The threshold market

The next stop had a name engraved on a bone plate: the Market of the Thresholds. Travelers entered through a sloping corridor, between two pillars covered with small copper rings. Each ring indicated the price of a service: water, lamp, guide, repair, shelter. Some were empty. Others carried wooden chips.

Veli had told them not to believe that a market was neutral because its prices were displayed. He hadn't explained to them what he meant.

A gray-skinned woman was waiting for them near a scale. She was wearing a wool jacket and a butcher's knife on her belt. Her name was Dorga, mayor of the market. She greeted Ressa's guide, then examined the group without dwelling on their weapons.

"Did you pay for the ticket?"

"So far, yes," Zaelyra replied.

"Then you are entitled to the common court, a ration of water per person and the examination of your maps by the council. Nothing beyond that."

"Can we buy a guide?" asked the merchant.

"You can ask for one. He doesn't have to accept."

"What if no one accepts?"

"You can wait or leave."

The merchant blew through his nose, but he did not insist.

Dorga made them fill the passing tokens. Each traveler had to indicate his name, or specify that he would not give one. Those who refused would receive a temporary sign, recognizable by the guardians but useless to trace their origin.

Kethra looked at the copper rings hanging above the scale. "Travelers can exchange their tokens?"

"No."

"Even if someone wants to give theirs?"

"He can do it, but we don't record the change. The service remains associated with the one who requested it."

"What if someone sells a token?"

"Then we get it back."

The rule limited abuses, but it did not prevent them. Zaelyra tells Dorga.

"No rule prevents them," replied the steward. "We only decide what we will do when they arrive."

The common courtyard was already full. A caravan was waiting in front of the south door; its carts were covered and its drivers were talking in a low voice. An old dwarf was repairing a wheel, while two drows were negotiating a place on a convoy that had to leave for the east.

The light came from green glass globes hanging from the ceiling. The room was more lively than the previous galleries. The children ran between the benches, but stopped every time a guard raised his hand. No one shouted at them; they knew the limits of the place.

Dorga explained to them that the market had no road. The guides sold their time, the communities lent passages, and the travelers could refuse the conditions offered. The tokens were used to prevent a single group from charging several times for the same service.

"Who decides when a road is closed? Zaelyra asked.

"Those who live there, if we know who it is. Otherwise, those who maintain it."

"What if the two disagree?"

"So we don't sell it."

"You're losing money."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Dorga pointed to the south door. "Because we have already paid too much for the roads that someone claimed to own."

A bell rings in the courtyard. The southern caravan had just received a passage plate. A man in a gray coat took it and turned it in his hand.

Kethra stiffens. "The Watchman."

Zaelyra followed his gaze. The man did not resemble the figure she had imagined. He was smaller, younger perhaps, the coat worn to the seams. A stoneless ring shone in his right hand.

Kethra took a step.

Zaelyra put her hand in front of her, without touching her. "Maybe it's not him."

"I know."

"Do you want to check?"

"Yes."

"Without accusing him."

"Yes."

Dorga had followed their exchange. "Do you know this man?"

"No," Kethra replied. "The ring and coat look like a description. It doesn't prove anything."

Dorga called the man. He came without resistance, the plate still in his hand.

"I was told that you were handing out maps," said the steward.

"I sell road information."

"Do you sell passages?"

"I don't have any passage."

"Do you use the brand of Mara's refuge?"

The man smiled. "I don't know what brand you're talking about."

Zaelyra asked to see the plate. He handed it to him without protesting. It was a plaque of the Market of the thresholds, authentic. There was no sign of the refuge. The gray coat and the stoneless ring were not enough to identify him.

Kethra observed his hand. "Have you ever seen this ring?"

"Probably. It sells at the market."

"And the name of the Watchman?"

"I was called that in the past."

"Where?"

"In the tunnels."

"Who called you that?"

"People whose faces I forgot."

Maybe the man wasn't lying. He had also learned to give answers that could not be verified.

Dorga asked him for his transaction record. He made a notebook with names, dates and sums. Several entrances concerned passages to the south. None mentioned Veyr or the Salines.

"Why did they call you the Watchman? Zaelyra asked.

"Because I kept a door during the exchanges."

"And you've never sold names?"

"I sell itineraries. Names are only useful to people who do not know how to follow a map."

This answer made Kethra shim. The man noticed it.

"Have you already met me?"

"Maybe."

"You accuse me?"

"I don't know who you are."

The man returned his notebook to Dorga. "She knows the price of roads. She knows that you can sell a passage without selling those who borrow it."

"Did you sell him something? Zaelyra asked.

"No."

Kethra gritted her teeth. "It's true."

"So you have nothing to blame him for?" asked the man.

"I have things to reproach myself for. That doesn't mean you're innocent."

Dorga cut short the exchange. She kept the plate and asked the man to stay at the market while she checked her records with the other stations. He accepted, but demanded that his name not be given to Menzoberranzan's guards.

"We have no reason to send it to them," Dorga replied. "Less you give us one."

The man returned to the courtyard. Kethra stood still.

"Was it him? Zaelyra asked.

"I don't know."

"You can wait for Dorga to check."

"Yes."

"And then?"

"I will decide with what I have learned."

The market offered them no guide for the evening. Two had left with the caravan, one refused to accompany such a large group, and the last one was waiting for a payment that they could not afford to provide.

Dorga granted them a night in the common courtyard. The next day, the council would examine the maps. They could leave without waiting, but would not receive a license plate for the road beyond the market.

Zaelyra accepted the wait. She didn't know if the Threshold Market would give them a route or just another series of questions.

This time, however, the rules were displayed above the door, and those who applied them had agreed to show their registers.

It wasn't trust.

That was enough to start.