MirMarnian Lore: A Tour Guide’s Honest Account of the Floating Market

by Marten Deepcurrent, Licensed Guide & Markethand (22 years' service, and counting)

Right then, let’s get one thing straight before we step foot on those planks: the Floating Market isn’t some carnival attraction for wide-eyed tourists. She’s a living, breathing miracle, held together by rope, river magic, and the good sense not to anger the Emaris. You respect her, she’ll show you wonders. You don’t... well, I’ve seen folk take an unexpected swim, and the river doesn’t always give them back with their coin purses intact.

The Bones of It

Fifty-three barges, last I counted, though that number shifts with the seasons and the river’s mood. Been here longer than my grandfather’s grandfather, which makes her older than most of the settlements along the Emaris. Some say the first river-mages built her as a peace offering to the water herself. Trade without taking root, commerce without scarring the banks. Smart folk, those old mages. The river appreciates that sort of thinking.

You’ll notice the white water running down the outer hulls. That’s not decoration, friend. That’s living runework, scribed by water-mages and sealed with permission from the Emaris herself. And yes, I said permission. You don’t take from this river, you ask. Learn that quick if you value your belongings staying dry.

The runes keep the whole structure steady, keep the truly nasty things in the deep from getting curious, and, according to my old master, keep the market from drifting downstream every time there’s a spring melt.

Don’t touch the runework. I shouldn’t have to say it, but every season some clever fool tries, and every season I’m fishing their belongings out of the current whilst they splutter apologies to the river folk. Last month it was some merchant from upriver who thought the runes were decorative. Decorative! The man’s hat floated past three barges before anyone could grab it. Serves him right for wearing something that ridiculous anyway.

Walking the Planks Without Looking Like a Landlubber

First time on floating boards? Here’s the trick: don’t fight it. The market moves like the river moves. Gentle roll, constant rhythm. You try to walk stiff-legged like you’re on solid ground, you’ll be wobbling like a drunk trying to find his bed inside of three steps.

Bend your knees. Feel the sway. Let your body remember it’s mostly water anyway, and water knows how to move with water. Children pick it up in minutes. Adults... well, that’s why we’ve got railings. And why I’ve got a job fishing said adults out when they inevitably ignore my advice.

And for the love of the old gods, don’t whistle. I don’t care what you’ve heard about whistling up wind. On the market, its bad luck, and the river folk will give you looks that’d curdle milk. Whistling calls things, see? Things that live deep and don’t care much for sunlight. You want their attention? Didn’t think so. I’ve seen what comes up when some fool decides the old warnings don’t apply to them. Spoiler: they’re never pretty, and they’re always hungry.

The Layout, Or Lack Thereof

Now, you might’ve noticed the market doesn’t follow what you’d call a plan. That’s because she grew, friend, same as anything alive. Barges get added when trade’s good, lashed on wherever there’s space and current allows. My cousin Edda says it looks like a drunk spider tried to build a web. She’s not wrong, but don’t say that too loud. Folk get touchy.

But if you’re wanting landmarks:

The Spiral is the main thoroughfare, winds right through the heart of the market like a snake with poor sense of direction. You’ll find your basic goods there: food, cloth, tools. Decent quality, fair prices, and if you’ve got a complaint, you bring it to the Marketmaster. His name’s Alden, and you’ll know him by the scar across his nose and the way he can spot a cheat from three barges away. Don’t try anything clever. Alden’s got a memory like a steel trap and grudges to match. I once saw him ban a spice merchant for selling “saffron” that was really just dried marigold petals. The man tried to argue. Alden threw him in the river. Marigolds and all.

The Rainbow Walk is what the tourists call the section under all the coloured awnings. Pretty name for a place that’ll fleece you if you’re not careful. Imports from upriver and down, spices, wines, things that come from places I’ve never seen and likely never will. Prices are higher, but the quality’s there if you know what you’re looking for. If you don’t know what you’re looking for, bring someone who does, or prepare to pay triple for half the value.

We get those Viking settlers through here sometimes, the ones from that settlement upriver. Drakkensund, I think they call it? Big lads, all of them, with their furs and their Breathstones and their very serious faces. They buy weapons mostly, and dried fish, and occasionally haggle like they’re personally offended by the concept of profit. Nice enough folk, mind you, but they don’t understand the river the way we do. Too much ice in their blood, not enough current.

The Deep End is the southernmost section, where the current runs strongest and the folk get quieter. That’s where you’ll find the river-trade specialists: net-menders, boat-wrights, folk selling Tideglass and Whisperthread and other things the river provides to those who know how to ask nicely. More magic there than in the rest of the market combined, and the folk who work it don’t suffer fools. Be polite. Be respectful. Don’t ask stupid questions. I made the mistake once of asking old Kerra why her Tideglass was “so expensive,” and she stared at me for so long I thought I’d been cursed. Turns out I hadn’t, but the look alone took three years off my life.

What to Buy and What to Avoid, According to Someone Who Knows

Do buy:
Moonstone charms from old Petra’s stall, third barge, starboard side. She scribes them whilst you wait, and they’re genuine work, not tourist trinket rubbish. I’ve got one myself. It’s kept me dry through four flash floods and one very angry river wife, so I’d say it works.

Glassvine balm from the herb-seller near the Spiral’s centre. You’ll know her by the grey braids, the suspicious squint, and the way she mutters under her breath whilst measuring out your order. Don’t let that put you off. Her balm’s the best on the river. Cures everything from rope burn to broken hearts. Well, maybe not broken hearts, but it’ll make your hands feel better whilst you’re crying about it.

Highwind Flax if you’ve got the coin. It’s worth it. Softer than a lamb’s ear and strong enough to survive a storm. My sister made a shirt from it ten years ago, and it still looks new. She’s unbearable about it.

And if you see the fishmonger with the blue cap pulling up a net-well of fresh Mireless Pike, buy whatever he’ll sell you. You won’t taste better this side of the delta. He’s also got a lazy eye and a tendency to tell the same joke about a priest and a paddlefish, but his fish is worth enduring it.

Don’t buy:
“Genuine” enchanted anything’s from anyone who won’t look you in the eye when they’re selling. If it’s real magic, the seller won’t need to convince you. It’ll speak for itself. Literally, sometimes, if it’s particularly well-made.

Avoid the weapons stall near the eastern edge. Fellow there sells blades with more bend than a riverweed and calls it “character.” My nephew bought a knife from him last spring. Used it once to gut a fish, and the handle fell off. The fish was fine. The knife was not.

Also, and I can’t stress this enough, don’t buy “river pearls” from anyone under the age of thirty. They’re not pearls. They’re snail shells that’ve been polished and sold to idiots. I should know. I used to sell them when I was sixteen. Sorry about that, by the way, if you were one of my customers.

Do haggle, but do it with respect. This isn’t some mainland market where you can insult a merchant’s mother and still walk away with a deal. River folk have long memories and short tempers. I’ve seen a woman refuse to sell to a man for three years straight because he once implied her carrots were “a bit soft.” They were soft. But you don’t say that.

Do tip the musicians. We’ve got three or four who work the market regular, and they keep the energy up. There’s old Finn with his river pipes, and the twins who sing harmonies that’ll make you weep into your ale, and occasionally some fool with a lute who thinks he’s the next great bard. He’s not, but we let him play anyway because his mum makes excellent bread.

Don’t, and I can’t stress this enough, don’t try to leave without paying. The market might look chaotic, but I promise you, someone saw. And if the merchants don’t catch you, the river will. She’s got her ways. Last year a thief tried to make off with a bolt of silk. Tripped over a coil of rope, fell backwards into a basket of eels, and got escorted off the market by three very unsympathetic river hands. The eels were also unsympathetic. Eels usually are.

Superstitions That Aren’t Actually Superstitions

Touch the water before you step aboard. Just a finger will do. It’s a greeting, a show of respect. The Emaris notices. I’ve seen folk skip this step and then spend the whole day slipping on dry planks. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’m not taking chances.

If you see a child place a river stone on the boards in front of you, that’s a welcome. Means you’ve been marked as safe, as someone the market accepts. Don’t step on it. Step over it, acknowledge it with a nod. My daughter does this sometimes, leaves stones for folk she likes. She left one for a trader from the southern coast last summer, and he sent her a thank-you gift three months later. A little carved whale. She keeps it by her bed.

If the Brook Chimes in the glass jars start ringing all at once without anyone touching them, it’s time to leave. Means something big is coming. Storm, usually, or something the river’s trying to warn folk about. The market’s got sense enough to listen. I’ve ignored this warning exactly once in my life. Got caught in a squall so fierce I thought the river was trying to reclaim the whole market. Spent two hours clinging to a railing whilst the wind tried to turn me into a very unsuccessful bird. Never again.

Never, ever throw refuse into the river. I’ve seen folk do it, thinking the current’ll carry it away and no one’s the wiser. The Emaris doesn’t forget. Neither do the merchants. You’ll find yourself escorted off the market with a lifetime ban, and river folk from here to the delta will know your face. Also, it’s just rude. Would you throw rubbish in someone’s house? No? Then don’t do it in the rivers.

The River Folk Themselves

You’ll notice most of the folk working the market have a certain... way about them. That’s what happens when you spend your life on the water. We move different, talk different, think different. The river gets into you, if you let it. Gets into your bones, your blood, the way you see the world.

Don’t ask folk if they’re “River hands” or “River-born” or any of that. We don’t really distinguish. You’re either of the river or you’re not, and if you have to ask, you’re not. Nothing wrong with that, mind. Most folk aren’t. But don’t pretend to be something you’re not. We can tell. It’s the way you walk, mostly. And the fact that you keep trying to find “solid ground” on boards that haven’t been solid in seventy years.

If someone offers you Thistledawn cordial, accept it. It’s a peace offering, means they’re willing to do business or share a story. If they don’t offer, take the hint. Probably means you’ve done something to annoy them, or they’ve heard you’re the type to haggle in bad faith, or you remind them of their ex-husband. Best to move along.

Final Thoughts From a Man Who’s Seen Too Much and Knows Too Little

Twenty-two years I’ve been walking these boards, and I still find something new every season. The market’s got secrets folded into her, same as the river does. She’ll show you what she wants to show you, when she’s good and ready.

You come here with respect, with curiosity, with your coin honest and your hands open, you’ll have yourself a day worth remembering. You come here thinking you’re better than the river folk, or smarter than the Emaris, or entitled to something just because you showed up... well. There’s other markets. I’d suggest you try those instead. Ideally ones that don’t float.

Now then. Keep your belongings close, your coins closer, and for the sake of all that swims, don’t whistle.

Welcome to the Floating Market. Try not to fall in.

Marten Deepcurrent, written in the fourteenth year of Captain Alden’s service as Marketmaster, under fair skies and kind currents, with only minor complaints