Daughter of the Wind by Michael Cadnum Page B

Gauk had cut it.
    â€œIt would have fetched a better price if you’d not cut it so,” said the merchant as Gauk took a seat on a three-legged stool.
    â€œNo doubt,” said Gauk. “I would like to sell the pelt—but keep the paws at my hip.”
    He had always left bargaining for sailcloth or salt cod to Snorri, who had always had the cheerful retort and the offhand, easy manner that brought a price lower and lower, with laughter and gentle teasing on both sides.
    Fat Grim was an old hunter himself, judging from the scar that ran along one arm, a long, pink cord from wrist to elbow, the sort of wound a boar made, slashing with his tusks. The grizzled merchant touched the walrus scar in the bear pelt and said, “You did not kill this bear all alone.”
    â€œI hunted with a friend,” said Gauk. “But as the Norns wove my fate, I had no choice but to kill him with my own hands.”
    Gauk had heard hunters and warriors describe their feats with a terse humility, and always had admired the matter-of-fact stoicism of such men. Gauk had never anticipated sounding like this himself.
    â€œNo doubt that is why you wanted to keep the paws,” said Fat Grim, indicating the remnant at Gauk’s feet. “As a memorial to your friend.”
    When Gauk smiled, but did not make any further remark, the merchant reached for a pitcher and poured ale into a wooden cup. He offered the drink to Gauk, who accepted it in both hands, as good manners dictated. He waited until the merchant had poured a cupful for his own enjoyment. Drinking was rarely casual among Norsemen.
    The two drained their cups. It was good, sweet ale. Fat Grim poured them new servings and they both drained their cups again—to show restraint in drinking was unmanly and discourteous. Grim wiped his heavy mustache with his sleeve, took in Gauk’s sword and the dried blood on his tunic, and gave a belch, the sign of a good-hearted appreciation for drink.
    â€œSix seal pelts will fetch an eyrir of silver among the Swedes,” said Grim, “but try to sell seal pelts to the Franks and they’ll ask you to throw in a keg of boat pitch, something they could use.”
    Gauk said nothing, aware that he knew too little of such things.
    â€œBear pelts, though, are a different matter.”
    â€œHow much can you give me?” Gauk asked.
    Grim raised a finger, silently counseling patience. “Perhaps you would sell the sword strapped around your middle.”
    â€œI won this—” with bloodshed , he nearly said.
    The trader sighed. “The Franks have rare ladies. Cream-fed noble folk. They take a special joy in feeling bear pelts against their skin.”
    â€œSo how much—”
    â€œI’ve heard such Frankish ladies dream of cloud-borne pleasures when they drowse on such furs.”
    â€œI’ve never met a Dane, let alone a Frankish lady.”
    Grim’s eyes grew small as he offered a compassionate smile. He added, “But there are no Franks in Blot, my brave hunter, and not likely to be until much later in the summer—if even then, when their ships call this far north.”
    â€œThe seer,” said Gauk, “will want a plump purse before he’ll agree to the son of my father.” Son of my father was the polite, formal way of referring to oneself. Gauk felt disconsolate, and more in need of a seer’s advice than ever.
    Grim poured them both more ale. “It is at this point in the bargaining,” said the trader, “that a merchant from one of those fjords to the south cheats the youthful traveler.” They both drank. “They give the hunter a bag of resin and a tethered goose, and weep that the price is too dear.”
    Gauk burped. The drink was strong. “It is a pity to cheat a traveler.”
    â€œAnd the gods,” said Grim, with a bright look in his eye, “loathe a crooked merchant.”
    â€œI’ve heard that is