MERCHANTS WITHOUT A COUNTRY
By a stroke of luck, the Rosewater managed to escape Slaver's Bay, now the Bay of Dragons, just before the battle that would result in this name change took place. This also means that the Rosewater escaped the chaos in the bay that followed soon after that, when the Mother of Dragons loaded her army of eunuchs and barbarians onto a great fleet, her eyes set on Westeros. Qasim, the balding, obsessive, and nervous man that captains the Rosewater, took these instances as the clear omens that they were: war will spill into the sea, and any merchant ship caught by an army in need of supplies is liable to be left barren and uncompensated.
So where is the Rosewater to go? Sailors in the port taverns speak of rumors that the Iron Fleet is already in the Narrow Sea, taking advantage of the unguarded coasts left behind by the inland Houses that now fight against one another. Some say that Euron Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, has allied himself with the new queen Cersei Lannister - such an alliance becoming necessary once the Mother of Dragons swallowed up the young man who claimed to be her younger brother. Salt encrusted taverns are alive with stories of how the Khaleesi tested the alleged Targaryen and found him wanting, and how Princess Arianne of Dorne, no longer bound by bonds of blood, has cast her lot with the Dragon Queen.
This means the Dornish coasts should be free of interlopers, thinks Qasim to himself. But this is not guaranteed: wild stories abound of what's washed up in the Iron Fleet's wake. Sailors give reports of a fleet of strange swan ships, made up of bright reds, greens, and yellows, flying flags of unknown origin. The newest rumors are that owners of these strange ships have overtaken Vintner's Bastion on the Arbor and Castle Starfall in eastern Dorne. Although fantastical, the rumors are not unfounded. Before they pulled up anchor at Myr, his first mate Gostanza, usually possessed of a serious and humorless disposition, showed him a coin of a make he's never seen before. A thick disc of gold, with foreign writing encircling a sun on one side and a long delicate feather on the other.
"They call it a gold quetzal," said Gostanza as she showed it to her captain, "if you were to smelt it down you would have enough gold to make two gold dragons and still have some left over to make earrings."
Qasim hasn't stopped thinking about it since.
As the Rosewater makes her way west toward Dorne Qasim takes the time to consult his figures. He doesn't need much more to be able to afford that house in Lorath, where he'll be on solid land, near the woods, and far from marauding fleets of belligerent nobles. In his captain's quarters, when the door is closed, he goes to the back corner near a porthole. With three quick taps he dislodges three false boards in the wall. From there he produces a leather bound book, which he takes to his desk.
He flips it open and squints at the numbers. Disbursements on the left page and receipts on the right, the book tallies the various trading seasons of his maritime life. This bifold system is something he picked up when he first opened an account with the Iron Bank. How long ago was that now? Qasim wonders to himself, must be, twenty, twenty five years next month. He'd been saving before then too of course, but an account at the Iron Bank must keep in balance a minimum of one hundred dragons - anything less is too trifling a sum for them to deal with. According to his little ledger, and the rate of appreciation the Iron Bank has promsed him, it will still be another seven years before he's able to retire like he wants to. And that's assuming all of those seven years are good ones. Considering there are warships in the Narrow Sea and the approaching winter, the prospect of good years seems dim.
If I could trade in gold quetzals, thinks Qasim to himself, I'd only need three and a half good years. But he doesn't know if the foreigners have that many gold quetzals they're willing to part with, nor even what they would want for them in the first place. Qasim turns to the latest page in his ledger. The numbers simply aren't as high as he wants them to be.
After an hour or so of triple checking his math in hopes of finding a favorable error, Qasim steps out of his quarters and out onto the main deck. The route he's chosen to get his ship from Myr to Planky Town veers far off into the more open ocean, necessarily so, in order to avoid running into hostile vessels. This long journey, although safe, does do something to the mind. All around him is the malaise: the crew sits around either playing liar's dice or gazing absent mindedly at some faraway clouds, murmuring to one another in hushed tones that a light rain might liven up the trip.
His first mate Gostanza is up at the helm, and with nothing else to do, Qasim decides to ask for his daily report.
"Well captain," says Gostanza, "I wish we had brought a board to play cyvasse. I'm getting real tired of liar's dice and there's only so many times I can hear Two-Eyed Tom tell that red priestess story before I just start wanting to wring his neck."
"Do you know how to play cyvasse?" asks Qasim.
"No," says Gostanza, "I thought you would."
"Haven't played since I was a boy," says Qasim, "mostly I play raz-anpia when I'm in port."
"Your tile game from Qarth," says Gostanza, "what is that one about?"
"You play as nobles trying to seize lands and raise armies," says Qasim, "a little less warlike than cyvasse. More about diplomacy than tactics."
"Hrmm," says Gostanza, "would you teach me to play?"
"I-" begins Qasim. An idea strikes him.
"How much would you pay me for learning raz-anpia?" asks Qasim.
"Captain, are you really-"
"Humor me," says Qasim, "we still have a week left before Planky Town. How much would you part with, to learn the game and use my tiles?"
"I dunno captain," says Gostanza, "let me think."
She thinks for a moment.
"You can use the pieces whenever," adds Qasim.
"I'd say," says Gostanza, "maybe fifty stags. Because of the pieces, as they're pretty and require craftsmanship to make. Otherwise there's no sense in knowing the rules of a game you can't play."
"Fifty stags," says Qasim, "a tidy sum."
"It's higher now because well we're at sea," says Gostaza, "had I the time, I could find a cheaper set."
But all folk find their minds cooked dizzy from the sun and worn down by the endless waves, thinks Qasim to himself.
"Am I really going to have to pay to learn raz-anpia, captain?" asks Gostanza.
"No no," says Qasim, "you get to learn for free."
By the time the Rosewater tosses anchor in Planky Town even Two-Eyed Tom can identify all the pieces necessary to play raz-anpia. Not all the men take to it - of the crew of fourteen four remained loyal to liar's dice - but most took it as a welcome relief to the tedium of the voyage. Once in port a few set out to find the materials to carve their own, or perhaps find a painted and lacquered set like Qasim's that some highborne lordling isn't paying attention to. Qasim encourages them to take advantage of their leave and gives them a fortnight. That's how long he'll need to secure a decent set of wares to sell.
With Gostanza at his side Qasim makes his way through the bustling market that sits adjacent to Planky Town's aging wooden docks. Nearest the water the air is thick with the briny smell of fish and the sounds of men shouting their work to one another. As one makes their way further into town this gives way to the leather and iron smell of merchants selling weapons and armor to sailors who might need to replace their armaments or who've found themselves with more plunder than they can carry. Further along in a great central square, surrounded on four sides by rickety wooden homes past their prime, is Planky Town's main market. Here the artisans shout out their prices and their wares at the top of their voices and spice merchants sweep their hands over small mountains of various exotic dusts.
"No more barley?" asks Gostanza, "no more wine?"
"No," says Qasim, "those won't sell."
"People everywhere need something to eat and drink captain," says Gostanza.
"That they do first mate Gostanza," says Qasim, "but there's no sense in trying to sell wine on the Arbor, nor grain so near to the Reach."
"The Arbor?" ask Gostanza. Then after a moment: "Ah, so we're chasing gold quetzals."
"Indeed we are," says Qasim, "which means we'll need a different set of goods."
Among the great chaos of stalls the captain and his first mate find for their cargo: Dornish olive oil, Lhazareen cumin, Qartheen garlic, even a jar of saffron, the red gold, as big as a man's head. The merchants they buy them from are as varied as their wares, old men, young women, and with the saffron, a pair of children with no parent in sight. Qasim closes their bargaining briskly each time. I might lose a little now, thinks Qasim to himself, but the foreigners won't have any routes out this far for spices if they've truly taken Starfall and Vintner's Bastion like everyone says, they'll still be busy trying to feed whatever army they've brought with them. That could also mean they won't be interested in spices, he thinks to himself. He tries to banish this thought from his mind but it has an unpleasant stickiness to it.
Or perhaps it's his second gamble that's stirring his worry.
Qasim and Gostanza depart from the central market and make their way toward the northern district where the artisans live. Here the streets go from dirt to cobblestone and the buildings from rickety to sturdy and clean. Qasim inquires in a few shops and is directed to the home of a sandy Dornishwoman by the name of Ara, widow of Martin who was once a lord's carpenter, who learned a great deal from her husband.
Her home is modest and doubles as her workshop. Like any good workshop the air inside is thick with the fine sawdust kicked up by the carpenter's steady work. From the doorway Qasim can see the artisan over by the window sanding down what looks to be a small table. Her hair is in a long braid that is more grey than black and her hands show their age by the practiced smoothness of their movement.
"Good afternoon," says Ara. She stops her work and approaches her prospective customers.
"Good afternoon," say Qasim and Gostanza.
"How may I be of service?" asks Ara.
"Do you have any sets of raz-anpia to sell?" asks Qasim.
"Raz-anpia," says Ara, "now that's a name I haven't heard in some time. Yes milord, I have three sets."
"Only three?" asks Qasim.
"I'm afraid so," says Ara, "in Dorne all anyone plays is cyvasse, which is challenging enough of a game to learn and master. There's not so much appetite to learn another."
"How many cyvasse boards do you have to sell?" asks Qasim.
"Ten milord," says Ara.
"We'll take the ten cyvasse boards and the three raz-anpia boards all," says Qasim.
Ara raises her eyebrows.
"Of course milord," says Ara, not without a small chuckle.
"How long would it take you to make more?"
"Well," says Ara, "the raz-anpia sets are a little quicker. Less tiles than cyvasse and you only need to make five kinds of pieces, all rather simple, instead of ten. The cards I can get from the old man down the street that makes parchment. I could make perhaps two or three of those a day. Cyvasse set takes a little longer because the pieces are more intricate,
"You could simply make the cyvasse pieces all coin shaped," says Gostanza, "and simply mark on them what piece they're meant to be."
"Of course," says Ara.
"Though the game does lose some of its prestige that way," says Qasim. He thinks for a moment, "can we commission you to make raz-anpia sets then?"
"I have a bit of work to finish first," says Ara, "but after that I certainly have time. How many would you like?"
"As many as you can make," says Qasim.
Raz-anpia is a game played with four players. The game begins with players taking turns placing their initial castles and armies on the board. Once that's done the game is played in rounds, with dice determining which castles earn food or iron or other resources. The cards allow the players to trade and deliberate, and the army pieces allow them to threaten and compete. Point are gained for armies, castles, workers, and resources, and the first to twelve points wins. Unlike in cyvasse were one must concentrate on the hard strategy of the pieces and the board in raz-anpia a player can play the more human game of wheeling and dealing. And it leaves less people to sit and watch, besides.
Although Qasim is wary of any of the pieces to the raz-anpia sets becoming lost overboard, he lets the crew play as many games of that or cyvasse as they want. From Planky Town they set out for the far side of the Arbor, or as the stories say it's now called, The Place of Berries, and once again Qasim has the Rosewater put distance between herself and the coastal waters. Thanks to the game sets however, the crew is less despondent than it was over the last leg of their journey. Even Gostanza seems to have taken to raz-anpia, especially when she wins.
Once they finally approach what was once the Arbor they see what all those tavern stories were talking about. On the horizon, just nearer to the Rosewater than the dot that is the island, is a ship that looks to be quite tall even at that distance. As it approaches all the details come into shape: swan ships of pale yellow wood, with lines of paint in green and red, flying curious triangular flags with foreign insignias.
"Captain?" asks Gostanza from the helm.
"Stay the course," says Qasim. He knows that should the foreigners prove unfriendly there's no way the few sabers they have on board will hold out against the combined strength of a swans ship full of warriors. But he cast this die back in Planky Town, and for once Qasim finds himself at a strange ease. All that's left to do is see.
The swan ship has the good fortune of a favorable wind and approaches the Rosewater with a speed that surprises Qasim. He's seen the graceful swan ships of the Summer Isles at sea before, and these foreigner's ships seem to be their equal. When the foreign swan ship comes close enough for the people on board to come into focus it pulls to starboard, just in the Rosewater's path. At the very tip of it's bow a man waves his arms in the universal style of a person seeking another's attention.
"Bring her around," says Qasim upon seeing this.
The size of the foreign swan ship comes into clear relief as the Rosewater pulls alongside it - easily twice as long and with another set of floors so that it's main deck stands clear above the Rosewater's.
Qasim's fear rushes back to him then. There at the mast with Gostanza he has the sudden urge to jump overboard, but he remains stable enough to know this would not save him.
"Good day sailors," says a voice from above, "My name is Dimarus, I speak for the captain of the Amistli, do we have your permission to board your ship?"
"Would you respect my decision if I said no?" asks Qasim.
"It's not up to me captain," says Dimarus, "but they wouldn't, no."
"You may board," says Qasim.
A rope ladder comes down and with it come seven people. Of these seven only one is Westerosi. The man that Qasim presumes to be Dimarus is a pale man, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the weathered features of a young man aged by the sea. The other six are the foreigners - what do the stories call them? The Atlacal.
In truth, they don't seem initially so different from Qasim. Like him they have brown skin, although theirs seems to have a slightly richer hue. They have black hair like him, or well, like how he used to have. From there however their differences confuse him. High cheekbones, hunched noses, and almond-like eyes - almost like those of travellers from Yi Ti. A curious garb that reminds him something of the Dothraki, something of Lys, and something of the Summer Isles.
The four men carry maces of obsidian under their red cloaks and are protected by brown and red armor that looks like a strange leather at first glance. The two women wear blue cloaks, and tunics in a lighter blue, with belts heavy with bags of who knows what. It's these latter two that accompany Dimarus when he steps forward to speak.
"Who may I ask is the captain?" asks Dimarus, projecting his voice loud.
"That would be me," says Qasim. He signals for Gostanza to remain calm and at he helm and goes over to the strangers. "I am Qasim."
"Captain Qasim," says Dimarus with a slight bow, "the Atlacal want me to let you know that you've entered into Alliance territory."
"Whose Alliance?" asks Qasim.
"That of the foreigners," says Dimarus, "they control the Arbor now."
One of the women in blue tunics gives Dimarus a look.
"Forgive me," says Dimarus, "The Place of Berries."
"Are you their captive?" asks Qasim.
"Yes," says Dimarus.
"Will they take us captive?" asks Qasim.
"No," says Dimarus, "only if you take up arms against then. Otherwise, they'll let you pass."
"Is that what you did?" asks Qasim.
"I served my liege lord," says Dimarus, "and now that my liege lord is dead I am his enemy's prisoner. Such is war."
Qasim looks from Dimarus to his handlers, then leans in a bit closer.
"Should we leave?" asks Qasim.
"We speak your tongue," says one of the women in blue, "you speak to us all."
"Pay your tribute," says the other woman, "keep peace. No harm come to you."
Qasim looks back to Dimarus.
"They can be bloody when they want to be," says Dimarus, "but so long as you don't raise your banners they'll leave you be."
"Good then that we don't have banners to raise," says Qasim.
The women in blue, who Dimarus says are called Needles, explain that the Rosewater will have to be searched for weapons, and that any found will be confiscated. When Qasim asks if he and his crew will be compensated for the confiscation, one of the four men in red pipes up and says:
"You life is you comm-pen-say-shun."
One of the women in blue says to him:
[[Silence Blade! Yours is not to do the talking!]]
Qasim finds himself unable to make heads or tails of this sing-song language, so unlike anything else he's heard during his maritime life.
With a bit of trouble the woman explains that the weapons are needed to secure Alliance territory, and that Qasim and his crew will have no need of them in these waters. Qasim doesn't believe this but he is in no place to resist.
Yet the rest of the voyage is quiet, and even once they arrive at the Place of Berries, in Caskport, there is little sign of agitation. Although the scars of the battles before remain and there is still flotsam and jetsam floating near the shore, the docks are already being repaired and the walls of buildings are being mended. Smallfolk - Westerosi smallfolk - go about their daily work bringing in the bounty of the sea or trading with the men who accomplish same. Amongst these is the occasional pair of red cloaked figures, the Blades, enforcers of the Triple Alliance. Unlike the Blades that Qasim saw on the ship that intercepted the Rosewater these are almost all pairs of women, and instead of obisidian maces they have iron sabers at their hips. The pairs of red cloaks don't seem to interact much with the smallfolk, they just patrol here and there, occasionally stopping somewhere to peer out over Caskport and converse with one another in their sing song language.
Unsure of what the rules of trade are now that the Atlacal comand the island, and once the Rosewater is moored to the dock, Qasim bids his crew stay with the ship as he, Gostanza, and Two-Eyed Tom go the Leaky Cask, tavern of sailors, to ask.
"They'll let you trade with anyone, pretty much," is what the proprietor tells him. For being in a war torn town the man seems chipper.
"Who is out here left to trade with?" asks Qasim, "the Redwynes - are they really all dead?"
"I don't think so," says the proprietor, "people say they're locked up in Vintner's Bastion somewhere, that the Alliance trots them out every now and again as proof of their mercy."
"And from nearby?" asks Qasim "Three Towers, Blackcrown, Oldtown?"
"Not much from those places ever since the Iron Fleet came through," says the proprietor, "between the Greyjoys raiding the Arbor and Oldtown and the Alliance sacking Starfall, sailors have been wary to try the waters."
"Hrmmm," says Qasim.
"But we're here, with gold to spend," says the proprietor, "in the evening their workers come to Casktown for food or drink and the coins they bring - you ought to see them. Bigger than a gold dragon, and they hand them out as easy as silver stags."
"You seem happy for their patronage," says Qasim.
"Well the fighting was unfortunate," says the proprietor, "but it was the Iron Fleet that did most of the pillaging and plundering. The Alliance delivered the final blow, true, but that was mostly in taking the Bastion and against the highborne. The smallfolk - well if anything, the smallfolk have done better under the Alliance than the Redwynes. Itzacoyotl - that's the name of one of their leaders - he broke up the land holdings of the highborne and started parcelling them out to the smallfolk who'd been living there the longest. People like owning the land they live on."
"He's given them land?" asks Qasim, "just like that?"
"Yes," says the proprietor, "oh he still ask for his share - their tribute they call it - but it's less than what the highborne asked for."
"How much is tribute?" asks Qasim.
The proprietor smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"It doesn't really matter now," says the proprietor, "the farmer's sons paid it for us."
Then the proprietor says something in the sing song of the Atlacal tongue: [[Noble is their sacrifice.]]
As predicted, when evening falls, the various folk of the Alliance enter the Leaky Cask for their dinner and drink. Most of them wear cloaks of green or yellow, and they come in all shapes, and sizes. The women tend to keep their hair long and in braids while the men shave it down into curious styles: sometimes just the sides with a streak on top like a horse, sometimes all around save for a knot of hair on top, some of them completely bald, sometimes long hair bunched together into a single tail. All of them tend to bunch together, only interacting with the Westerosi when they call out for a drink.
"Beerre!" they manage in their thick accents.
The proprietor directs Qasim to a foreigner wearing a blue cloak, a man with a shaved head whose age is impossible to pin down.
Good evening, says Qasim in High Valyrian.
The man says nothing.
Qasim tries again in the Summer Tongue and in the trade talk to no avail.
"I only speak the tongue of this place," says the man in the blue cloak, "and my own."
"Good evening," says Qasim in the Common Tongue, "I am Qasim, a spice trader from far away waters."
"I am Cuauh," says the man in the blue cloak, "a Needle of the Tlon."
"A pleasure," says Qasim, "I understand you are from far away waters yourself?"
Cuauh nods.
"And would you be interested in spices for trade? Perhaps some games of leisure?" asks Qasim.
"Trade?" asks Cuauh.
The two haggle over the prices - no small task given that Cuauh has never tasted cumin, garlic, or saffron, or ever played cyvasse or raz-anpia. With a snap of his fingers Qasim signals Two-Eyed Tom to reveal a few small jars of the spices in question. Cuauh takes them and opens each, sniffing the jar before pouring out some of the spice on his hand, then eating it.
"Tasty no? These are spices that you cannot find here on the Arbor-" begins Qasim.
"The Place of Berries," says Cuauh.
"Yes, forgive me," says Qasim, "you cannot find these here on the Arbor. They prefer different earths."
"Hmmm," says Cuauh.
"We have several barrels of each," says Qasim, "if you have kitchens working to feed your army I'm sure they would appreciate a new flavor to liven up the days."
Cuauh tastes a strand of saffron and smacks his lips as he appraises it.
"We would take payment in gold quetzals," says Qasim, "we've heard that is what you're people trade in."
"Gold," says Cuauh. He looks faraway as if his thoughts are still on the saffron, "indigene always want gold."
Qasim waits for him to continue.
"I understand a little," says Cuauh, "gold is pretty. Nice to wear on...how you say? Holy days. But even the Tlon doesn't need so much gold. You know what indigene tell me?"
He looks to Qasim, Gostanza, and Two-Eyed Tom now.
"He say he wants gold for to make a sword," says Cuauh, "can you believe? How useless. Is this what want? Gold sword?"
"Every man has a dream," says Qasim.
Cuauh grunts.
"For this, I give you gold," says Cuauh, motioning to the little jars, "but sell to Alliance, they pay in things. Leather leaf for smoke, xocolatl for spirit, maybe yakruna wood, if you can bring them more."
Those must be foreign spices, thinks Qasim to himsef, I might be able to sell those, but-
"We would prefer payment in gold," says Gostanza.
"And I prefer be home for ikualotl," says Cuauh, "but the wind spreads the kernel everywhere."
Qasim and Cuauh make their trade - a gold quetzal for an entire set of each of the spices. On seeing this the other Atlacal wander over to Qasim and his two crew and they start speaking in their curious tongue, asking Cuauh for a sniff of the spices and then extolling him to trade on their behalf. Swift business, until the jars run out.
"We still have a lot more offload," says Gostanza.
"We can load out and set out," says Two-Eyed Tom, "we trade what we have of cumin and garlic for this leather leaf and xocolatl and just sell those in Braavos. Braavosi pay a pretty penny for curiosities."
Qasim contemplates this. The Braavosi do like their rarities, but that route takes them back up the Narrow Sea, which he would like to avoid until this war between the Targaryen and the Westerosi Houses settles down. Depending on how much the Braavosi pay however he might just be able to make the sale up there then depart on a few days journey to Lorath, the last he'd ever have to take.
But seven years worth of money? All in one exchange? Well, maybe if I just made three and a half years, Qasim thinks to himself, could still find a home and nice land in the Lorathi forest with what I've got, just means I'd have to take up some little trade, a little work on the side, for my last luxuries. Still, even three and a half years worth of gold would be an impossible haul.
"Spice for spice," says Cuauh.
"Cuauh," says Qasim, "how many quetzals do you trade for leather leaf?"
"For leather leaf?" says Cuauh, "hmmm. In Ayamictlan, maybe one quetzal for a bag. But here, is more rare. Two, maybe three quetzals for a bag. This is good for you no?"
Qasim's eyes go wide.
"What makes it so valuable?" asks Qasim.
Cuauh laughs. He reaches under his cloak to reveal a wooden tube with a small bowl on one end. From a pouch he takes some shredded brown leaf, packs it into the bowl. On seeing this the proprietor begins shouting:
"No! No! Smoking outside!"
"I show him, I show him," says Cuauh as a form of excuse, "only to taste!"
He makes his way to the hearth and lights a piece of twine on fire, then sets the flame to the bowl. He breathes deep and then exhales a cloud of smoke. Qasim is reminded then of the Dragon Queen.
"Now you," says Cuauh, "breathe deep."
Qasim takes the pipe and does as he's told. Burning hot smoke fills his chest and coughs it back up, which causes Cuauh to laugh. Once he regains his breathe Qasim feels himself overcome by a wave of warmth, a soft fuzzy sensation just at the edge of his skin, and a vivid calm. His throat feels as if it's been burned but he finds this suddenly more tolerable.
"Leather leaf is good yes?" asks Cuauh.
The Braavosi would kill for this, thinks Qasim.
"Leather leaf is good," says Qasim.