The Warded Man

worse, a chin , and they dared not approach. The eyes of the dama were everywhere.
    “Par’chin!” a familiar voice called, and Arlen turned to see his friend Abban approach, the fat merchant limping and leaning heavily on his crutch.
    Lame since childhood, Abban was khaffit , unable to stand among the warriors and unworthy to be a Holy Man. He had done well for himself, though, doing trade with Messengers from the North. He was clean-shaven, and wore the tan cap and shirt of khaffit , but over that he wore a rich headcloth, vest, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colors. He claimed his wives were as beautiful as those of any dal’Sharum .
    “By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!” Abban called in flawless Thesan, slapping Arlen on the shoulder. “The sun always shines brighter when you grace our city!”
    Arlen wished he had never told the merchant his father’s name. In Krasia, the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own. He wondered what they would think if they knew his father was a coward.
    But he clapped Abban on the shoulder in return, his smile genuine. “And you, my friend,” he said. He would never have mastered the Krasian tongue, or learned to navigate its strange and often dangerous culture, without the lame merchant’s aid.
    “Come, come!” Abban said. “Rest your feet in my shade and wash the dust from your throat with my water!” He led Arlen to a bright and colorful tent pitched behind his carts in the bazaar. He clapped his hands, and his wives and daughters—Arlen could never tell the difference—scurried to open the flaps and tend to Dawn Runner. Arlen had to force himself not to help as they took the heavily laden saddlebags and carried them into the tent, knowing that the Krasians found the sight of a man laboring unseemly. One of the women reached for the warded spear, wrapped in cloth and slung from his saddle horn, but Arlen snatched it away before she could touch it. She bowed deeply, afraid she had given some insult.
    The inside of the tent was filled with colorful silk pillows andintricately woven carpets. Arlen left his dusty boots by the flap and breathed deeply of the cool, scented air. He eased down onto the pillows on the floor as Abban’s women knelt before him with water and fruit.
    When he was refreshed, Abban clapped his hands, and the women brought them tea and honeyed pastries. “Your trip through the desert passed well?” Abban asked.
    “Oh, yes.” Arlen smiled. “Very well indeed.”
    They made small talk for some time afterward. Abban never failed in this formality, but his eyes kept flicking to Arlen’s saddlebags, and he rubbed his hands together absently.
    “To business then?” Arlen asked as soon as he judged it polite.
    “Of course, the Par’chin is a busy man,” Abban agreed, snapping his fingers. The women quickly brought out an array of spices, perfume, silks, jewelry, rugs, and other Krasian craft.
    Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. “You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?” he asked in disgust when he was done. “It hardly seems worth the trip.”
    Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.
    “Nonsense,” he replied. “A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because”—he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving—“I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.”
    “You wound me!” Abban cried. “I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!” he lamented. “My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!”
    After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of the other.
    “My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,” Abban said at last. “Will you sup with ustonight? My wives prepare a table none in your North can match!”
    Arlen shook his head regretfully. “I go to fight tonight,” he said.
    Abban