Free Fires of Aggar by Chris Anne Wolfe Page A

been lost to fire or disease — or as was more common in Maltar or the cities further north, the losses might have been due to the Wars. Gronday was affluent enough to have a workhouse, however, and those like this woman who proved most trustworthy were often contracted as Corner Criers. The city model was an aid for strangers who stopped to ask her for directions, or for more familiar travelers who needed to know where some trade house had relocated. Often parcels would be left in a Crier’s keeping as well and collected for deliveries by the City Runners. The Runners frequently stopped by the corner stations to collect notes and those parcels for delivery. It wasn’t a bad system; it ensured easy contacts between city dwellers and useful work for those stranded in life without provisions. It also ensured that the youngsters would acquire some education and that the elders would have some healers’ care. But Sparrow knew from personal experience that the system seldom substituted much for the shattered losses that had created the desperation in the first place.
    The old woman pushed herself to her feet with a determined disregard for the aches in her body, although the pain made her motions awkward and jerky. She smoothed down her skirt and managed a formal bow to Sparrow, then waited in silence for the patron to speak first.
    Sparrow waited quietly herself until with a nervous glance, the woman risked looking her full in the face. She smiled at the Crier and offered a little bow of respect. “I am Sparrowhawk.”
    The woman acknowledged that with a bob of a nod, her lips moving silently as she memorized the strange name.
    “Has there been word of another tinker-trade seeking me?”
    “No Min. But the last news was sent ’round at quarter-day. Mid-day missives are still being gathered.”
    Well, she hadn’t expected Brit to be early. Sparrow turned to business instead. “Where might I find the stall of the herbalist Iseul?”
    The old woman pointed down the aisle behind them. “All the herbalists are at the end there and two rows left. Are you searching for medicines or for Iseul herself, Min?”
    Sparrow blinked, pleasantly surprised that the old woman was no longer afraid of her. Asking a question of strangers was often considered prying in Gronday, and a Crier could seldom risk such a gesture even if it would save the patron legwork to know more details. “Actually, both. Iseul, I understand, usually has a cache of rarer stuffs, but I need to buy enough to restock my barter supplies.”
    “Then not for your personal use, but for your wagon?”
    “Aye, for my business.” The bright saffron yellows of Sparrow’s vest and boots over those dark oranges of bloused trousers and tunic could not possibly have belonged to anyone but a traveling merchant. “Should I be looking elsewhere than with Iseul?”
    “No Min, you’ve the name of the best. The House of Iseul still sponsors a booth here in the Square. But it sells bits and handfuls of most things and not the quantities you describe. For that, it would be best to see the clerks at the Trade House proper.”
    “All right,” Sparrow agreed readily. “Where is this House?”
    “Not far — along here.” The old woman stooped over the city model, pointing with a stick that had been resting against the backside of her bench. “See the alley just between this Market Square and the court for the Beast Sellers?”
    “Aye, I know the street. Off the sou-west corner. Mostly has weavers and clothiers, doesn’t it?”
    “The one and same.” The woman actually smiled, and Sparrow grinned right back. Then the young woman remembered the payment, and she straightened to unlash the gourd from her sash, asking, “Would you take a meal or prefer coin?”
    “Oh… the pastie would be fine, Min.” The old woman’s eyes watered with near tears. The workhouses supplied gruel for breakfast and fish stews for eventide, but mid-day was never more than the two wedges of