Chapter 17: The Market Cart Arrives
The mule was a sorry creature, one swayback and a milky eye making it look perpetually unimpressed. It stood hitched to the cart in the courtyard, swishing its tail at flies that had no business existing in the chill air. The cart itself was a patchwork of rotten wood and rusty nails, but the wheels looked solid enough. Reluctantly solid.
Elena stood beside it, her hands clenched in the folds of her worn grey dress. In the cart bed, cushioned by rags Marcus had scrounged, sat twelve clay pots. Each held a plant that had survived the glasshouse and, under her nervous care over the past two days, had pushed out a brave new leaf or two. Her heart was a trapped bird against her ribs.
Marcus leaned against the dead fountain, his arms crossed. He’d been quiet since they’d loaded up, his grey eyes scanning the tree line. On edge. “He’s late.”
“He’s a merchant,” Oscar said. He was perched on the low stone wall, looking impossibly elegant against the crumbling mortar. He cleaned his fingernails with a small, sharp knife. “Theatrical punctuality is for court functions. Here, lateness is a power play. Remember that.”
A power play. Elena’s stomach turned. She was so tired of plays.
The sound of another cart, lighter and faster, came from the mud-rutted lane. A high, two-wheeled trap pulled by a sturdy pony rounded the bend. The man holding the reins was wiry, wrapped in a thick wool coat that had seen too many seasons. He had a face like a knotted root, shrewd eyes peering out from under a greasy cap. Hobb.
He pulled up a polite distance away, his gaze doing a swift, inventorying sweep of the mule, their cart, the three of them. It lingered on Elena’s silver hair, a flicker of recognition followed by deliberate blankness. Bad for business to acknowledge disgraced nobility too openly.
“Morning,” Hobb called, not getting down. “Heard you had goods.”
Oscar slid from the wall, the knife vanishing into his sleeve. “We do.” He didn’t smile. He simply gestured to their cart. “A specialist collection. You’ll want to look.”
Hobb grunted and climbed down. He moved with a spry economy. He went straight to the pots, ignoring Elena and Marcus completely. He lifted one, grubby fingers probing the soil, pinching a leaf, squinting at the roots through the drainage hole. He made a noncommittal sound in his throat.
“Pelargonium. Common.”
“Variegated cream-and-green,” Oscar corrected, his voice a smooth, cold ribbon. “And the scarlet is a double bloom. Not the half-starved singles that pass for gardening here. These are cuttings from a conservatory stock.” A lie, but a confident one. “They’ve been professionally propagated.”
Hobb shot him a look. “Don’t see no professional here. I see a fallen-down house and some weeds in dirt.” He set the pot down. “I’ll give you five copper for the lot. For the pots. The plants are a maybe.”
Elena’s breath caught. Five coppers was nothing. It was an insult. Her hands tightened.
Marcus pushed off the fountain. “The pots aren’t for sale. The plants are.”
“Then you’ve got a problem,” Hobb said, turning to face him. “Market’s flooded with spring cuttings. Everyone and their aunt’s got a windowsill. I’m doing you a favor, taking these off your hands.” His eyes slid back to Elena. “Considering.”
The word hung there. Considering your situation. Considering who you are. Considering I could just leave you with them.
Oscar stepped between Hobb and the cart. “The market is flooded with common greens and hardy perennials. These are tender. Aesthetic. The wives of the mill foreman, the head clerk at the granary… they have aspirations. They want a piece of what they imagine a lady’s sitting room looks like.” He tilted his head, his yellow eyes holding Hobb’s. “You sell them a story with the plant. ‘Grown from a royal conservatory.’ You can charge triple. We want fifteen copper. And you take them on full consignment. Your cut is one in four, not half.”
Hobb barked a laugh. “Royal conservatory! That’s a fast way to get a visit from the magistrate’s men, boy.”
“Then just imply it,” Oscar shrugged. “You know how. You’ve been selling town goods to country folk your whole life. The story is the value. These,” he flicked a finger toward the vibrant scarlet bloom on one plant, “are the proof. Ten copper, minimum. Or we find another cart. The crossroads see more than one trader.”
A standoff. The mule shifted its weight. Somewhere in the woods, a crow called.
Hobb’s gaze calculated. He looked at the plants again, really looked. The variegated leaves were unusually bright. The scarlet was a deep, velvety red you didn’t find in ditch weeds. He was seeing the profit, not the princess.
“Eight,” he said finally. “And my quarter cut. And I decide the story. You don’t breathe a word of where they really came from. To anyone.”
Oscar glanced at Elena. A question. This was her fight, her currency.
She felt Marcus’s steady presence at her shoulder. She unclenched her hands. She gave a single, sharp nod.
“Done,” Oscar said.
The transaction was swift. Hobb counted out six tarnished copper coins from a leather purse, leaving two to be paid upon sale. He handled the pots with more care now, nesting them in his own cart with padded straw. He didn’t say goodbye. He just nodded, climbed up, and clicked to his pony. The trap turned and rattled back down the lane, leaving behind silence and dust.
Elena opened her palm. The six coins lay there, warm from her own skin. They were pitifully light. They were everything.
A slow grin spread across Marcus’s face, transforming his usually solemn features. “You did it. He bled a little, but he paid.”
“Eight was the real number,” Oscar murmured, coming to stand beside her. He looked down at the coins. “Six is just the down payment. Remember the feel of that. The first offer is always a test of your desperation.” He sounded pleased. “You passed.”
Elena closed her fingers over the coins. The metal edges pressed into her skin. A real, physical ache of triumph. She hadn’t spoken a word to Hobb. But Oscar had fought with her words, Marcus with his presence. And the plants, her silent, growing army, had done the rest.
She looked up, first at Marcus, then at Oscar. Her stormy eyes were bright, not with tears, but with a sharp, clear light. “Seeds,” she whispered. “And… a pane of glass. For the broken one.”
Marcus laughed, a short, happy sound. “Yeah. And the apples for that pie. We’ll get ‘em today.”
Oscar’s smile was thinner, more contained, but it reached his eyes. “A commercial enterprise is born. Dreadfully provincial, but it has legs.” He looked toward the house. “Shall we report the thrilling negotiations? I anticipate rapt attention.”
As they turned to lead the mule and empty cart back to the stables, the front door of the manor banged open. Cai stood there, his hazel eyes wide. He’d been watching from a window.
“Well?” he called out, unable to stop himself. “How much?”
Elena stopped. She opened her fist again, showing the six coppers in her cupped palm. She didn’t smile, but her posture was straighter than Cai had ever seen it.
Cai stared at the coins. It was a pittance. It was also more than any of them had earned since they’d been thrown into this place. A complicated emotion wrestled on his face—disdain, surprise, a grudging respect. He cleared his throat. “Hobb’s a thief. But… it’s a start.” He turned and went back inside, leaving the door ajar.
From the dim hall behind him, the rhythmic schick-schick of Jovi’s whetstone paused for a full three seconds. Then it resumed, a fraction slower than before.
Elena closed her hand over the coins once more. The sound of the stone on steel was no longer just a threat. It was background noise to the new, fragile rhythm she was starting to make. She led the mule forward, the coins a hard, sure promise in her fist, the dust of the courtyard settling behind her like the closing of a first, infinitesimal deal.