Date: March 23r 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra's market met them with a cacophony that made yesterday's alleys pale in comparison. If the artisans' quarter was the city's heart, the central market was its eternally hungry stomach. Here, people didn't walk; they pushed, maneuvered, and fought for every inch of space.
Dur instinctively pressed his pack close with his elbow, where under a layer of spare clothes lay his meager treasures: a few marten pelts, still from Torm's forests, and a bundle of prime dried venison.
"Watch your feet and keep your purse in your teeth," Maël threw over his shoulder. "In Ligra, theft isn't just a crime, it's a local sport for those too lazy to join a guild."
They stopped at the edge of the trading rows, where money changers and junk dealers sat under awnings of coarse canvas. Maël fished a small shiny plate from his pocket—square, with a hole in the middle.
"Listen and remember, forest man. This is the language Ligra speaks. Alum. The smallest coin. One alum—one loaf of bread or a mug of cheap swill. Five of these make a Copper."
Maël flipped the coin with a click and caught it. "A hundred coppers make one Silver. On three silver, an ordinary worker lives for a month. And gold... you'll only see gold if you decide to sell your soul to the Agrim family or rob their treasury. A hundred silver for one gold round."
Dur frowned, trying to process this. At the orphanage, everything was divided equally; with Torm, the measure of value was meat and pelts. The mathematics of metal seemed overly complex. "Why not trade in things?" he asked. "A thing—it's real. You can't eat metal."
Maël smirked; a shadow of something Dur couldn't identify flickered in his eyes—either sadness or bitter experience. "Because metal doesn't rot and it's easier to hide from the tax inspector. Come on, that dealer by the scales looks honest enough... for a man who lives by deceit."
They approached a stall piled with all sorts of junk. Dur silently laid out the marten pelts. The trader—a corpulent man with slit-like eyes—carelessly fingered the fur with a dirty finger. "Worn. The animal was clearly old," he rasped. "Two coppers for the lot."
Dur felt a dull irritation rising inside him. He remembered tracking that marten for two days in an icy stream, carefully skinning it so as not to damage the fur. "Thick fur. Clean undercoat. Five coppers," Dur said firmly, copying Torm's intonation when he argued with the wind.
The trader laughed, baring yellow teeth. "Five? Kid, where did you drop from? The city's flooded with fur from the southern caravans right now. Three coppers, and that's my mercy."
Maël suddenly stepped forward, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Listen, honorable sir. We both know the southern caravans are stuck in the passes due to early floods. Fur prices in Ligra shot up last night when the messenger came to the western gates. My friend is a hunter, he could bring you goods every week. Want to lose a supplier over a couple of alums?"
The trader faltered. His gaze darted to Maël, assessing his confidence, then to Dur's stern face. "Four coppers and five alums," he grunted, scooping coins from a leather bag. "And get lost."
As they walked away, Maël poured the coins into Dur's hand. The metal was cold and heavy. "You knew about the caravans?" Dur asked. "No," Maël winked. "But I saw wool buyers bustling around the guild office this morning. If buyers are nervous, it means supplies aren't coming. Always watch the people, Dur. Market prices aren't the cost of things. They're the cost of human fear and greed."
They passed the grain rows, and Dur noticed the prices here were higher than those Maël had quoted yesterday. People frowned, whispering, looking at the emptying sacks. "Bread is getting more expensive," Maël noted quietly, and his cheerfulness instantly evaporated. "The Agrim family is stockpiling for the army. That means the war with Alvost is closer than they say in the official decrees."
Dur looked at his coins. They no longer seemed like just cold metal. They were his freedom, his chance to buy arrows, food, and the right not to bow to those who took people into "service."
"I need more of these," Dur said, clenching his fist. "Fur is chance. I need steady work."
Maël nodded, his gaze becoming serious. "Your skills are the only thing truly valuable here. The city is full of thieves, but few who can read a track in the mud or shoot a bird in the eye from a hundred paces. We'll find you a use, forest man. But remember: in Ligra, for every copper, you'll pay with a piece of your shadow."