“Is that yours?” the trader asked, pointing.īlue-gray eyes flashed. A quiver filled with long arrows hung on her back, a bow rested in her hand, unstrung. A soft, full mouth said she was vulnerable her chin was entirely stubborn. Brown curls tamed by a head-scarf fell to thin shoulders. I’m”-she paused, then went on-“a fair hand with animals, all kinds.” She waited as Onua looked her over: a girl in a green wool dress, skirts short enough to show leggings and boots. “Excuse me-Trader Onua?” The speaker was a girl, shy and country bred. The prospect of taking her animals south, with no one to help, was an unpleasant one. By the end of her fifth day at the fair, it seemed she would never find the assistant she required. This year she had another transaction to make and was having no luck with it. Like thousands of others in the Eastern Lands, Onua Chamtong went there to do business: buying ponies, in her case. Each year, at the end of March, a great fair was held in Cría, the capital of Galla.
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