The Merchant of Dreams Read Online Free Page A

gossip like all the other tall tales circulating back in London: that the skraylings bound elemental spirits into bottles, sacrificed human infants to their dark gods – though to Coby’s knowledge the skraylings acknowledged no gods, heathen or Christian – and that they had no females and were born from the bark of trees, which was certainly nonsense. Master Catlyn had explained that skrayling females preferred the safety of their island cities and did not wish to undertake the long and hazardous journey to Europe.
    Her train of thought was interrupted by a roar from one of the wrestlers, followed by the thud of bodies hitting the ground. A few moments later the crowd erupted into whoops of victory on one side and groans of disappointment on the other, and the match was over.
    The spectators began to disperse, only to come to a halt when they caught sight of the new arrivals. Or rather, Ruviq. Coby realised they were all staring at the boy in surprise and alarm. One of them, whose facial tattoos were almost identical to Ruviq’s, pushed through the crowd and threw his arms around the boy, exclaiming loudly in Vinlandic. Others crowded around them, their tone of voice questioning.
    She tried to explain in broken Tradetalk what had happened, but when she came to the part about finding the bodies, her throat closed around the words and tears began to stream silently down her cheeks. She held out the pouch.
    “These are all?” one of the skraylings asked.
    “Yes.” The word came out as a croak. She swallowed and tried again. “Yes. All.”
    Ruviq said something to the others in Vinlandic, miming pulling at his throat.
    “It was your necklace we found,” she said to him. “I think Mal – Catlyn-tuur – has some of the beads. Do you want them back?”
    “Blue-stones?”
    “No, only the lodestone ones.”
    He shook his head sadly. “Only the blue-stones were given to me by my father. I must make new.”
    “He would be proud of you,” Coby said, patting him on the shoulder.
    Her business completed, she bade farewell to the skraylings and set off to look for Mal. The light was already fading, and an icy wind whipped the waist-high bracken into a dark, rattling sea. Behind her, the skraylings’ voices rose in an eery song of mourning.
     
    The harbourmaster’s directions proved easy enough to follow. Mal skirted the coastward edge of the settlement and soon found a little stream, swollen now with winter rains, cutting through the thin skin of earth to reveal the island’s rocky skeleton. Soon it descended into a narrow defile that opened out into a sheltered dell looking out to sea. A single tent stood well back from the cliff edge. Sheltered behind it from the constant winds, fist-sized stones ringed a circle of ash.
    “Holla! Kiiren! Sandy!”
    After a moment a short, slight figure emerged from the tent and shaded his eyes to look up at where Mal was standing.
    “Catlyn-tuur!”
    Mal scrambled down the last few yards and Kiiren met him halfway across the dell, teeth bared in a very human smile. For a moment Mal saw again the unknown outspeaker lying dead with his shipmates in the Corsican tower. Kiiren hesitated, his concerned expression betraying the change in Mal’s own demeanour. Mal forced a smile.
    “Well met, old friend,” he said, and stepped forward to embrace the former ambassador.
    “There is not bad news about your young friend?” Kiiren asked, pulling back and peering around Mal, as if expecting the girl to be hiding behind him.
    “Hendricks is well. I came on ahead, to see my brother.” It was Mal’s turn to look around. “Where is he? How… how is he?”
    “He is much better since last time I wrote to you. Healing almost done.”
    Healing. Well, that was one way of looking at it.
    “He went down to shore,” Kiiren went on, “to gather food. Perhaps you would like to go to him?”
    “Sandy can wait. There’s something we should talk about, first.”
    Kiiren frowned. “It is so