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Not so the last five years. In that time they had slipped from comfortable to well-off, and then to what Ronica had come to think of as anxious.

The money went out almost as swiftly as it came in, and always it seemed she was asking a creditor to wait a day or a week until she could pay him.

Over and over she had gone to Ephron to beg his advice.

He had demurred to her, telling her to sell off what was not profitable to shore up what was.

But that was the problem. Most of the farms and orchards were doing as well as they ever had in producing.

But there were cheap slave-grown grain and fruit from Chalced to compete with, and the damned Red Ship Wars to the north destroying trade there, and the thrice-damned pirates to the south.

Shipments sent forth never arrived at their destinations, and expected profits did not return.

She feared constantly for the safety of her husband and daughter always out at sea, but Ephron seemed to class pirates with stormy weather; they were simply among the hazards a good sea-captain had to face.

He might come home from his own voyages and tell her unnerving tales of running from sinister ships, but all his stories had happy endings.

No pirate vessel could hope to run down a liveship.

When she had tried to tell him of how severely the war and the pirates were affecting the rest of the family fortunes, he would laugh good-naturedly and tell her that he and the Vivacia would but work all the harder until things came right.

Back then he had not been interested in seeing her account books nor in hearing the grim tidings of the other merchants and traders.

Ronica recalled with frustration that he had seemed able to see only that his own voyages were successful, and that the trees bore fruit and the grain ripened in their fields as it always had.

He’d take a brisk trip out to one of the holdings, give a cursory glance to their accounts, and take himself and Althea back to sea, leaving Ronica to cope.

Only once had she ever been bold enough to suggest to him that perhaps they might have to return to trading up the Rain Wild River.

They had the rights, and the contacts, and the liveship.

In the days of his grandmother and father, that had been the principal source of their trade goods.

But ever since the Blood Plague days, he had refused to go up the Rain Wild River.

There was no concrete evidence that the sickness had come from the Rain Wilds.

Besides, who could say where a sickness came from?

There was no sense in blaming themselves, and in cutting themselves off from the most profitable part of their trade.

But Ephron had only shaken his head, and made her promise never to suggest it again.

He had nothing against the Rain Wild Traders, and he did not deny their trade goods were exotic and beautiful.

But he had taken it into his head that one could not traffic in magic, even peripherally, without paying a price.

He would, he’d told her, rather that they be poor than risk it.

First she’d had to let the apple orchards go, and with them the tiny winery that had been her pride.

The grape arbours had been sold off as well, and that had been hard for her.

She had acquired them when she and Ephron were but newly weds, her first new venture, and it had been her joy to see them prosper.

Still, she would have been a fool to keep them at the price that had been offered.

It had been enough to keep their other holdings afloat for a year.

And so it continued. As war and the pirates tightened the financial noose on Bingtown, she’d had to surrender one venture after another to keep the others afloat.

It shamed her. She had been a Carrock and like the Vestrits, the Carrocks were one of the original Bingtown Trader families.

It did nothing for her fears to see the other old families foundering as hungry young merchants moved into Bingtown, buying up old holdings and changing the way things had always been done.

They’d brought the slave-trade to Bingtown, at first as merchandise on their way to the Chalced States, but lately it seemed that the flow of slaves that passed through Bingtown surpassed every other trade.

But the slaves didn’t flow through any more.

More and more of the fields and orchards were being worked with slaves now.

Oh, the landowners claimed they were indentured servants, but all knew that such ‘servants’ were routinely sent on to Chalced and sold as slaves if they proved unwilling workers.

More than a few of them wore slave tattoos on their faces.

It was yet another Chalcedean custom that seemed to have gained popularity in Jamaillia and was now beginning to be accepted in Bingtown as well.

It was these ‘New Traders’, Ronica thought bitterly.

They might have come to Bingtown from Jamaillia City, but the baggage they brought with them seemed directly imported from Chalced.

Ostensibly, it was still against the law in Bingtown to keep slaves except as transient trade goods, but that did not seem to bother the New Traders.

A few bribes at the Tax Docks, and the Satrap’s treasury agents became very gullible, more than willing to believe that folk with tattooed faces and chained in coffles were indentured servants, not slaves at all.

The slaves would have gained nothing by speaking the truth of their situation.

The Old Traders’ Council had complained in vain.

Now even a few of the old families had begun to flout the slavery law.

Traders like Davad Restart, she thought bitterly.

She supposed Davad had to do as he did, to stay afloat in these hard times.

Had not he as much as said so to her last month, when she had been worrying aloud about her wheat fields?

He’d all but suggested she cut her costs by working the fields with slaves.

He’d even implied he could arrange it all for her, for a small slice of the profits.

Ronica did not like to think of how sorely she’d been tempted to take that advice.

She was writing the last dreary entry into her account books when the rustle of Rache’s skirts broke her attention.

She lifted her eyes to the servant girl.

Ronica was so weary of the mixture of anger and sorrow she always saw in Rache’s face.

It was as if the woman expected her to do something to mend her life for her.

Couldn’t she see that Ronica had all she could cope with between her dying husband and tottering finances?

Ronica knew that Davad had meant well when he’d insisted on sending Rache over to help her, but sometimes she just wished the woman would disappear.

There was no gracious way to be rid of her, however, and no matter how irritated Ronica became with her, she could never quite bring herself to send her back to Davad.

Ephron had always disapproved of slavery.

Ronica thought it was something that most slaves had brought on themselves, but somehow it seemed disrespectful to Ephron to condemn this woman to slavery when she had helped care for him as he was dying. No matter how poorly she had helped.

‘Well?’ she asked tartly of Rache when she just stood there.

‘Davad is here to see you, lady,’ Rache mumbled.

‘Trader Restart, you mean?’ Ronica corrected her.

Rache bobbed her head in silent acknowledgement. Ronica set her teeth, then gave it up. ‘I’ll see him in the sitting room,’ she instructed Rache, and then followed the girl’s sullen eyes to where Davad already stood in the door.

As always he was immaculately groomed, and as always everything about his clothes was subtly wrong.

His leggings bagged slightly at the knees, and the embroidered doublet he wore was laced just tightly enough that he had spoiled the lines of it: it made his modest belly seem a bulging pot.

He had oiled his dark hair into ringlets, but most of the curl had fallen from them so it hung in greasy locks.

Even if the curl had stayed, it was a style more suited to a much younger man.

Somewhere Ronica found the aplomb to smile back at him as she set down her pen and shut her account book.

She hoped the ink was dry. She started to rise, but Davad motioned her to stay as she was.

Another small gesture from him sent Rache scurrying from the room as Davad advanced to Ephron’s bedside.

‘How is he?’ Davad asked, softening his deep voice.

‘As you see,’ Ronica replied quietly. She set aside her irritation at his calm assumption of welcome in her husband’s sickroom.

She also put aside her embarrassment that he had caught her at her totting up, with ink on the side of her hand and her brow wrinkled from staring at her own finely penned numbers.

Davad meant well, she was sure. How he had managed to grow up in one of Bingtown’s old Trader families and still have such a hazy idea of good manners, she would never know.

Without invitation, he drew up a chair to sit on the other side of Ephron’s bed.

Ronica winced as he dragged it across the floor, but Ephron did not stir.

When the portly Trader was settled, he gestured at her accounting books.

‘And how do they go?’ he asked familiarly.