Sourcethief (Book 3) by J.S. Morin Read Free Book Online Page A

applause. Soria released Brannis's hand and kicked him beneath the
table—it took two kicks before he realized he ought to clap as well. One of
Tomas's friends gave a toast to the betrothed couple, and the atmosphere of the
party brightened with talk of a wedding.
    It was some time before it was polite for Brannis
and Soria to leave, but Soria took Brannis away from the manor as soon as that
time arrived.
    "I don't know why he felt we needed to be there
for that," Soria said as they walked home. They carried their cloaks
despite the cold night air. Both had gotten drunk during the celebration, and
the warmth of the alcohol kept them from noticing the weather much.
    "He had a point to make," Brannis said
deliberately, fighting his way around a slur. "You and me here. No Abbiley
for Kyrus. No Abbiley for Brannis to keep until Kyrus gets home. Kyrus takes
Celia, at least for now," Brannis amended quickly, fearing to anger Soria
when he was too drunk to defend himself properly. "We can figure out Kyrus
and Juliana someday, I think."
    "You and me, huh?" Soria said.
    "Yup."
    "I'm holding you to that," Soria said. She
slid her arm through Brannis's and squeezed tight.
    * * * * * * *
*
    The bazaars of Marker's Point swarmed with bodies.
Cloth of red, yellow, brown, and a hundred other colors swirled in a chaotic
dance without rhythm or harmony. A dozen languages were shouted, one louder
than the next, as hawkers sought to drown out their competitors and merchants
and buyers haggled over the din. A horse and wagon cleared a small space as
folk kept a wary distance from hoof and wheel; a man with a wicker basket of
bread rolls would routinely use it as a ram to batter his way through the
throngs. The only way to reliably navigate the city without harassment was to
appear dangerous. Hulking bodies and openly carried weapons hinted at the
possibility of violence.
    A sheathed sword and a pistol tucked into the front
of a pair of trousers were a good way to keep from being bothered. Tanner
perused the stalls of the marketplace at leisure. The shielding spell he cast
each morning was still offering its protection. He browsed idly, not much
interested in purchasing anything. It was a break from his routine, from the
incessant wobbling of the decks beneath his feet. The bazaar was a potpourri of
smells that were never meant to be mixed: musky spices, cooked meats, sawdust,
leather, perfumes, and the perspiring bodies of men and women from a hundred
different cultures. It still was a better odor than the cloying stink of
four-score pirates sweating, drinking and pissing within the close confines of
the Fair Trader's hull.
    "How much for the flagon?" Tanner inquired
on a whim. He had taken a sudden fancy to a pewter vessel hanging amid a host
of others similar to it. If he ever managed to rejoin his companions, it would
make a fine gift for Zellisan.
    "Two hundred fonns," the peddler replied
with a thick Kheshi accent. Tanner frowned, checking the heft of his coin purse
and trying to remember its contents.
    "I haven't got any fonns. Can you change a
trade bar?" He pulled one of the finger-sized square bars of gold from his
purse and held it up for the merchant's inspection.
    "Bah, go find moneychanger. I not have that
much coin in whole cart. You buy everything, I take trade bar, else you come
back with fonn."
    Tanner gave the peddler's cart a dismissive look and
shoved the trade bar back into his coin purse. He made use of one of the better
Kheshi curse words Soria had taught him as he turned to leave, and received a
long string of Kheshi in return, none of which he understood.
    As he continued through the endless markets, he felt
a tingling in the back of his neck. He had developed an instinct from his years
working in the roughest parts of cities; he was being followed. The same men,
seen too many times—first at the bootblack stall, then at the peddler with the
spitted sausages, and again as he left the pewtersmith. He had not gotten