The boxes were all tied with twine, as they had been when she had given them to Velda, with a short description of the design written on the side. All except the one on top. The twine had been cut on that one.
“Shirts,” the man said. “The most amazing embroidery you will ever see.”
“Is that so?” Her fury climbed higher. So high, her hands shook as she pulled a scrap of fabric and her needle and thread from her pocket. “Where did you get them?”
For a moment he hesitated, shifting a little under her gaze. “From a source in Grimwalt.”
“Fine embroidery isn’t a high priority in a marching army.” She kept her voice neutral.
He twitched again, peering at her out of the shadows created by the canopy. “I was going to sell them in Fernwell, but if someone here wants to buy one . . .” He shrugged. “A sale’s a sale."
“A sale’s a sale,” Ava repeated as she bowed her head over the fabric, working in quick, sure movements. “Can I see the work? I’m a fair hand at embroidery myself.”
He seemed reluctant, suddenly. “Well, don’t touch, mind. The fabric is very fine, and I need to keep it clean.”
If anyone had touched those shirts . . . Ava had to breathe in deeply. They would be ensnared.
But she would first have to be sure.
The trader picked up the top box and lifted the lid, and there was her final work. The piece meant for her cousin. The shirt of blue and green feathers, thickly embroidered at the cuffs and hem, becoming less dense toward the top, with just one, single feather embroidered into the left shoulder.
“See?” The trader held the box in both arms and shuffled back so she couldn’t touch. “The artisan who created these is in a league beyond any I have ever seen, so if you are able to match—” He peered at the scrap of fabric she held out to him, and closed the lid with a snap, put it back on the pile, and snatched the fabric from her.
She held her breath.
She never knew how her spell casting would work, although she had twice worked something similar to this. Once in the dungeons of the fortress where she’d been kept, and once when she had needed to rescue Luc while they were on the run.
It had worked both times, but this was more ambitious than those had been.
“This is good, especially in the time it took . . .” He looked up at her, eyes suddenly a little unfocused.
“I am very happy to help you take these boxes back into your cart.” Ava gathered as many as she could into her arms. “It wouldn’t do to have stock meant for Fernwell out when you don’t intend to sell it to the Rising Wave.”
The trader blinked. “Thank you, you’re right.”
He took the last few boxes and Ava followed him around the back of the cart, and then climbed in after him.
“Where is a safe place to put them?”
He opened a wooden chest and stacked them inside.
“So tell me, really, where did you get them?” Ava sat down and the trader slowly sat on the now-closed chest.
“I was given them, didn’t even have to pay!” He chuckled as if he had shared a rare joke. “A family I know.” He lowered his voice. “Magical, it’s whispered, although I’m not sure about that. The work is magical, that’s probably where the rumor comes from.”
“What family is this?” She had thought the magical quality of her grandmother’s work was well known, and Velda, her grandmother’s housekeeper, had brokered this deal with the trader. Perhaps it was something known more at the Grimwaldian court than by the general population.
“The Yngstras.” He tapped his nose. “Very old family. Very well respected.”
“Why would they give you such beautiful work for free? It must have taken a lot of time to make.”
He leaned closer to her. “On condition they reached Fernwell, and one was sold to the Queen’s Herald. Imagine! I don’t know how they thought I could sell something into those circles. I never have before.”
“So you decided not to try? Even though you accepted the shirts?” She bit down on her lip.
“There’ll be no repercussions.” His smile was sly. “I heard the Yngstras are out of favor at the Grimwalt court. The new speaker of the court has made some changes in the last six months. Someone told me the only Yngstra left is on the run.”
“Who told you that?” Because their information was very accurate.
“One of the court messengers. I told him I was waiting to receive something from my contact with the family. He warned me off. Told me that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“But you did take them.”
“When I saw what they were . . .” The trader lifted his shoulders. “Who could have turned them away? They’re magnificent.”
“And the messenger didn’t try to take them from you?” She went cold at the thought.
“We left before he returned.” The trader glanced at her sidelong. “Well. We deliberately left before he returned. We were just grateful they were letting us go even though the border is supposed to be closed. They gave some messages to one of the traders to deliver to the court in Fernwell, and told us to keep quiet about it, but I had a very real fear they’d take the shirts for themselves, and no way was I letting them go.”
Perhaps he had touched the one with the flowers, Ava thought. That was the one she had instructed be sold first. It created a desperate craving to own it. Or one like it.
The first person to touch it would be the means by which the others would be sought out and snapped up.
Or perhaps the trader was just a greedy crook.
“Which trader has the messages from the Grimwaldian court?” Ava asked.
“Karl. He got paid well for it, too.” He leaned closer. “Said he’ll pay us for any information we overhear this afternoon from the traders from the Rising Wave.” He winked.
“It’s a pity you won’t hear anything useful then.” She would make sure someone knew about Karl and his messages before the day was over. “Do you want me to tell you how to sell the shirts to the lords of the court in Fernwell? And to the Queen’s Herald?”
“You know how?” He leaned back, astonished. His fingers smoothed over the scrap of working she’d given him again and again.
She had imbued compliance into the willow tree she had embroidered on the fabric. So he would bend to her will.
“I do.” Ava realized her hands were in fists, and she was speaking through clenched teeth.
She wanted to strike out at him, but she managed to fight the urge. She would surely win a better victory this way than knocking him down.
“What you do is find the address of a lord who is an attendee of the court, and you send the shirt with the flowers and leaves on it to the house, addressed to him, along with a bill for the shirt. Make it expensive.”
“Even though he hasn’t ordered it?” The trader frowned.
“Yes, even though he hasn’t ordered it. You pretend he has.” Whoever touched that shirt would want it, would have to have it. And would want to pay its worth, for bragging rights if nothing else.
“Make sure you put your city address on the invoice, so the lord can find you again, or send his friends your way. Because after seeing him in it, touching it, they’ll want one of their own.”