesser Ti'lith spires. No house owns the floor, though every stall pays protection to someone. Volvath guards patrol the outer arches. Soz'garoth traders move beneath charms that keep red dust from their hair. Zonak porters weave through the crowd carrying baskets above their heads.

Humans remain close to owners or employers.

I have two House Obsidius guards behind me and Draxon's black seal fixed to the clasp of my satchel. Without those marks, the merchant would refuse to bargain. With them, he must decide whether he speaks to an apothecary or merely handles property sent on a lord's errand.

"Two jetons and two remedies," he says.

"One remedy treats three stings in a demon or two in a human."

"A human struck three times dies before swallowing it."

"Usually. That makes the remedy more valuable, not less."

A voice answers from the neighboring stool.

"It makes the claim larger."

The merchant's aide has been listening while sorting lengths of silver root. He is Soz'garoth, lean and long-eared, with amber skin and red hair gathered through a ring at his nape. Fine chaos sigils stain his fingers. Unlike the merchant, he wears the green collar plates of House Varnek.

He picks up my vial and holds it toward the storm-light.

"Ground weed in water," he says. "Humans sell the same mixture beneath the eastern stairs. It eases burning until proper magic can be found."

"Put it down."

His brows rise.

"This stall belongs to my master."

"The vial belongs to me. If you intend to insult my work, do it without warming the contents in your hand."