Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance by L.E Modesitt

with barrels.
       “l.have the lord of flours, not just from the fertile plains of Gallos, but from those heads grown on the flattest and darkest bottomland in Candar.”
       “You have grown more eloquent, Skiodra,” Nylan said, ignoring Ryba for the moment. “I hope we do not pay for such eloquence.”
       “It is good flour. The very best.” Skiodra offered Nylan a bow nearly as deep as the one accorded Ryba. “You as a mage should know good flour.”
       “We all appreciate good flour,” agreed Nylan. “But the softer flour does not always store as well as that from harder grains.” That was a point he'd picked up from listening to Blynnal.
       “I forget, O honored mage, that you came from a long and distinguished line of usurers,” responded Skiodra. “A line that must extend across the heavens back into the days of the « most ancient. Still, I must insist that this is good flour, the best flour. You can store it longer, far, far longer. At a silver and a copper a barrel, I am offering you angels my very best price.”
       “Last year, your very best price was nine coppers a barrel, and the harvests in the lowlands were good.”
       “O mage, your memory extends as far as your ancestry. But it is harder and longer to travel the Westhorns in the spring, when mud clings to hoofs and heels and wheels.” Skiodra bowed. “Take pity on an honest merchant.”
       Nylan wanted to laugh, for Skiodra was known for almost everything but honesty-unless he knew his customer was as willing to slaughter as to trade. At the same time, the smith tried not to sigh. After seasons, even, the trading sessions never seemed to change, and the haggling seemed almost routine, a ritual that was required.
       “Can't we get on with this?” said Ryba quietly, shifting her weight on the big roan, her fingers touching the hilt of the Westwind blade.
       “Pity is fine for charity,” Nylan offered, “but bad for trading. Six coppers a barrel.”
       “Six coppers! That is not trading; it is robbery. No, it is murder, for we would all die of hunger ere we returned to our ruined homes.” Skiodra touched the tip of his broad mustache. “You have mighty black blades, but can you eat that cold metal until your harvests come in? Or your guards, will they not grow thin on cold iron? A fair man am I, and for a silver a barrel I will prove that fairness.”
       “Aye,” said Nylan. “A fair profit that would be. Fair and fine enough to bring you smoked fowl on gold and chains of silver round the necks of all the women around you.” Nylan offered a broad and amused smile.
       “I trade in good faith, mage. In true good faith.” The big trader rolled his eyes.
       “I scarcely question your faith,” answered Nylan. “Only your price.”
       “You are a mage. Oh, I have said that, and said that, and the whole of Candar knows how mighty you are, but your father could not have been a mere usurer, but a usurer to usurers. You would have my horses grub chaff from the poorest miller's leavings.”
       “At eight coppers a barrel, because I would reward your efforts to climb here, you would still have golden bridles for your mounts.”
       “Not a single barrel at nine coppers. Not one,” protested Skiodra. “The harvests were good, as you say. But the traders from Cyad had already cleaned the granaries in Ruzor.”
       “Someone is always trading,” Nylan offered.
       “There were floods in Cyador, they said. Nine coppers a barrel-that will break me with what I paid because flour was short. But I, the noble Skiodra, knew that you could use flour.”
       “How about ten barrels for a gold?” Nylan offered, sensing the growing chaos and tension in Skiodra.
       “Done, even though you will ruin me, mage.”
       “If all were so successful at being ruined, noble Skiodra, all the world would be traders.”
       Skiodra frowned momentarily.
       Ryba's face was cool as she