Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
“We also offer raw rock and fine grinds,” the seller said.
I needed to aim for just the right mix of clueless and put-upon. The kind of woman who normally couldn’t be bothered to step foot into a shop like this.
I looked at Reynald. “Is this what they call a trader rock barrel?”
“Yes, my lady,” Reynald said.
The barrels stood about twenty-five inches high. My grandpa used to have an old bourbon barrel about that size. He used it as a side table on the porch, by his rocking chair.
An overly obsessive reader once calculated the volume of one of these barrels based on Rellas’s units of measurement to settle an argument on a fan forum. It came in right at sixteen gallons. According to that post, a gallon-sized chunk of Himalayan pink salt weighed about eighteen pounds, based on halite’s density. The actual weight per gallon varied, depending on the size of the particles and type of salt. Either way, a sixteen-gallon barrel was very heavy.
And I had no idea why I remembered that so precisely. The numbers just popped right into my head.
“They seem small,” I said to Reynald. “Much smaller than grain barrels.”
“They are very heavy, my lady,” he said, his expression completely neutral. “They are sized for ease of transport. Grain barrels are larger because grain weighs less.”
The seller grabbed one of the rock pebbles and held it up to the sunshine coming through the door. The small chunk glowed softly with diffused light.
“Our pink salt is of the finest quality. Directly from Gassargand.”
“Directly?” Tell me more. I need to know when your ships arrive.
The seller hit me with his best buy-my-stuff smile. “Yes, my lady.”
“But is it fresh?”
The trader blinked.
“Salt is always fresh, my lady,” Reynald said with a completely straight face.
“Absolutely!” The seller nodded. “It was mined just a few weeks ago across the sea and shipped here. Our ships arrive every three weeks, my lady!”
“When is the next one due?”
“Next Fifday, my lady.”
We had four days. Very little time. I needed to hurry. I looked at Reynald. “Should I wait for the fresher salt?”
“I assure you, there is no difference in quality between this barrel and the next shipment,” the clerk promised.
“It wouldn’t be significantly fresher, my lady,” Reynald told me.
I wrinkled my nose at the barrel. “And the whole barrel is pink salt? It is for my mother-in-law. It must be perfect.”
“Of course, my lady. The entire barrel is the best grade of pink salt. The calla resin seal proves it.”
He swept his fingers along the rim of the barrel, indicating a wax-like seal stamped with the Yolenta crest.
“You see, the seal is intact. Unlike wax seals that melt and flow when exposed to warmth, this resin seal will crumble if cut or heated. The full might of the Yolenta Family stands behind this barrel. The Keepers of Iron do not lie. When your mother-in-law’s chef opens it, the salt will be just as beautiful and fresh as the moment it was mined.”
I pondered the barrel. “Very well. How much is it?”
“The whole barrel?”
“Yes.”
“One grest, my lady.”
Ouch.
I nodded to Reynald. He reached into his clothes, pulled a single gold coin out, and handed it over to the seller. Our budget had just taken a big hit. Reynald gave the seller our address and we exited the warehouse and went back the way we came.
“Where to now?” Reynald asked.
“I need to see the pier in front of this warehouse, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.”
He considered it for a moment. “Follow me.”
At the next intersection, he started weaving his way through the streets, edging east. We walked for a couple of blocks, made a left, and came to a stone stairway leading up, its steps worn smooth by the salty wind, rain, and countless feet.
We took the stairs. Reynald kept pace with me.
The stairs kept going, climbing higher and higher, until finally we stepped onto a tall bridge guarded by a stone rail. It soared over the roofs of the harbor warehouses, mirroring the coastline.
Below and on our left, the ocean glittered, a placid expanse of blue, rolling to the hazy horizon. The wide ribbon of the stone wharf bordered the water, and long stone piers stretched from it, out into the ocean, flanked by large ocean-worthy trading ships. Between the piers, shorter wooden docks offered the smaller vessels a place to moor. The Combs, the city’s infamous main wharf.
A sparse current of people moved past us: fishermen with carrying yokes across their shoulders, balancing pails of water filled with fish; dockworkers hauling cargo in sacks; teenagers with shopping baskets running errands and carrying messages; a couple of young priests in robes with bladed staffs on their backs . . . Everyone had a place to be and was on their way there, minding their own business.