‘You may have whatever you wish, mother of my heart. We’re home.’
And like a weight of stone lifted from her shoulders, the Lady of the Acoma knew this was so, for the first time since she had left for the Holy City of Kentosani.
Still tying strings from changing back to his house livery, Jican ran furiously from the estate house to the lawns, where huge pavilions were erected to house several hundred Lords, Ladies, noble children, First Advisers, honour guards, and their innumerable servants. There would hardly be room to move in the main house, jammed as the guest rooms would be with Almecho’s immediate relations and Imperial Whites. Selected servants would be housed in the barracks with the soldiers, with the overflow assigned to the slave buildings. The slaves, and the unlucky freemen to draw the short lots, would sleep under the stars for three days. Mara felt her heart warm at the loyalty of her servants and soldiers; for through the chaos and upheaval of her return, no one complained. Even the house servants had stood ready to defend Ayaki, though their farm implements and kitchen knives would have proved no match for the weapons of trained soldiers. Yet their bravery was none the less for that fact; and their loyalty was beyond the bounds of duty.
Touched by their devotion, and having hastily changed into fresh robes, Mara returned to the dooryard as the Warlord’s cortege heaved into sight in full splendour. The Imperial Whites were a machine of precision as they escorted their master from his litter. Trumpets blew and drums beat and Almecho, second only to the Emperor Ichindar in power, made his formal arrival before the Lady of the Acoma.
Mara bowed gracefully. ‘My Lord, I welcome you to our house. May your visit here bring rest, and peace, and refreshment.’
The Warlord of all Tsuranuanni bowed slightly. ‘Thank you. Now, would you keep things somewhat less formal than … our previous host did? Day-long celebration can be tiresome, and I would like an opportunity to speak with you in private.’
Mara nodded politely and looked to her First Adviser to welcome the two black-robed magicians and show them to their quarters. Pride had straightened the old woman’s shoulders, and in her indomitable mothering manner she took the two envoys of the Assembly of Magicians under her wing as if she had dealt with their kind all her life. Mara shook her head, marvelling at Nacoya’s resilience. Then she let the Warlord take her arm, and the two of them walked alone into the peaceful stillness of the garden she preferred for meditation.
Four warriors stood guard at the entrance, two wearing green and two the white of the Imperial Guard. Pausing by the rim of the fountain, the Warlord removed his helm. He sprinkled water over damp greying hair, then faced the Lady of the Acoma. Beyond the hearing of guests and servants he said, ‘I must salute you, girl. You have proven your mettle in the game over the last two years.’
Mara blinked, not at all certain she grasped his intent. ‘Lord, I did only what was necessary to avenge my father and brother and preserve the existence of my house.’
Almecho laughed, and his bitter humour sent small birds winging from the treetops. ‘Lady, what do you think the game is, if not to remain while you dispose of enemies? While others have been flitting around the High Council nattering at one another over this alliance and that, you have neutralized your second most powerful rival – turning him into a reluctant ally, almost – and destroyed your most powerful enemy. If that isn’t a masterful victory in the game, I’ve never seen anyone play.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘That dog Jingu was growing a little too ambitious. I believe he plotted to dispose of three opponents: you, the Lord of the Anasati, and then me. Tecuma and I are somewhat in your debt, I think, though you certainly didn’t act on our behalf.’ He trailed his fingers thoughtfully through the water; small currents rose up and roiled the surface, just as the currents of intrigue ran always beneath the affairs of the Empire. The Warlord regarded her keenly. ‘Before I leave you, I want you to know this: I would have let Jingu kill you, if that was your fate. But now I am pleased you lived and not he. Still, my favour is scant. Just because no woman has ever worn the white and gold before, don’t think I count your ambition any less dangerous, Mara of the Acoma.’
Somewhat overwhelmed by this endorsement of her prowess, Mara said, ‘You flatter me too much, Lord. I have no ambition beyond the desire to see my son grow in peace.’
Almecho placed his helm upon his head and motioned for his guards to return. ‘I don’t know, then,’ he reflected, half to himself. ‘Who is to be more feared, one who acts from ambition or one who acts for the needs of survival? I like to think we can be friendly, Lady of the Acoma, but my instincts warn me you are dangerous. So let us just say that for now we have no reason to be at odds.’
Mara bowed. ‘For that I am very grateful, my Lord.’
Almecho returned the bow, then departed to call servants to attend his bath. As Mara followed him from the garden, Keyoke saw his Lady and came at once to her side. Tape …’ he said.
Mara nodded in shared sympathy. ‘He died a warrior, Keyoke.’
The Force Commander’s face showed nothing. ‘No man can ask for more.’
Certain that Nacoya was acting in all her glory with the guests, Mara said, ‘Walk with me to the glade of my ancestors, Keyoke.’
The Force Leader of the Acoma shortened stride to match that of his slight mistress and silently opened a side door. As they left the main house, and birdsong replaced the talk of guests and servants, Mara sighed. ‘We shall need a new First Strike Leader.’
Keyoke said, ‘Your will, mistress.’
But Mara kept her opinion to herself. ‘Who is the best for the position?’
Keyoke seemed unusually expressive as he said, ‘It galls me to say it, but despite his less than seemly attitude at times, no man is better able than Lujan. Tasido has been with us longer and is a better swordsman … but Lujan is among the best I’ve seen in tactics, strategy, and leading men since’ – he hesitated – ‘well, since your father.’
Mara raised her eyebrows. ‘That good?’
Keyoke smiled, and his humour was so unexpected that Mara stopped in her tracks. She listened as her Force Commander qualified. ‘Yes, that good. He’s a natural leader. That’s the reason Papewaio came to like the rascal so quickly. And if your First Strike Leader had survived he’d be telling you the same. Had the Lord of the Kotai lived, Lujan would probably already be a Force Commander now.’ By the hint of pain beneath Keyoke’s tone, Mara understood how much like a son Papewaio had been to this old campaigner. Then his Tsurani self-discipline fell back into place and the old warrior was as she had always known him.
Glad of his choice, Mara said, ‘Then name Lujan First Strike Leader, and promote a Patrol Leader to take his place.’ They passed beneath the trees, where once Papewaio had knelt and begged to take his life with his sword. With a pang of sorrow for his passing, Mara considered what might have happened had she not reinterpreted tradition concerning the black scarf of the condemned. A shiver touched her spine. How delicate was the thread of progression that had preserved her life.
Strangely abrupt, Keyoke stopped. Ahead lay the guarding hedges at the entrance to the glade, and the Force Commander traditionally might accompany her that far. Then Mara saw that a lone figure awaited her, before the contemplation glade of her ancestors. The red and yellow helm in his hands was familiar, gleaming in the copper light of latest afternoon; and the scabbard at his side held no weapon.
Mara gently dismissed her Force Commander and stepped forward to meet the Lord of the Anasati.
Tecuma had brought no honour guard. The scarlet and yellow armour of his family creaked in the stillness as he offered greeting. ‘My Lady.’
‘My Lord.’ Mara returned his slight bow, aware that the birds in the trees had fallen silent at the coming of sundown.
‘I hoped to find you here. Since the last time we exchanged words in this place, I thought it appropriate to make a new beginning on the same soil.’ He glanced to the chattering throng of guests crowding the dooryard, and the bustle of the servants who attended them. ‘I expected the next time I trod this grass, I’d see orange-clad warriors swarming over it, not revellers come to honour you.’
‘They come to honour the Warlord,’ corrected Mara.
Tecuma studied the face of his daughter-in-law, as if truly seeing her for the first time. ‘No, Lady. They celebrate Almecho’s birthday, but they truly honour you. There will never be love between us, Mara, but we have Ayaki in common. And I dare to think we share a respect for one another.’
Mara bowed, lower than ever before. In all sincerity she said, ‘We have that, Tecuma. I have no regrets, save that good men have been made to suffer …’ Her mind turned to her father, brother, Papewaio, and even Buntokapi, and she added, ‘And to die. What I have done was for the Acoma, and all that shall be Ayaki’s someday. I hope you understand.’
‘I do.’ Tecuma gathered himself to leave, then shook his grey head, unwilling humour showing through his poise. ‘I truly do. Perhaps when Ayaki comes to his majority and rules, I may find it in my heart to forgive what you have done.’
Mara wondered at the strange way that events could turn in the Game of the Council. ‘I am glad at least that for now we have no reason to be at odds,’ she said.
‘For now.’ Tecuma sighed with something very close to regret. ‘Had you been my daughter, and Bunto Lord Sezu’s son … who knows what could have been possible?’ Then, as if the matter were forever put aside, he placed his helm on his head. The hair stuck out at odd angles over his ears, and the ornamented strap swung against his neck, but he did not look the least bit foolish. Rather he looked a ruler, with years of life behind and more yet to come, with age and wisdom, experience and knowledge, a master of his office. ‘You are a true daughter of the Empire, Mara of the Acoma.’
Left no precedent upon which to model a response, Mara could only bow deeply and accept the accolade. Overwhelmed by emotion, she watched Tecuma walk back to rejoin his retinue. All alone, she entered the contemplation glade of her ancestors.
The path to the natami seemed changeless as time. Sinking down on the cool earth where many an ancestor had knelt ahead of her, Mara ran her fingers over the shatra bird carved into the stone. Quietly, but in a voice that trembled with joy, she said, ‘Rest you well, my father, and you, my brother. He who took your lives is now but ashes, and your blood is avenged. The honour of the Acoma is intact, and your line preserved.’
Then tears came unbidden. Years of fear and pain lifted from Mara’s spirit.
Overhead, the fluting call of a shatra bird called the flock to take wing in celebration of sundown. Mara wept without restraint, until lantern light glowed through the hedges and the distant sounds of festivities filled the glade. All her struggles had borne fruit. She knew peace for the first time since Keyoke had fetched her from the temple; and somewhere upon the Great Wheel the shades of her father and brother rested peacefully, their pride and honour restored.
Filled with the deep satisfaction of victory, Mara arose. She had a household full of guests to attend to … and the Game of the Council would continue.
We find ourselves deeply indebted to many people for much of what appears in this book. We would like to publicly offer our heartfelt thanks for their contributions, intentional or otherwise:
To the Friday Nighters, whose affection for games introduced REF to many wonderful ideas that were used in two worlds, and the many writers of those games, most especially those at Midkemia Press.
To Kyung and Jon Conning, who gave JW a red-carpet tour of their home in Korea which added immeasurably to the colour in this book.
To Virginia Kidd, for making it easy for JW to say yes, and for years of wise counsel and friendship.
To our editors, Adrian Zackheim, who started with us, and Jim Moser, who was there at the finish.
To Richard C. Freese, for caring above and beyond duty’s call.
To Elaine Chubb, for making us look good.
To Daniel P. Mannix IV for both being an example of what a writer is, and for giving us a terrific place to work (the ducks notwithstanding).
And to Barbara A. Feist for putting up with one of us.
Raymond E. Feist
Janny Wurts
Frazer, PA, June, 1986
Book Two of the Empire Trilogy
Dedicated to the memory of
Ron Faust,
always a friend
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Slave
Chapter Two: Planning
Chapter Three: Changes
Chapter Four: Vows
Chapter Five: Entanglement
Chapter Six: Diversions
Chapter Seven: Target
Chapter Eight: Reconciliation
Chapter Nine: Ambush
Chapter Ten: Masterplot
Chapter Eleven: The Desert
Chapter Twelve: Snares
Chapter Thirteen: Realignment
Chapter Fourteen: Celebration
Chapter Fifteen: Chaos
Chapter Sixteen: Regrouping
Chapter Seventeen: Grey Council
Chapter Eighteen: Bloody Swords
Chapter Nineteen: Warlord
Chapter Twenty: Disquiet
Chapter Twenty-One: Keeper of the Seal
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tumult
Chapter Twenty-Three: Sortie
Chapter Twenty-Four: Breakthrough
Chapter Twenty-Five: Confrontation
Chapter Twenty-Six: Resolution
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Beginnings
The breeze died.
Dust swirled in little eddies, settling grit over the palisade that surrounded the slave market. Despite the wayward currents, the air was hot and thick, reeking of confined and unwashed humanity mingled with the smell of river sewage and rotting garbage from the dump behind the market.
Sheltered behind the curtains of her brightly lacquered litter, Lady Mara wafted air across her face with a scented fan. If the stench troubled her, she showed no sign. The Ruling Lady of the Acoma motioned for her escort to stop. Soldiers in green enamelled armour came to a halt, and the sweating bearers set the litter down.
An officer in a Strike Leader’s plumed helm gave his hand to Mara and she emerged from her litter. The colour in her cheeks was high; Lujan could not tell if she was flushed from the heat or still angered from the argument prior to leaving her estate. Jican, the estate hadonra, had spent most of the morning vigorously objecting to her plan to purchase what he insisted would be worthless slaves. The debate had ended only when she ordered him to silence.
Mara addressed her First Strike Leader. ‘Lujan, attend me, and have the others wait here.’ Her acerbity caused Lujan to forgo the banter that, on occasion, strained the limits of acceptable protocol; besides, his first task was to protect her – and the slave markets were far too public for his liking – so his attention turned quickly from wit to security. As he watched for any sign of trouble, he reasoned that when Mara busied herself in her newest plan she would forget Jican’s dissension. Until then she would not appreciate hearing objections she had already dismissed in her own mind.
Lujan understood that everything his mistress undertook was to further her position in the Game of the Council, the political striving that was the heart of Tsurani politics. Her invariable goal was the survival and strengthening of House Acoma. Rivals and friends alike had learned that a once untried young girl had matured into a gifted player of the deadly game. Mara had eluded the trap set by her father’s old enemy, Jingu of the Minwanabi, and had succeeded with her own plot – forcing Jingu to take his own life in disgrace.
Yet if Mara’s triumphs were the current topic of discussion among the Empire’s many nobles, she herself had barely paused to enjoy the satisfaction of her ascendancy. Her father’s and brother’s deaths had taken her family to the brink of extinction. Mara concentrated on anticipating future trouble as she manoeuvred to ensure her survival. What was done was behind, and to dwell on it was to risk being taken unawares.
While the man who had ordered the death of her father and brother was finally himself dead, her attention remained focused on the blood feud between House Acoma and House Minwanabi. Mara remembered the unvarnished look of hatred on the face of Desio of the Minwanabi as she and the other guests passed his father’s death ceremony. While not as clever as his sire, Desio would be no less a danger; grief and hatred now turned his motives personal: Mara had destroyed his father at the height of his power, while he hosted the Warlord’s birthday celebration, in his own home. Then she had savoured that victory in the presence of the most influential and powerful nobles in the Empire as she hosted the Warlord’s relocated celebration upon her own estates.
No sooner had the Warlord and his guests departed Acoma lands than Mara had embarked on a new plan to strengthen her house. She had closeted herself with Jican, to discuss the need for new slaves to clear additional meadow-lands from the scrub forests north of the estate house. Pastures, pens, and sheds must be completed well before calving season in spring, so the grass would be well grown for the young needra and their mothers to graze.
As Acoma second-in-command, Lujan had learned that Acoma power did not rest upon her soldiers’ loyalty and bravery, nor upon the far-held trading concessions and investments, but upon the prosaic and dull six-legged needra. They formed the foundation upon which all her wealth rested. For Acoma power to grow, Mara’s first task was to increase her breeding herd.
Lujan’s attention returned to his mistress as Mara lifted her robe clear of the dust. Pale green in colour, the otherwise plain cloth was meticulously embroidered at the hem and sleeves with the outline of the shatra bird, the crest of House Acoma. The Lady wore sandals with raised pegged soles, to keep her slippers clear of the filth that littered the common roadways. Her footfalls raised a booming, hollow sound as she mounted the wooden stair to the galleries that ran the length of the palisade. A faded canvas awning roofed the structure, shading Tsurani lords and their factors from the merciless sunlight. They could rest well removed from the dust and dirt, and refreshed by whatever breeze blew in off the river as they viewed the slaves available for sale.
To Lujan, the gallery with its deep shade and rows of wooden benches was less a refuge than a place of concealing darkness. He lightly touched his mistress on the shoulder as she reached the first landing. She turned, and flashed a bothered look of inquiry.
‘Lady,’ said Lujan tactfully, ‘if an enemy is waiting, best we show them my sword before your beautiful face.’
Mara’s mouth turned upward at the corners, almost but not quite managing a smile. ‘Flatterer,’ she accused. ‘Of course you are right.’ Her formality with Lujan became gentled by humour. ‘Though among Jican’s protests was the belief I would come to harm from the barbarian slaves, not another Ruling Lord.’
She referred to the inexpensive Midkemian prisoners of war. Mara lacked the funds to buy enough common slaves to clear her pastures. So, seeing no other alternative, she chose to buy barbarians. They were reputed to be intractable, rebellious, and utterly lacking in humility toward their masters. Lujan regarded his Lady, who was barely as high as his shoulder, but who possessed a nature that could burn the man – Lord or slave or servant – who challenged her indomitable will. He recognized the purposeful set of her dark eyes. ‘Still, in you the barbarians will have met their match, I wager.’
‘If not, they will all suffer under the whip,’ Mara said with resolve. ‘Not only would we forfeit the use of the lands we need cleared before spring, we would lose the price of the slaves. I will have done Desio’s work for him.’ Her rare admission of doubt was allowed to pass without comment.
Lujan preceded his mistress into the gallery, silently checking his weapons. The Minwanabi might be licking their wounds, but Mara had additional enemies now, lords jealous of her sudden rise, men who knew that the Acoma name rested upon the shoulders of this slender woman and her infant heir. She was not yet twenty-one, their advisers would whisper. Against Jingu of the Minwanabi she had been cunning, but mostly lucky; in the fullness of time her youth and inexperience would cause her to misstep. Then would rival houses arise like a pack of jaguna, ready to tear at the wealth and the power of her house and bury the Acoma natami – the stone inscribed with the family crest that embodied its soul and its honour – face down in the dirt, forever away from sunlight.
Her robe neatly held above her ankles, Mara followed Lujan around the first landing. They passed the entrance to the lower tier of galleries, which by unwritten but rigid custom was reserved for merchants or house factors, and climbed to the next level, used only by the nobility.
But with Midkemians up for auction, the crowds were absent. Mara saw only a few bored-looking merchants who seemed more interested in the common gossip of the city than in buying. The upper tier of galleries would probably stand empty. Most Tsurani nobles were far more concerned by the war on the world beyond the rift, or in curbing the Warlord Almecho’s ever growing power in the council, than with purchasing intractable slaves. The earliest lots of Midkemian captives had sold for premium prices, as curiosities. But the novelty lost attraction with numbers. Now grown Midkemian males brought the lowest prices of all; only women with rare red-gold hair or unusual beauty still commanded a thousand centuries. But since the Tsurani most often captured warriors, females from the barbarian world were seldom available.
A breeze off the river tugged at the plumes on Lujan’s helm. It fluttered the feathered ends of Mara’s perfumed fan and set her beaded earrings swinging. Over the palisade drifted the voices of the barge teams as they poled their craft up and down the river Gagajin. Nearer at hand, from the dusty pens inside the high plank walls came the shouts of the slave merchants, and the occasional snap of a needra hide switch as they hustled their charges through their paces for interested customers in the galleries. The pen holding the Midkemians held about two dozen men. No buyers offered inquiry, for only one overseer stood indifferent watch. With him was a factor apparently in charge of issuing clothing, and a tally keeper with a much chipped slate. Mara glanced curiously at the slaves. All were very tall, larger by a head than the tallest Tsurani. One in particular towered over the chubby factor, and his red-gold hair blazed in the noonday sun of Kelewan as he attempted to communicate in an unfamiliar language. Mara had no chance to study the barbarian further, as Lujan stopped sharply in her path. His hand touched her wrist in warning.
‘Someone’s here,’ he whispered, and covered his check in stride by bending as if a stone had lodged in his sandal. His hand settled unobtrusively on his sword, and over his muscled shoulder Mara glimpsed a figure seated in the shadow to the rear of the gallery. He might be a spy, or worse: an assassin. With Midkemians scheduled for sale, a bold Lord might chance on the fact that the upper level would be deserted. But for a rival house to know that Mara had chosen to go personally to the slave market bespoke the presence of an informant very highly placed in Acoma ranks. The Lady paused, her stomach turned cold by the thought that if she was struck down here, her year-old son, Ayaki, would be the last obstacle to the obliteration of the Acoma name.
Then the figure in the shadows moved, and sunlight through a tear in the awning revealed a face that was handsome and young, and showing a smile of surprised pleasure.
Mara lightly patted Lujan’s wrist, gentling his grip on the sword. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘I know this noble.’
Lujan straightened, expressionless, as the young man arose from his bench. The man moved with a swordsman’s balance. His clothing was well made, from sandals of blue-dyed leather to a tunic of embroidered silk. He wore his hair in a warrior’s cut, and his only ornament was a pendant of polished obsidian hanging around his neck.
‘Hokanu,’ Mara said, and at the name her bodyguard relaxed. Lujan had not been present during the political bloodbath at the Minwanabi estate, but from talk in the barracks he knew that Hokanu and his father, Lord Kamatsu of the Shinzawai, had been almost alone in supporting the Acoma. This, at a time when most Lords accepted that Mara’s death was a foregone conclusion.
Lujan stood deferentially aside and, from beneath the brim of his helm, regarded the noble who approached. Mara had received many petitions for marriage since the death of her husband, but none of the suitors was as handsome or as well disposed as the second son of Kamatsu of the Shinzawai. Lujan maintained correct bearing. to the finest detail, but like any in the Acoma household, he had a personal interest in Hokanu. And so had Mara, if the flush in her cheeks gave any indication.
After the subtle flattery of recent suitors, Hokanu’s honest yearning for Mara’s approval was refreshing. ‘Lady, what a perfect surprise! I had no expectation of finding so lovely a flower in this most unpleasant of surroundings.’ He paused, bowed neatly, and smiled. ‘Although of late we have all seen this delicate blossom show thorns. Your victory over Jingu of the Minwanabi is still the talk of Silmani,’ he said, naming the city closest to his father’s estates.
Mara returned his bow with sincerity. ‘I did not see any Shinzawai colours among the retainers waiting on the street. Otherwise I should have brought a servant with jomach ice and cold herb tea. Or perhaps you do not wish your interest in these slaves to be noticed?’ She let that question hang a moment, then brightly asked, ‘Is your father well?’
Hokanu nodded politely and seated Mara on a bench. His grip was strong but pleasant; nothing like the rough grasp she had known from her husband of two years. Mara met the Shinzawai son’s eyes and saw there a quiet intelligence, overlaid by amusement at the apparent innocence of her question.
‘You are very perceptive.’ He laughed in sudden delight. ‘Yes, I am interested in Midkemians, and at my most healthy father’s request, I am trying not to advertise the fact.’ His expression turned more serious. ‘I would like to be frank with you, Mara, even as my father was with Lord Sezu – our fathers served together in their youth, and trusted one another.’
Though intrigued by the young man’s charm, Mara repressed her desire to be open lest she reveal too much. Hokanu she trusted; but her family name was too recently snatched from oblivion for her to reveal her intentions. Shinzawai servants might have loose tongues, and young men away from home sometimes celebrated their first freedom and responsibility with drink. Hokanu seemed as canny as his father, but she did not know him well enough to be certain.
‘I fear the Acoma interest in the barbarians is purely a financial one.’ Mara waved her fan in resignation. ‘The cho-ja hive we gained three years ago left our needra short of pasture. Slaves who clear forest in the wet season fall ill, my hadonra says. If we are to have enough grazing to support our herds at calving, we must allow for losses.’ She gave Hokanu a rueful look. ‘Though I expected no competition at this auction. I am glad to see you, but nettled by the thought of bidding against so dear a friend.’
Hokanu regarded his hands for a moment, his brow untroubled, and a smile bending the corners of his mouth. ‘If I relieve my Lady of her dilemma, she will owe the Shinzawai her favour. Say, entertaining a poor second son at dinner soon?’
Mara unexpectedly laughed. ‘You’re a devil for flattery, Hokanu. Very well; you know that I need no bribes to allow you to visit my estates. Your company is … always welcome.’
Hokanu stared in mock suffering at Lujan. ‘She says that very prettily for one who refused me the last time I was in Sulan-Qu.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Mara protested, then blushed as she realized how quickly she had spoken in her own defence. With better decorum she added, ‘Your request came at an awkward moment, Master Hokanu.’ And her face darkened as she recalled a Minwanabi spy, and a pretty, importunate boy who had suffered as a result of the intrigue and ambition that underlay every aspect of life in the Empire of Tsuranuanni.
Hokanu noted the strain that shadowed her face. His heart went out to this young woman, who had been so serious as a child, and who had against the greatest odds found the courage and intelligence to secure her house from ruin. ‘I will cede to you the Midkemians,’ he said firmly, ‘for whatever price you can bargain with the factor.’
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