Darkness Descending

Even so, the smile froze half formed on Talsu’s face. His father and sister also looked as much stunned as welcoming. The man standing before them wore tunic and kilt, not tunic and trousers. His coppery hair streamed out from under his hat. His mustache was waxed out to needle-sharp spikes; a little vertical strip of hair--not really a beard--ran up the center of his chin. He was, in short, an Algarvian.

“Hello. A good day to you all,” he said in accented but understandable Jelgavan. He swept off that hat, bowed to Traku, bowed to Talsu, and bowed more deeply to Ausra.

Slower than he should have, Traku answered, “Good day.” Talsu was content--more than content: relieved--to let his father do the talking.

“This is the shop of a tailor, is it not so?” the redhead said. He was, Talsu saw by his rank badges, a captain. That no doubt meant he was a noble. Coming out and telling him to take his business elsewhere was bound to cause trouble.

Traku must have reached the same unhappy conclusion. “Aye, it is,” he admitted.

“Excellent!” The Algarvian sounded as delighted as if Talsu’s father had told him he was about to win his weight in gold. His eyes, green as Dustbunny’s, sparkled with glee. Algarvians, Talsu thought, were funny people. The fellow went on, “For I require the services of a tailor. I would not come here for a cabinetmaker, is it not so?” He thought he was the funniest fellow around.

“You want me ... to make clothes... for you?” Traku sounded as if he didn’t believe it or, even, more as if he didn’t want to believe it.

But the Algarvian nodded. “You understand!” he cried, and bowed again. “You are, you must be, a man of great understanding. You will make for me a set of clothes, I will pay you, and all will be well.”

Talsu doubted that last. So, evidently, did his father, who said, “What kind of clothes... sir? How much will you pay me ... sir? When will you want them ... sir?

“You do not trust me?” The Algarvian sounded as if that had never crossed his mind. After a shrug suggesting the world was a crueler place than he’d imagined, he went on, “I want a good wool tunic and kilt, in civilian style, to wear for the coming winter. I will pay you silver, the price we agree by dickering, in the coin of either King Donalitu or King Mainardo--both circulate at par.”

“They shouldn’t,” Traku said. “Mainardo’s coins are lighter.”

“By law, they are at par,” the captain said. Talsu’s father kept quiet. He was a formidable man in a haggle, as Talsu knew. Talsu also knew his father had never made a kilt in his life. Traku didn’t let on about that, either. He just waited. At last, the Algarvian threw his hands in the air. “All right! All right! I will pay in Donalitu’s coin, or in silver by weight to match the price in Donalitu’s coin. There! Are you happy now?”

“Happy? No, sir. I haven’t got a lot to be happy about.” Traku shook his head. “But fair’s fair. Now then, if we come to a price--and you’ll pay me half beforehand and half when you get the clothes--when will you need this outfit?”

“Ten days,” the Algarvian said, and Traku nodded. That much, at least, proved easy. The redhead went on, “Price will depend on the cloth, is it not so?”

Traku nodded again. “Wool, you said? I can show you some samples, if you care to take a look. You’ll have to tell me how long you’ll want the kilt, and how full, and how many pleats and how deep. That will let me know how much material I’ll need.”

“Aye. I understand.” The Algarvian waggled a finger at Traku. “You are not to change for cheaper goods afterwards, mind.”

Traku’s father glared at him. “If you think I’d do that, you’d better find yourself another tailor. I’m not the only one in Skrunda.” Talsu knew how much Traku needed the business, but Traku said not a word about what he needed. Talsu was proud of him.

“Let me see your samples,” the Algarvian captain said. Presently, he pointed to one. “This weight and grade, in a forest green. Can you get it?”

“I think so,” Traku answered. “If I can’t, you get your half-payment back, of course.” He turned to Talsu. “Measure him, son. Then we’ll talk about the kilt”--he muttered something that might have been barbarous garment under his breath--”and then we’ll talk price.”

The Algarvian inclined his head. Talsu grabbed the tape measure. The redhead stood very still while he measured and took notes. Only after he’d finished did the fellow raise an eyebrow and remark, “I think you would sooner be measuring me for a coffin, is it not so?”

“I didn’t say that, sir,” Talsu answered, and gave the notes to his father.

Traku and the redhead talked about the kilt: its length, its drape, its pleating. Traku looked up at the ceiling and mumbled to himself. When he got done calculating, he named a price. The Algarvian screamed as if he’d been scalded--Talsu and Ausra both jumped, while the fur on Dustbunny’s tail puffed up in alarm. Then the Algarvian named a price, too, one less than half as high.