A
Morning Spent in Commerce at Street Level
- by Tarek al-Baz, writing
for The Southwatch Register
“Can you spare a
little?” asks of me the man with a noticeably irregular gait and
shoulders made lumpen by the self-made crutch beneath one arm, the
other hand (twisted, a knot of fingers about the cup of a palm)
outstretched in hope of a coin; yet who, it must also be noted,
appears well able to negotiate his way through the tightly-packed
throng at this intersection of Brick- and Bakerstown.
I shoo him away, and he
tugs at a slovenly cap in apologetic deference as I pass—but the
coin purse on my belt is faintly tugged. Anticipating just such a
move, I see that once malformed hand slip with clever dexterity into
the pucker of stringed leather, strong fingers spreading it open and
darting in, leaving it just ever so lighter as the beggar hobbles on,
back turned, seeking a more kindly donor. One might hardly have
noticed.
“Hoy!” I call,
and magically his crutch lifts, shoulders straighten, and on fleet
steps he vanishes into the crowd like a fish slipping between reeds.
A quick check of my purse
reveals it three and one half shillings down. I could have baited the
hook with pebbles, of course, but I considered myself to be making a
purchase: of experience. I did not begrudge him his prize, it was a
lesson bought cheap; and, as the cunning “beggar” ably
demonstrated via his escape, Competent Negotiation is an
essential when one sets foot within the Arastro street market.
In any case, the terms of
my agreement with The Register dictated eight competent men in plain
dress be within sight of my person at all times. One of them would be
sure to collar the thief, and hand him off to an officer of the law
to settle his account.
---
It is a difficult thing to
trade with a man whose face you cannot see. Difficult to trade
fairly, that is, not always your fellow man’s goal. At
street level, where the poorer side of Bakerstown’s commercial
district fades into some of the less insalubrious twists of the
Bricktown slums—and, of course, beneath the smother of the Dark
Cloud—bare-faced trustworthiness would seem unlikely in the
extreme. However, one would be surprised.
These clogged and
over-shadowed arteries at the foot of towering giants are, for half a
day, sheltered. Not just stalls are set up: first, strong cables are
drawn tight through the air down the length of each street; then,
each enterprising rival collaborates with his peers as long
tarpaulins of tarred and treated canvas are flung across the line.
Secured against the walls to either side, a peaked roof is formed
like the long tents of a military field barracks, defence against any
residues descending from the city’s sole blight.
Lamps and braziers are
hung from the cables to light the gloom; stalls are at last erected,
laden down with goods of many a kind and many a quality; thus,
protected just enough from the open air, open trade takes place.
Hawkers and hucksters and browsers and bargainers put aside their
ever-present masks and meet eye to eye, and the man on the street is
free to evaluate the worth of not just the produce, but its producer.
---
And what producers, what
produce! Every brand of person in the world line the routes, their
calls a chaos of accents and entreaties, their dress a riot of
distracting, enticing colours—and Southwatch’s native
under-classes are present too, as mundane to the eye as are their
wares. At first glance, it seems anything is there to be had, though
with no rhyme or reason in the moment.
Along Fourth Baron’s
Way, I pass: self-made clothiers, offering every material and aping
every style; a chrome ornamentor, making obviously discarded goods
shiny and “new”; a used-book seller (I pause here a good ten
minutes, jostled and cursed by the crawling crowds, and depart with
one of my own early pseudonymous works: the dangerous Philip
Amberville, Barren of Southwatch, tatty but rare, mine for
pennies); and more.
Paste jewellers, whose
“rare trinkets” are replaced from beneath their stalls by
identically imperfect siblings as fast as they can be sold; a
metalmonger—twin of the ornamentor, but touting more honestly
second-hand pots and kettles; crystal charmers, selling good health
in a glittering stone, or protectives against everything from the
likes of my thieving beggar to the fallout from the Dark Cloud itself
(though no doubt far less effective than the sheets strung overhead);
and more.
And more; and more.
---
I am far from the
finest-dressed Sunsider here, chancing his luck shoulder-to-shoulder
with more common citizenry (perhaps because I am wiser). I see others
descended from Society, drifting like swans amidst fowl, preening at
the attention they receive from all sides—little thinking of
themselves as targets at a shoot, rich meat for the taking. Yet there
is more to the Arastro than trivial things for tourists and those who
would prey on them.
Ordinary people buy and
sell ordinary things, livelihoods are made, and the pressing needs of
small but modest lives are satisfied. Some lament that precious value
be recycled this way, instead of added to the limitless coffers of
factorymen or lining the pockets of more respectable shopkeeps. It
“diminishes industry” they say (I have heard them say it).
I disagree. I say the
Arastro is more the pulse of healthy commerce, evidence that the
heart still beats, the beast still lives. The difference is only in
who rides the beast, and whom is ridden down by it.
---
A footnote: on my
departure, I was impressed to learn that the cunning thief eluded all
eight of my hired watchmen. Two were led on quite a merry chase and
returned from it battered and bruised, having been set upon by my
teacher’s allies around the corner of an alley. See the Arastro:
barter, deal, risk making a loss; but should you enter into the
negotiation of backstreets, always do so knowing what price you are
willing to pay.
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