Garinor decided he would take her offer of being smuggled out of town. He felt this was his best option for it was a direct plan of action and not three days of lingering around to earn a gold nugget. It also wasn’t him trying to venture off on his own without a single coin to his name.
Erina welcomed his decision warmly and told him he would need to move with haste. “There is a caravan leaving momentarily and you will need to be onboard.” He bit his lip in worry but she smiled and proffered a basket of wine and cheese. “You will bring this to the seamstress and she will take care of the rest.”
One of wash girls was pulled from her task to show Garinor the way. She had a mix of annoyance and relief at being taken from her post. “I suppose,” she said airily, “I ought to be grateful to you that I can do this errand with you and still receive my wages, but I still can’t imagine why it would take two of us to carry a basket.”
“I think it’s that I don’t know the way,” he admitted shyly.
“Oh,” she drawled sarcastically. “Well then I guess I’m just a walking map.” After that, she fell silent and refused to answer him. When they neared the place, she pointed to it and turned on her heel, leaving him to find his own way back.
Garinor, of course, had no need to know the way back, for he was leaving the city. He held the basket tightly and knocked on the door. A musical voice called for him to enter.
The main room was a blaze of color and pattern. Everywhere he turned he saw something different. It seemed as if every texture of cloth the woman owned was represented on her walls. But not only that, she also had numerous designs of clothes sketched out. Even with all the colors and details, the whole place seemed like it flowed from one end to the other. Clashing colors were kept apart and they were separated by neutral, taming colors that brought the whole place into harmony.
“Amazing,” he breathed. “I feel like I’m looking at music.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” the woman giggled.
He remembered his purpose after a few slow spins around the remarkable room and he offered her the basket. She took it quietly and dug deep inside to retrieve a letter.
“I see,” she smiled, looking at Garinor, then pulling one bottle of wine from the basket. “Erina bribes me today with her best wares.”
“I’m sorry to be a trouble.”
“No, no, not at all, young one. We help each other, she and I.” She showed him the bottle of wine. “But she seems to think highly of you if she sent you with this as an offering. It’s my favorite and there almost isn’t any left in the entire country.”
“You couldn’t buy more?”
Her laughter was as musical as the patterns splayed across her walls. “Dear, you can’t simply buy more. You see, each year only so many grapes can ever be turned into wine, and only so many bottles can be filled, and once everyone has drunk them all, then you only have a new batch of wine. Each year tastes different. Each method tastes different.” She eyed the bottle again as if it were a long-lost friend. “And now she tempts me with what must be her very last bottle. I really shouldn’t open it. You see, this bottle is over ten years old. Why it may even be as old as you, dear.”
Garinor couldn’t understand why anyone would want to keep an unopened bottle for so long and then debate about waiting even longer before drinking it. But he didn’t ask any more questions, which surely would have led to him feeling even more embarrassed.
“Well, come along then, little one,” she said at last, setting the bottle into the basket again and carrying it with her. “It won’t be long before they’re here, so we’ll need to work quickly.”
She brought him into a back room, where she had numerous rolls of fabric propped up against the wall. Garinor recognized most of the patterns from the samples hanging in the main room, but what caught his eye was the deep crate in the center of the room, its lid off and two rolls of silk set inside already.
He backed away from the crate. “You aren’t shutting me in there!”
Her laughter tinkled in his ear. “No, of course not.” She walked over to an immense wardrobe and withdrew a series of clothes. “These are too big for you, but if you don them over your current clothes they’ll seem more filled out.” She handed him three layers of clothes and he felt ridiculous as he slipped them on.
When he was done, she spent a few minutes with needle and thread, tightening up certain areas to make his arms and chest seem bulky with muscle. “You’ve worked for me for years, helping to protect my wares,” she informed him. She drew a hooded cloak about him and pulled the fabric together to cover his mouth, effectively hiding his face. “You are dreadfully allergic to wildflowers, dear, so keep your mouth and nose covered at all times.”
The boots were a different problem, for the only extra pair she had was much too large for him. She wouldn’t be daunted, however, and she stuffed some woolen scraps into the toes and under the base of his heel, which also had the effect of increasing his height a little. She found a pair of dark leather gloves and pulled them on him, securing the metal buckles around his wrists to keep them in place.
Finally she strapped a short sword to his left side after confirming his dominant hand. On his left side, he would be easily able to draw it with his right hand and slash in one stroke. “Because, Bogren, you know what you’re doing.”
So it was she created his new identity. He was the warrior Bogren, protector of fine silks, whose only weakness was pollen.
Bogren also appeared to be incredibly drunk as he staggered about in the stuffed boots and extra layers of heavy clothing. He had no idea how this was supposed to fool anyone, but the seamstress had further advice for him.
“Now, Bogren, you will do as you always do on these journeys. You will sit by the silk with your hand on your hilt and you will threaten anyone who dares try to make you move. A low growl will do and if you are pressed to respond, just say in the meanest snarl you can, ‘I don’t leave the silk.’”
He felt ridiculous practicing this, but with most of his face covered and his mouth muffled he decided he might as well play the part. He summoned the angriest tone he could and forced the words out.
“Excellent! Yes, that’s it. It would, of course, be to your advantage not to move at all or to leave the caravan once you’re underway. But when you’re gone, your fate is yours to choose. Mysteriously, I won’t remember sending you.” She smiled sweetly.
Garinor nodded his understanding and all that remained was to finish loading the silks into the crate and then to wait for the caravan’s arrival.
“Oh, and one last thing,” the seamstress added. “When you reach Fellanin, do hide. The soldiers will ask more questions than you’ll be ready to answer. Is that clear, Garinor?”
He almost answered, but his new name for the day was Bogren. He blinked his eyes but said nothing.
“Well done,” she commended. “Fine then, Bogren, do you feel ready?”
“I don’ leave the silk!” he growled, then both of them fell to laughing.
They were hammering the top of the crate shut when the caravan arrived. Garinor assumed his role of Bogren in earnest as four strong men entered to pick up the day’s shipment.
“Ain’t you helpin’?” one of them demanded when Bogren didn’t move.
Bogren grabbed for the hilt of his sword and narrowed his eyes with rage. “Go on, ask again.”
The man cowered and none of them spoke to him again while they loaded the cargo onto the caravan. The seamstress deftly explained Bogren’s presence and offered two silver coins for their trouble in having him along. With bulging eyes, they didn’t question the addition. They were even more pleased—and baffled—when he chose to sit with the cargo instead of up front where it was certainly more comfortable.
“Mus’ be some real fine silk,” the driver muttered then snapped the reins to start the journey.