Fall 13, 513 AV
Rowan matched the merchant's glare with his own flippant raise of an eyebrow. Both men were grappled in that ancient battle known so well as negotiation. Both sat in Rowan's office. Between them, on Rowan's desk, a dagger sat between them. The merchant was a large man, swaddled in Kalinor silks with a winking ruby pendant accenting his rising and falling chest. Rowan, on the other hand, wore his best silk shirt and had cross his hands with a steeple of fingers. One frowned, the other smiled.
"What did you say that would cost me?" The merchant asked again, his face the color of bruises...it was a color Rowan knew all too well, the backs of his slaves sported such vivid, angry color.
"My dear Ahmon," The magecrafter said with a sigh, "You looked at my pricings already. I require a small price upfront to cover the cost of materials and then a price at the end for the delivered material."
"Preposterous," the merchant snapped, crossing his arms, "Why, In Lhavit I-"
"But this is not Lhavit," Rowan assured him with a frown, "Surely you've seen that by now. I cannot say how they run things in the Kalean mountains, but here in the swamp we expect business to be done in a different way. Now...I can see your frustration at the way I run things, but without another Magecrafter, you have nowhere else to go with your weapon concerns."
Ahmon looked like he was about to speak, his throat bulged against a network of angry pulsing veins, but Rowan held up a hand to continue. "But I am not without my leniency, and I do certainly want your business. I'll offer you a 5% discount on the ending price in a show of good faith."
"15 percent." Ahmon muttered in response, "Don't cheat me, boy. I've killed a man for less."
"8 percent," Rowan countered with a frown, "And I am being lenient. My business requires me to make a profit at least. Besides, you so much as touch me and the Magistrate will execute everyone in your trading caravan...or sell them off as slaves." He eyed the man, as if appraising him, "I'd say death for you, your soft hands make you a poor slave for harvesting crops."
The merchant chuckled with a grimace, "I bring good business. The magistrate has no reason to avenge the death of one brat. Ten percent is the least I will take. Take it or leave it, Dynasty brat."
Rowan sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers together as if considering the idea. He gnawed his lower lip, shuffled his feet, and then finally closed his eyes and shook his head sharply. "Fine. Fine. Ten percent off the final price it is. Gods, but you took me like a thief. Is that how they do business where you're from?"
Ahmon grinned, almost too wide, fully of white, snarling teeth. He put out a beefy hand and Rowan took it, grimacing as the big man clenched it. "Boy, you know nothing about being a merchant. Stand your ground when you have it. The first payment will be here by evening. I'll expect my weapon midway through the season." He stood and offered a short, almost insulting bow, leaving the dagger on Rowan's desk.
Rowan waited till he heard the front door to Quintessence close and chuckled himself, leaning back in his chair and drawing the dagger. The curved blade was pretty, set in a gold sheathe and grip.
"Moron," Rowan muttered, kicking his feet off the desk and standing, tossing the dagger into a drawer in his desk, "Let your opponent feel superior and he will spend a fortune just to think he made the better deal."
Stepping out into the street, he turned the OPEN sign on his shop to CLOSED. The Dry Plaza was typically crowded for the time of day, men of all financial classes swept through on their daily browse. It was no concern of his that the shoppers spent more of their time in the clothing and accessory shops of the other Dynasty members. Indeed, he preferred they did. It was only a matter of time before that fancy ring purchased on a whim would lose its luster. How best to restore desire to such an expensive purchase than layering it with the marvelous effects of magic? His business was based on the principle that in Kenash, more was better. There was always something new that could be done to an accessory to laud over others of their class. Mostly he filled orders for rings, bracelets, earrings, and other jewelry. As the dynasties were his most prolific customers, Rowan had the honor of being well connected to those who had the coin to command his craft.
He could expect Ahmon to take his time in delivering the first payment. Merchants like him were almost always of similar mind. They waited, they plotted, and in their own little toad-like way, they felt they had command over all that they saw. Making Rowan wait for payment was Ahmon’s way of saying that Rowan was less than him. But for Rowan that simply meant he had time to visit a friend.
The Thumbed Page rose up in his view before he had time to decide what friend he wanted to visit. Even now, with the opportunity so easily before him, something of Rowan paused. Alexadre was not the same as he had been. His moods had sunk into a dour low and he almost seemed to be actively avoiding Rowan. His attendance had all but vanished from the social environment of the upper class…almost to a point where Rowan had to routinely ask if perhaps the man was not ill or even dead. Day after day he passed the Thumbed Page and debated entering its crypt-like door to see his old friend. Had they not once been close? Had they not once laughed along these very streets?
Damn him, but they had. What manner of gentleman and friend could he be if he could not be challenged to see someone once dear to him?
“Petch it all.” he murmured, and pushed into the Thumbed Page. A large burnt colored slave watched him impassively from behind a desk, but Rowan paid him no mind. “Alexandre!” He called out, his voice echoing in the gloomy shop, “Alexandre, damn you, it is time I reacquainted you with an old friend called the sun!”
Rowan matched the merchant's glare with his own flippant raise of an eyebrow. Both men were grappled in that ancient battle known so well as negotiation. Both sat in Rowan's office. Between them, on Rowan's desk, a dagger sat between them. The merchant was a large man, swaddled in Kalinor silks with a winking ruby pendant accenting his rising and falling chest. Rowan, on the other hand, wore his best silk shirt and had cross his hands with a steeple of fingers. One frowned, the other smiled.
"What did you say that would cost me?" The merchant asked again, his face the color of bruises...it was a color Rowan knew all too well, the backs of his slaves sported such vivid, angry color.
"My dear Ahmon," The magecrafter said with a sigh, "You looked at my pricings already. I require a small price upfront to cover the cost of materials and then a price at the end for the delivered material."
"Preposterous," the merchant snapped, crossing his arms, "Why, In Lhavit I-"
"But this is not Lhavit," Rowan assured him with a frown, "Surely you've seen that by now. I cannot say how they run things in the Kalean mountains, but here in the swamp we expect business to be done in a different way. Now...I can see your frustration at the way I run things, but without another Magecrafter, you have nowhere else to go with your weapon concerns."
Ahmon looked like he was about to speak, his throat bulged against a network of angry pulsing veins, but Rowan held up a hand to continue. "But I am not without my leniency, and I do certainly want your business. I'll offer you a 5% discount on the ending price in a show of good faith."
"15 percent." Ahmon muttered in response, "Don't cheat me, boy. I've killed a man for less."
"8 percent," Rowan countered with a frown, "And I am being lenient. My business requires me to make a profit at least. Besides, you so much as touch me and the Magistrate will execute everyone in your trading caravan...or sell them off as slaves." He eyed the man, as if appraising him, "I'd say death for you, your soft hands make you a poor slave for harvesting crops."
The merchant chuckled with a grimace, "I bring good business. The magistrate has no reason to avenge the death of one brat. Ten percent is the least I will take. Take it or leave it, Dynasty brat."
Rowan sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers together as if considering the idea. He gnawed his lower lip, shuffled his feet, and then finally closed his eyes and shook his head sharply. "Fine. Fine. Ten percent off the final price it is. Gods, but you took me like a thief. Is that how they do business where you're from?"
Ahmon grinned, almost too wide, fully of white, snarling teeth. He put out a beefy hand and Rowan took it, grimacing as the big man clenched it. "Boy, you know nothing about being a merchant. Stand your ground when you have it. The first payment will be here by evening. I'll expect my weapon midway through the season." He stood and offered a short, almost insulting bow, leaving the dagger on Rowan's desk.
Rowan waited till he heard the front door to Quintessence close and chuckled himself, leaning back in his chair and drawing the dagger. The curved blade was pretty, set in a gold sheathe and grip.
"Moron," Rowan muttered, kicking his feet off the desk and standing, tossing the dagger into a drawer in his desk, "Let your opponent feel superior and he will spend a fortune just to think he made the better deal."
Stepping out into the street, he turned the OPEN sign on his shop to CLOSED. The Dry Plaza was typically crowded for the time of day, men of all financial classes swept through on their daily browse. It was no concern of his that the shoppers spent more of their time in the clothing and accessory shops of the other Dynasty members. Indeed, he preferred they did. It was only a matter of time before that fancy ring purchased on a whim would lose its luster. How best to restore desire to such an expensive purchase than layering it with the marvelous effects of magic? His business was based on the principle that in Kenash, more was better. There was always something new that could be done to an accessory to laud over others of their class. Mostly he filled orders for rings, bracelets, earrings, and other jewelry. As the dynasties were his most prolific customers, Rowan had the honor of being well connected to those who had the coin to command his craft.
He could expect Ahmon to take his time in delivering the first payment. Merchants like him were almost always of similar mind. They waited, they plotted, and in their own little toad-like way, they felt they had command over all that they saw. Making Rowan wait for payment was Ahmon’s way of saying that Rowan was less than him. But for Rowan that simply meant he had time to visit a friend.
The Thumbed Page rose up in his view before he had time to decide what friend he wanted to visit. Even now, with the opportunity so easily before him, something of Rowan paused. Alexadre was not the same as he had been. His moods had sunk into a dour low and he almost seemed to be actively avoiding Rowan. His attendance had all but vanished from the social environment of the upper class…almost to a point where Rowan had to routinely ask if perhaps the man was not ill or even dead. Day after day he passed the Thumbed Page and debated entering its crypt-like door to see his old friend. Had they not once been close? Had they not once laughed along these very streets?
Damn him, but they had. What manner of gentleman and friend could he be if he could not be challenged to see someone once dear to him?
“Petch it all.” he murmured, and pushed into the Thumbed Page. A large burnt colored slave watched him impassively from behind a desk, but Rowan paid him no mind. “Alexandre!” He called out, his voice echoing in the gloomy shop, “Alexandre, damn you, it is time I reacquainted you with an old friend called the sun!”
