The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(3)
Devon had no idea who she was talking to, and perhaps she didn’t, either. With the duchess, it rarely mattered. While Devon spent more time with Her Ladyship than many, he hadn’t seen her often. The duchess sought him out only when she required advice on ducal economics, which had brought them together only a few times—although more often lately as she had embarked on a new endeavor. Even so, a dozen summonses, a few carriage rides, and a talk or two hadn’t provided him enough information to know, much less understand, the new duchess. Devon doubted even the duke understood the actions of his new wife.
“Hullo! You there!” she shouted to the merchant, a dark-skinned Calian with shifty eyes. They all had the same way about them as far as Devon was concerned. Calians were devious savages who dressed in the costumes of cultured society but fooled no one. “Hullo! How much for the vest? That blue one up there on the rack, the one with the shiny brass buttons.”
The man beamed a lecherous grin. “For you, good lady, just two gold tenents.” His voice was thick with an untrustworthy far-eastern accent, every bit what Devon expected—the sort of voice Deceit itself would use.
“Outrageous!” De Luda balked, shuffling up behind her. That was the trouble with these cart-shop merchants: They swindled the innocent and inexperienced. They talked as if unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime deals were being offered, but later the swindled buyer would discover the diamond was quartz or the wine, vinegar.
“I’ll give you seven silver tenents,” the duchess replied. “Devon, give this man seven silver tenents and—”
The merchant frowned and shook his head. “For seven silver, I have a nice handkerchief for you. For a gold tenent and eight silver, I could part with the vest.”
“Your Ladyship, it’s unseemly for the Duchess of Rochelle to haggle in the street with a—” He scowled at the Calian merchant, who waited for the slur that didn’t come. Normally, De Luda wasn’t shy, but in the past three months, he had discovered that the duchess took issue when people were insulted in her presence, no matter how well deserved the remark.
“I don’t care. Leo will be thrilled, and oh, how I can’t wait to see him in that vest! Don’t you think he’ll look marvelous?” When the merchant lowered the garment from its hook, she spotted a bright-yellow coat that had been hidden behind. “Dear Maribor! Would you look at that jacket? It’s even more divine!”
Grabbing Devon’s arm, she shook it violently, overwhelmed with enthusiasm. This wasn’t the first throttling at her hands, but he knew a firm jostle was infinitely better than a hug. Her hugs were notorious. The duchess passed them out so liberally, and so violently—even to the staff—that many an individual changed course after spotting her in the halls of the Estate.
“I must have them both. Leo’s birthday is coming up, and that jacket will make him feel young again. He’s turning forty, you know, and no one likes crossing that threshold. I nearly cried the morning I turned thirty. Time sneaks up on one, doesn’t it? Pounces like a wicked cat from the shadows when you least expect it. And thirty is a ditch compared with the canyon that is forty. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Leo needs the vest and will love that jacket. These are not the garments of a stodgy, no-account, forty-year-old duke; it’s the attire of a young and handsome man whose star is rising.” The duchess glared at the merchant. “One gold, no silver, for both jacket and vest.”
The merchant laid out the vest out on the counter before them, shaking his head. “My dear lady, this is imported silk from eastern Calis, extraordinary workmanship. For months, it rode in a caravan through the panther-and cobra-infested jungles of the dreaded Gur Em.” He accompanied his outlandish tale with hand gestures as if putting on a children’s show, going so far as to reach out with claws when he mentioned the panther. “Many died delivering this rare and beautiful cloth. Only master seamstresses are granted access to such material, for one wrong snip or a misplaced cut could result in a devastating loss. You, of course, appreciate the skill required to create such a masterpiece, so I’ll part with it for one gold, six silver for the vest, and an additional two gold for the coat.”
The duchess ran a pudgy hand over the shimmering material. “I think not, but the bit about the master seamstresses was a nice touch.” She gave him a friendly smile—the only sort she knew how to make. “This is common Vintu silk, farmed in the Calian lowlands along the southern coast of the Ghazel Sea. It sells in Dagastan for five silver dins per yard in any number of thrift shops. But sometimes, in spring mostly, you can find a bundle for four and some change. The parcel this came from was likely imported via the Vandon Spice Company and bought wholesale for three silver a yard and shipped here in less than two weeks as part of their usual rotation. Granted, the VSC likes to add exorbitant markups, and I’m sure that raised the price considerably, but there were no panthers, cobras, or deaths.”
Devon was stunned. Duke Leopold’s new wife, who insisted on being called Genny rather than the more formal Genevieve, was full of surprises—most of them disturbing and more than a little cringeworthy—but the duchess’s command of the mercantile industry was undoubtedly vast.
Still, the Calian didn’t lose a beat. He frowned, spread his hands apart, and shook his head. “I am but a poor merchant. Such a great lady as you won’t even notice the loss of a few pitiful coins. Yet for me, this sale could feed my wife and poor children for weeks.”