CHAPTER 196: THE MERCHANT SIBLINGS [4]

The carriage wheels came to a halt.

Alaric reached for the black cloak folded beside him on the seat.

He fastened it at his neck. Drew the hood up partway, enough to shadow his features without looking suspicious.

The door opened. He stepped down.

"Wait here."

He instructed coachman.

The man nodded. "Yes, young master."

Alaric turned away. Let himself be swallowed by the crowd.

Trade in Gramwell flowed through specific channels. Official channels. And those channels left records.

The Trade Registry sat two streets over from the main square. A squat stone building that handled all of that.

He pushed through the heavy door. The interior was dim after the bright afternoon. Smelled of old parchment and ink.

A clerk sat behind a desk.

"How may I help you?"

Alaric approached. Kept his posture humble.

"I’m looking to establish trade routes through the region." His voice came slightly uncertain. Like someone new to this. "Need to understand the fee structures. Tariffs. That sort of thing."

The clerk sighed. Pointed toward a wall lined with ledgers.

"Public records are over there. Help yourself."

Alaric moved to the shelves. Pulled down several heavy volumes. Settled at an empty table.

He didn’t need to read everything. Just follow the money.

His finger traced down columns. Names. Amounts. Routes.

Count Valtair’s operations appeared frequently. Shipping contracts. Warehouse fees. Transport arrangements.

One name kept recurring as an intermediary. Carus Corne. Listed as "trade facilitator" on dozens of transactions.

The Count’s money man.

Alaric added the name to his memory. Closed the ledger. Returned it to the shelf.

The clerk barely looked up as he left.

Next. Find where he operates.

Taverns were information hubs. Especially the ones near merchant districts where deals happened over drinks.

The Bronze Cup sat on a corner.

Alaric entered. Let his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior.

The crowd was sparse. A few groups at tables. The barkeep wiping down the counter.

He approached. Ordered an ale. Paid with a silver.

"You know a Carus Corne?"

The barkeep’s expression flickered. Then caution.

"Might. Why?"

"Heard he arranges shipping contracts. I’ve got goods that need moving."

The barkeep studied him for a moment.

Then shrugged. "He’s usually at the Warehouse at the eastern district."

"I appreciate it."

Alaric left the ale mostly untouched. Moved back into the street.

The warehouse that the man had told him about loomed in the eastern district. Large. Well-maintained. Guards posted at the entrance.

Alaric didn’t approach directly.

Instead, he circled. Found a vantage point across the street. A shop with exterior seating.

Bought another drink. Sat. Watched.

Traffic in and out was steady. Wagons arriving. Goods being loaded and unloaded. All very organized.

He watched the patterns. The timing. Which guards were attentive. Which were lazy.

"Dispatch came through." Then he heard a voice nearby. Two warehouse workers taking a break. "Shipment’s delayed again. Third time this month."

Alaric’s attention sharpened.

"The count’s squeezing the northern routes. Nothing moves without his cut."

"Makes me sick. There were times we used to be ship anywhere. Now..."

Their conversation trailed off.

But Alaric had heard enough.

Northern routes. Monopoly on transport.

He stood. Left his unfinished drink. Moved back toward the market district.

The sun hung lower now. Late afternoon painting everything gold.

His mind worked through what he’d learned. Building a picture. Finding the pressure points.

The Count controls transport. Raises fees. Forces merchants through his channels.

Break the monopoly. Open alternative routes. Watch his revenue collapse.

Simple in concept.

But would require a perfect execution.

He turned down a side street. Less crowded here.

His irritation had shifted. Become something more focused. More calculated.

Tomorrow. Start with the--

"Hey there, my friend!"

A voice cut through his thoughts. Bright. Friendly. Practiced.

Alaric’s head turned.

A young man stood beside a modest stall. Sandy brown hair. Open expression. That particular smile merchants wore.

"Wanna check out our goods?" He gestured welcomingly. "We have the finest materials in the entire market."

He leaned in slightly. Voice dropping conspiratorially.

"Even at the lower prices."

Alaric’s eyes studied him for a moment.

The stall. The setup. The practiced charm.

Well. Let’s start from here.

"Alright." His voice came from beneath the hood. Neutral. "Show me what you’ve got."

Teryn’s smile widened. "Excellent choice, friend. Right this way."

He gestured toward the stall with a sweep of his arm.

"So we’ve got fabrics here, see this weave? Tight. Even. Won’t fray on you after washes like most of the garbage in this market."

He moved to the metalwork.

Alaric’s eyes tracked across the display.

And paused on a small carved wooden box. Intricate patterns along the sides.

He picked it up. Turned it over in his hands.

"What about this?" His grey eyes lifted to meet Teryn’s. "Do you have more of these?"

Teryn blinked. Glanced at the box.

Then his expression shifted. Became slightly more careful. Still friendly, but calculating now.

"Ah. You’ve got a good eye." He turned his head toward the building behind them. Raised his voice slightly. "Del! Can you show our friend the pieces?"

Then Delphine came.

"Of course." Her smile was warm. "This way, please."

She gestured toward the interior.

Alaric followed. Teryn stayed outside, manning the stall. Keeping watch.

Delphine moved to a corner where several wrapped packages sat stacked. She pulled one down. Set it on a nearby table. Unwrapped the cloth covering.

"We acquired these from a merchant passing through last month." Her voice carried easy confidence. "It’s hard to find this kind of craftsmanship locally."

Alaric stepped closer. His fingers traced over the carvings on the mirror frame. Then moved to another piece, a small cylindrical container. Sealed with wax.

He picked it up. Felt the weight.

His eyes narrowed. He brought it closer. Inspected the base where the maker’s mark would normally be.

There was a mark. But it looked... fresh. Recently added.

"Is this..."

What kind of wood is this? This grain pattern doesn’t match.

Delphine’s eyes widened slightly.

Shit. He knows.

Her smile never faltered though.

She moved closer. Her hand came to rest lightly on his arm.

"That one’s special." Her voice dropped. Became more intimate. "We got it from deeper southern regions. These are made from very rare materials and are quite expensive."

She was talking faster now. Spinning the story. Adding details to make it more believable.

"The wood itself is treated with oils that preserve it for decades. You won’t find quality like this anywhere else in Gramwell..."

Her hand slid down from his arm. Grabbed his wrist gently.

"Let’s talk about a deal for those boxes you asked about." She guided him slightly away. Redirecting his attention.

"Usually they cost thirty silver each. But..."

She leaned in closer and brought her lips near his ear, breath warm against the side of his hood.

"For you, I can do just fifteen."

Her voice came as a whisper. Sweet. Promising.

And while she spoke, her other hand moved, fingers found his belt. Located the coin purse hanging there. Started to work the ties loose.

But—

Alaric’s hand shot out.

Grabbed her wrist. His other hand caught her other arm.

Before she could react, he’d spun her around. Pressed her against the nearest wall.

Her back hit the wood with a soft thump. Both her wrists pinned above her head in his single grip.

His eyes met hers. Amusement flickered there beneath the hood.

Then his free hand reached into his own pocket. Pulled out his coin purse.

Held it up between them where she could see it.

"Looking for this?"

The smirk on his lips was visible even beneath the hood’s shadow.

Delphine’s breath caught. Her eyes went wid.

Fuck.