Prince Stellan was so determined to keep Claire around that he immediately sent orders down. The streets, once littered with filth and the sour smell of hunger, were being swept clean by weary hands. Areas that needed to be scrubbed were being cleaned with dozens of buckets of water.
Children chased each other through alleys, their laughter thin but real, while mothers leaned against doorways, whispering about the notices the guards had nailed to every wall and post.
Do not crowd the female trader.
Do not frighten her.
Do not fight near her or yell.
Some parchments were flying through the air in the wind, stamped with the seal of the prince. Those who could read were reading them loudly to those who couldn’t. Whispers about Claire and the warnings were hushed.
"If she leaves, we will starve again."
"They are making such a big fuss but she only brings so much. How many people can she feed?"
"She really cooked those things called noodles with hot water from a fire that needed no wood. I saw it with my own eyes."
"What kind of mage is she?"
"Maybe she is from the capital itself."
"I heard she is a noble daughter of a rich family doing charity work."
The whispers were a mixture of truth and lies, but each one held hope that Claire was their salvation. Knights and ordinary guards patrolled the streets, reminding citizens to keep a respectable distance when Claire returned. Yet the desire to get a look at her, and approach her, spread faster than the ink on the notices. Hope was contagious, and hunger made it burn brighter.
If she was willing to feed them, some people were ready to kick the prince to the side and crown her.
In a shadowed alley, far from the hopeful chatter, four men in dirty clothes huddled together. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes sharp with desperation.
"Tomorrow she will come again," muttered the tallest, a scar running down his cheek. "And when she does, we start a riot and take her while the guards are distracted."
The second man, younger but with a bitterness that aged him, spat on the ground. "She has white rice! The kind that only nobles and the rich eat. And those noodles, I heard that they made everyone near the boat drool. Oh--and the thing she used to cook! Gas, she called it. Imagine how much it can fetch if we sell it in the capital. I have never seen a boat like hers. She carries wealth we can’t even imagine. If she can bring fire without wood, what else can she bring? There must be better things than that."
The third, wiry and twitching, leaned closer. "That is why we don’t just take her food. We make her lead us back to her home. Imagine---riches, endless supplies, no more begging. Even being a prince is worthless these days. Just look at Stellan, he is starving along with the rest of us. I heard all his underwear have holes!"
The second man laughed. "When we have that woman’s wealth, we will donate some new underpants to him."
The fourth man, silent until now, finally spoke, His voice was low, nervous. "But the guards....they will be watching. The mage Vidar, he will be there as well. The prince is not going to allow anything to ruin his scheme to make her settle down in Driswen. He has his eye on her. She is his only hope for any future claim to the throne at the moment. If we fail, we’ll hang."
Scarface sneered. "Then we don’t fail. We wait for the right moment to strike. Pretend to be fishermen and offer to help her carry things to that boat. When she is ready to sail away, we strike fast. She won’t have time to scream. With a knife to her neck, she will be forced to take us away."
The men nodded, their plan forming like smoke in the dark.
Meanwhile, in the open streets, the mood was entirely different. A baker with moldy flour still clinging to his hands told his neighbor, "If she opens a shop here, no more old flour. All the flour she gave out was new and smoother than any I have ever used. If I get my hands on it, no more empty shelves. I tasted one slice from the bread my nephew managed to get and it was better than what they sell in most cities. So soft, so delicious."
A mother clutching her child whispered, "As long as the prince protects her, she will keep coming back. She is our chance to survive winter this year."
Even the guards, though stern, carried a flicker of belief in their eyes. They had seen the noodles, eaten the rice, and watched fishermen carry back cooking oil. All the broth cooked today had been different from what they were usually served. This woman was no ordinary trader--she was a miracle worker wrapped in mystery.
****
On her side of the world, Claire stood at the dock with arms folded, watching the delivery man stack boxes and drums with meticulous care. The smell of grain and cardboard was competing with the scent of the sea.
"All the rice is on board," The delivery man said.
Claire nodded. Rice was the staple, of course, but she always took a variety. This time, she was taking ten crates stacked with pasta, dried beans and lentils. Bread, Flour and cornmeal were stacked high. She had even prepared powdered milk and instant oats because she had seen many little children accompanying their parents or selling seafood on their own.
Perhaps it was because she was pregnant, but Claire’s heart had gone out to those children. She was making abnormal profits from their seafood. The least she could do was repay this blessing in a small way.
The delivery man rolled a drum forward, its lid sealed tight. Inside were 2,000 juice packets, concentrated and stuffed together, ready to be diluted into gallons of sweet drink.
Finally, the delivery man put the last package on board. It was a big box with military style dry rations.
"That will be it ma’am," the delivery man said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Claire nodded. She handed him a tip in cash. It was substantial enough to make him smile brightly.
"Same time tomorrow, same order," Claire said to him. "Don’t tell people about my business. This is a long term partnership. If you know what to say and what not to say, we will work well together for a long time."
The delivery man seemed shocked but he looked at the tip and grinned. For a tip of one thousand dollars every night, he would hide a body for her if she asked.