CY 579, Coldeven 9 (Sunday)
Askyrja woke with the first grey light. The wind whistled briskly over the building, making a tuneless moan over the hard wooden shingles of the Coster House for Walder's Wains, her new home.
Rising from her slightly-less-scratchy bed – she'd bought new sheets and decent blankets – she washed her face, body and hair from the pewter basin in her room after warming it in the coals of the hearth; a simple enough trick. She dried herself with her new towel – a nice one from the Market – and dressed: not in her old leather trews and fur jerkin, but in a conventional, simply-patterned black-and-white dress of wool, with a heavy linen petticoat and a green-and-gold scarf. Orvil had said that it was important to look Verboncian because they prized conventionality, though her accent immediately gave her away as foreign. She'd kept her old elkhide boots: they were familiar, warm and waterproof… mostly. Verboncians liked convention, but being newly freed she was not prepared to give up everything.
It was a Freeday today, which was or was not exactly what the Southerers called a holiday. Apparently those were simple days of the week when many places did no work: the moneychanger, some of the special stores that she did not much go to, and the Silver College, which she also did not go to. The College was a place of study for wizards and witches – seithyr in her language – and though she had never been there for any reason it still gave her an eerie, arcane chill every time they went past it. Still, some other businesses also took Freeday off, making for a strange week in her view.
The Schnai called Freeday Fireday instead, which was when they just burned their fires a little brighter at night to warm a hall or a longhouse. Some said it honoured the spirits; others that they did it simply to burn off soot before it accumulated, risking a chimney fire. Askyrja suspected the latter. At any rate, her mother had never observed it because she was a mere thrall, but sometimes Askyrja had served in the Great Hall as the fires were stoked up for Fireday evenings. Godsday was another day on which it seemed Verboncians and other Southerners did not do much work, spending it on worship and being called to the various churches of their various gods by the great bells of their churches in their high towers, drawn and rung by systems of ropes. That was their own affair, she supposed.
On that first Freeday Orvil showed her all the buildings – office, housing and warehouses – and taught her the simple rudiments of the business, explaining his reasoning in bringing her in. 'It's like this, Miss Askyrja,' he said, leaning on the counter. 'I'm getting on in years. Running around out back, checking loads and weights, making sure the lads are recording right and getting what they ought… that's more a young person's job. I had a lot of years up before dawn and on the road, carting around this and that, and I wouldn't mind a few years of rising after the sun.' He squinted gratefully at the pale light coming in the windows; Askyrja had cleaned them the other day with soap, water and a scrub-brush after sweeping the floors and dusting and the musty, dank front office already seemed brighter, more vibrant. 'I think some days I'd rather sit in the office and just enjoy the fire and watch people walking by.' He looked at her seriously. 'And I tell you something else, though maybe as I shouldn't: we're supposed to vote again on a new Costermaster less'n a year from now but… Cuthbert's Collar, who's it to be? You've met the lads. Think one o'them's really up for it?'
Askyrja had met all the members of Walder's Wains – she stopped herself making their gesture as the name crossed her mind – and had to agree with Orvil. Merrim was utterly taciturn and silent, so that was no good. Kordac, a ruddy Flan who usually handled the Rhynehurst run, had a hearty smile and he'd greeted her warmly when he first met her but had never been able to work up the courage to say so much as one more word to her afterwards, always grinning and ducking away, mumbling something incomprehensible. Terrence the Yard-Hand was strong as an ox but nervous as a lamb and, as Orvil said, dull as a post and unsuited for anything even nearly so complicated. Bill Bailer, who often handled Cienega Valley, had a nasty chaw habit that kept him squirting dark spittle all over and occasionally took to violent, minutes-long sneezing fits after the wrong mouthful. He was polite, but more a follower than leader.
Ninfel Ninefingers was a big sleepy red-haired fellow she saw relatively little of unless she was waking him from his impromptu naps behind the warehouse to go to Mol or even as far as Korbin; she thought the man could have slept through a dragon attack and told him so. He'd laughed, but like Bill he didn't seem like one that would want to be Costermaster. As his name, he'd lost half his left thumb before the joint, and never said how.
And neither was her friend Colson a leader, really. He was a good man, cheerful – happy, even – but he was too young by far. She liked Colson, she was grateful to him and he was a good friend – but it was not a job he could do, not yet. And Albrecht was just too ill-tempered; even now, several days after she'd been hired, he was still very grouchy towards her – and to everyone, frankly. She could see more people leaving the coster if his temper was permitted to reign.
Which of course left Orvil. 'I see,' she said, tapping her lip thoughtfully.
'So, it's down to me since Walder died – ' Askyrja nodded through Orvil's genuflection ' – and that's only 'cause I'm the oldest.' Orvil shook his head. 'I'll have to stand again: one last term, just to keep an eye on things and shape someone up to take the reins of Costermaster when I'm gone. But if I'm to make it that far, I'll need help.' He plopped wearily onto the stool. 'I'm old and I'm tired, Askyrja. My knees ache and my feet throb. What I need is a young pair of legs doing my chasing for me, getting information. We can't offer a lot of money and I can promise there'll be some strange days… but if you're willing, we've a place for you.'
Askyrja nodded. 'You have been most kind to me. I wish to repay you and… this gives me the chance to do that. And, a place to belong. I wished to escape my past. Now, here… maybe I can.'
Orvil looked embarrassed. 'Colson… told me some of what happened. It sounds… terrifying.' He gave her a reassuring smile. 'I think… we can help each other. And we could use someone around here, with the cleaning and looking for people.' He looked at his accounting books and sighed. 'I just wish I had someone to help with the books. My eyes are getting a bit stiff – you might say – and the numbers are just as small as they ever were.' He squinted at the ledger. 'Can't even make that out,' he sighed. 'What's that number, Askyrja?'
Askyrja peered over his shoulder. 'Seven,' she said. The Verboncians had a funny habit of putting a line in the middle of their sevens. Then she frowned at one of the entries.
'There's a good use for your young eyes,' Orvil grunted, still squinting at the figures.
'There is a mistake,' she Askyrja, quickly calculating in her head, then mentally checking again. She leaned over Orvil, putting a fingernail on a debit from the month before. 'Ten – wheatsheaves?' – Colson had properly taught her the coinage a few days before – 'three knights, five spires, less five wheatsheaves five knights and six spires, is three wheatsheaves, one knights nine spires, not two knights – I think?' She swept her blonde locks out of the way and turned to look at him.
He was conscious of her face only a handspan from his own; arched eyebrows, small gentle nose with its charming bridge of freckles, full lips turned up in a curious smirk, intense green eyes looking directly into his. He smiled half to himself – you're too old for such ideas, Orvil, you bandy-legged old bugbear! he thought – but what astounded him most at the moment was her immediate and uncanny accuracy. 'You're right,' he said, squinting at the ledger. 'You can do maths?' he asked; the girl really was full of surprises – not that a girl that could do sums was so strange, but that she didn't seem the type.
Her eyes flicked towards the ground as if in embarrassment and she shrugged. 'My father.'
'Well that's a lucky stroke!' Orvil exclaimed, not reading her expression. 'More than just a bit useful. You know, I might have some special jobs for you… yes indeed… that might work out just fine,' he mused.
Askyrja didn't understand but blessed her luck again, whispering a quick thanks to Freyr.
' – and then the debits go in this book, as you see here, like I said,' Orvil was saying for the third time. Askyrja nodded dutifully, trying not to seem too bored, though her chin was resting in her palm and her eyes wandered often to the windows.
Learning of her additional skill – 'such a talented girl!' – Orvil had quickly taken pains to explain the nature of what he called bookkeeping, as it concerned the business. She'd rarely had a chance to use her numeracy but she was clever and it seemed straightforward enough. Bills were made for deliveries. Clients owed, and paid – eventually, it appeared – and thereby the books were balanced, as Orvil had put it; Askyrja had tried hard not to notice the number of delinquencies piling up in the Owings column. All transactions were recorded in the ledger – yes, even if they paid on the spot, Orvil had quickly answered her immediate question – and then tallied each month to see what was outstanding. Orvil droned on as Askyrja tried to look interested, smiling and nodding at random intervals.
The lesson went on until midday and then Orvil closed the ledger with a smack, startling Askyrja who had begun to doze with her eyes open. 'Well then, there we are,' Orvil concluded with a smile. 'We'll go over our procedures again after lunch!' Askyrja nodded and smiled back, though inwardly her soul wilted at the notion. But so be it; the Fates had spun her thread and she must walk it. Or something like that.
They went to the dining room and, as she did ever since she'd been hired, Askyrja ate with the men. Orvil felt it was good for her to be around the lads, as he called them, so that they would get used to each other. Askyrja had demurred to his wise guidance; also, this was much cheaper.
'Miss Askyrja; Orvil,' said Bill as he usually did when she came in, rising to his feet and touching his chest. The others did the same, respectfully doffing their hats and nodding. Ninfel licked his fingers and wrestled with a cowlick.
Orvil stopped and gaped, seeing to his utter incredulity that all the men had their tunics done up properly, their boots cleaned – or at least had scraped off the mud – and their hands washed. He raised his eyebrows, surveying the men with an expression of wonderous appreciation and approval. Colson beamed at Askyrja; his face was red and scrubbed right to his ears and his hands spotless.
'Well, well!' Orvil said with a note of long-delayed and astonished satisfaction, adjusting his glasses as if they were playing a trick on him. 'Now, isn't this nice? Everyone all cleaned and presentable! A nice, dignified dinner for a change; yes, indeed!' This had long been a subject of some exasperation for Orvil, who had longed for the 'old days' of dignity and decorum that he felt went with a clean, professional presentation, but had instead inherited a pack of gruff mules. But here was a sea-change before him: the lads, actually making an effort to appear at least somewhat turned-out; and he knew well the reason for the change. The men gave him grudging looks but sat down as Askyrja did, nodding at her.
'Mighty out of character for the Coster,' Albrecht grumbled under his breath, as he often did, and Askyrja pretended not to hear, as she often did. He had not stood up, but stayed in his chair, looking grouchy and unsettled; he hadn't dealt exactly well with her continued presence, and less so with the sudden news that she was to stay.
'Well,' said Orvil again as he sat, still struggling to keep his grin under control as he surveyed his suddenly cleaner, neater workers. 'Now this is excellent; everyone looking their best. This, lads, is how a business ought to look,' he said firmly, tapping the table with a finger. 'Didn't old Walder – ' they genuflected and Askyrja respectfully lowered her eyes – 'always say that a tidy crew made for a tidy profit?'
The others blinked and frowned at each other, not entirely sure that Walder had indeed said anything quite like that, but unwilling to contest the point right before dinner. 'And to whom do we owe the benefice of our sustenance this fine evening?' Orvil went on, seeing the bowls and spoons set before them, then saw they were completely nonplussed. 'Who made the food?' he clarified.
All eyes turned to Albrecht. Now Albrecht smiled, thumbs tucked into his suspenders. He levered his husky frame up and went into the back arch beyond which was the Coster's kitchen. He came back with two cloths on his hands holding a big simmering pot, rising gouts of steam curling his shaggy hair. 'Got double helpings for all of you lads; good, honest food. My special stew!' he said with his own look of satisfaction, propping the hot pot against his hip as he ladled soup into each of their bowls, taking care to put a little extra into Askyrja's bowl as if in challenge or unasked-for charity. She peered through the steam to see a thin stew of salt pork and boiled red beans. Each man got a generous helping, and for each man and her, too, he scattered a few hard-tack wheat biscuits.
Askyrja frowned down at the stringy, fatty meat and the floating, still-dry-looking beans. She hadn't been impressed by any of their offerings so far but this one was particularly disconcerting. She picked up a biscuit, dipped it in the stew – more a greasy broth – and gnawed at it experimentally, making a few tooth-shaped grooves. Next, she spooned up some stew; as hot as a fire-giant's beard, the beans were still hard, almost tooth-crackers, and the meat so fatty so that she was obliged to tear at it with her incisors. She looked around as she jawed at the salt pork; the others had dug in, though not heartily and without much enjoyment.
Her feminine instincts sensed trouble and she looked up to see Albrecht giving her a skeptical eye. Though she chewed forcefully and swallowed with great deliberation his thick brows were already set in a scowl. 'Something wrong with the stew?'
Askyrja shook her head, acutely feeling the chunk of rubbery meat slowly sliding down her throat. 'No,' she said soothingly. 'It is very… I have never had anything like it,' she said, honestly.
Albrecht's scowl deepened, as if he had scented the backhanded compliment. 'You don't like it?'
Her eyes widened and she looked around the table as if for support, but most of the men were struggling with the meal themselves, or jawing the biscuits down. 'No. It is just that… while it is excellent,' she lied, conscious now of everyone else having stopped eating and looking at her, 'I think… perhaps… there is something I could do to… help it? Help bring out its flavour,' she nodded, feeling the first bite finally clear her gullet and wondering if someone could die from food itself, without poison.
The others stared at her, then at Orvil. 'A woman's hand with the meals,' Orvil said quietly but with a fascinated intensity. 'I mean… I'd thought, but… I didn't like to assume…'
'I often helped in the kitchens at home,' Askyrja admitted, plunging recklessly in. 'I could perhaps… help with some of the meals? I could make some…' she looked down at the stew floating listlessly in the bowl, '… different things?' she finished carefully.
'Is she serious?' said Bill.
'A real woman's touch?' Ninfel wondered. Albrecht still scowled.
'Miss Askyrja… what would you need to do this?' Orvil suddenly asked. 'A little money?' He'd been staring disconsolately into his bowl until she'd spoken up.
'Well,' she shrugged, feeling overwhelmed by their hopeful stares, 'Yes, for the Market; maybe I could get some spices and herbs – '
Instantly half a dozen hands began searching their pockets for coins. 'Easy there, lads; we'll loose her some money from the cash box!' Orvil said quickly, holding them back, and then everyone began talking at once.
'Now – wait a minute – look here – it isn't that bad,' Albrecht began to protest, but his objections were drowned out in the excited babble.
CY 579, Coldeven 10 (Moonday)
Her duties expanded – she was still surprised at how easily that had happened – the next morning she woke early and slipped into the kitchen to have a look; Orvil had granted her leave to deal with 'othersuch' that morning. She sighed; it was something she could help with, having had the experience, but also neither could she help being a woman, and the Fates would be as they were. If this was to be one of her chores, this room would be her kingdom and she would conquer it if need be. She made a mental reminder to acquire a stout wooden spoon with which to beat others; that had been one of her mother's most important tools.
As she'd expected – men, she thought irritably – the kitchens were a disaster.
Dirty pots and pans were everywhere, some half full of water and refuse. Some were stained with black marks on their base, others badly rusted or scorched as though an actual fire had broken out at some point, which she considered was possible. Rotten scraps littered the floor and she was sure there were rat pellets in the corners. There were paired stoves there, one big and one small and both filthy and jammed with soot. She closed her eyes and took a breath.
'Frigga give me strength,' she sighed, and began hunting for a brush and cloth.
Hours later she burst out of the kitchens, wrapped a cloak around herself and hurried out the door with a few wheatsheaves and a handful of silver spires tucked in her pockets, waving at a passing Kordac who immediately blushed and turned on his heel to walk in a different direction. She knew that the best ingredients were best got early, but the kitchens had taken more time than she'd considered and this was the best she could manage.
It was a brisk walk but her long legs ate up the distance rapidly and before long she was back at the Market.
It was busy enough at the mid-morning, with people wandering and carts trundling about. She knew Colson was out on delivery in the town, though he and Ban were nowhere to be seen. Maybe she would catch him for a ride back… during which she could figure out how to explain away that kiss.
She smacked the heel of her fist into her forehead. Why had she kissed him?! That had been stupid and impulsive! She'd just felt such vulnerability and gratitude that it had seemed so natural to do. It hadn't been adoration and certainly not love; she was not ready for such a thing now and didn't know if she would ever be again. She swore under her breath: why, why was she so stupid? Maybe the strain had just worn her down and the shock of the news disordered her wits in a weakened moment. She had to fix this. Somehow.
There were few enough vegetables at the Market in the early spring – and none fresh – but she did find some carrots, turnips, onions, cabbage, and even a small sack of chickpeas from some frozen winter storage shed or other as she breezed among the stands, inspiring wistful smiles from the merchants and scowls from their wives. She got two cleaned chickens – haggling the farmer down with a great deal of coy smiles and eye-batting – a link of sausages, and a small vat of cream. Satisfied, she slung her bag on her back and headed home, a sizeable portion of the money still in her pocket. Farmers were the same everywhere and Askyrja daughter of Kara, daughter of Svanhild had not done so poorly, she thought.
Now, with her shopping complete, she realized she was out of the house; and should she not explore a little so as to learn the town? It was a poor citizen who did not know her own city. So, she wandered the Market again, looking at all the shops and stalls, though she needed nothing else… excepting of course a stout wooden spoon. She hunted among the stalls for one, never actually intending to go very far, but the sounds of music and loud speech came from the northwest side of the Market, nearest the castle gates as, and without realizing it she found herself wandering that way.
As she approached that side of the square she could see that there were a large number of what appeared to be musicians and entertainers there; minstrels, troubadors and dancers in the street, each plying their art to the delight – or not – of passers-by, who threw coins or insults according to their ability. Musical instruments played and the yard was thick with song and joyful movement.
Askyrja had seen entertainers before, of course. Her father had had many skalds in the Hall – special, very experienced musicians, poets and players that would sing, recount old tales and make new verse on the spot to pass the long winter months in the Great Hall. They were a profession hugely in demand; a Hall that could boast a skald was a wealthy and respected one, indeed. One of their specialities was the ritual comedic insulting of their betters before an open audience, an act which always derived great amusment and the honour of noble forbearance by their subjects – though she had also noticed during her time in the Hall of Orvung the Old Bear that no skald ever made any insulting lines about him. There were limits to convention, of course.
The crowd parted suddenly and a troop of mailed cavalry with lances, swords and bows – fifteen men in all, including a sergeant leading the column – filed past out of the gates of the castle. The leader, a rangy red-haired man with a dark cloak, had a fixed scowl as he surveyed the Market, but his ruggedly handsome face cracked a smile under his scrubbly beard when he laid eyes on her, nodding and touching his brow in respect. Then the horsemen trotted by, harness jangling and angled south around the Elven Quarter towards the Sun Gate and the Low Road out of Verbobonc.
They must be a patrol, she surmised, scouring the lands about the city. The roads, she'd heard, were becoming wilder and so the Army had been increasingly more vigilant, ranging farther and farther and mostly south, where the trouble seemed to be. Much as Colson had said, there were more bandits that way and they were becoming more daring, raiding not merely caravans but whole villages sometimes – and worse, too. The men of Walder's Wains wandered all the Viscounty and saw and heard much that even Verbobonc City did not. The men had told her that bands of goblins, orcs, and even ogres had been seen around Sheernobb and Humming's End. People had gone missing, and no bodies had been found. People were worried. Some of them were openly talking about the War, and the Temple.
She watched the patrol heading off through the Market with their war-gear and gleaming weapons and felt a strange urge to go with them – not for the men, even the leader; but to see, maybe to fight. In truth, Bjo- her once-man, she corrected herself, had trained her for such, for seeking and fighting and the notion sent a curious thrill of excitement through her, evoking peculiar images in her mind, of wearing mail, carrying a war-bow, and hunting wicked goblins in the woods. The idea swirled powerfully in her mind, as if something inside her sang out for adventure, for chaos and turmoil; the sounds of violence, the smell of smoke and blood.
Then she shook her head, blinking and bewildered. What was she thinking? She had a job, and a safe one too, and a nice if odd place to live. And, despite all the differences between them, she liked the others – Orvil's 'lads'. She smiled, thinking fondly on them; odd! But kindly. And there was Colson to consider – and what to do about that? She turned herself aside from the departing column, but not without another look of wonder, her mind setting her pulse thumping eerily in her veins.
The artists here seemed to circulate around some kind of building on the northwest side of the Market with a high roof and a vaulted, external stage, painted in exotic shades of blue, red and gold and with a great wooden banner above it carven with words in a language she did not understand. A man stood on the stage there wearing a wooden crown painted gold, and waving a wooden sword as he declaimed in strange verse to the crowd before him.
Askyrja realized that this must be a play, of some kind. The others had told her of such things; enactments of things that had come to pass, or never even were, by people called actors and actresses. It sounded very romantic. As the man on the stage shouted, a short woman in a green dress cried aloud along with him, clutching her hands to her cheeks or her heart. They seemed to be speaking in something like Common but of some ancient form or syntax that she didn't really follow. Nonetheless, it seemed entertaining and she stayed to watch; she began to decipher after a time that it was sort of tale about a king whose son had betrayed him, which he decried in a stentorian frame, with great windy gestures of his arms. She got the impression it had happened somewhere east of there, though not exactly where; yet, the notion of betrayal filiales was keen in her mind and eventually she wandered away.
All around were performers aplenty: a flautist whistled out a keening ballad, a wild-haired boy tapped a drum as he danced and skipped, and a pretty woman sat on a stoop nearby playing a merry ribald tune on a lute while punters tossed coins in her hat. Her long red hair was done in a thick braid, her ears slightly pointed and her eyes slightly almondine, suggesting Elven blood. Another man gave great shouts before taking flaming brands and putting them out in his mouth, then relighting them again, a thing she had never seen before and which astounded her no end. Was he a magician, then? Could the man literally eat fire? She stared, astonished.
Perhaps there were so many of these actors and musicians because of the nearness to the castle; situated here, she reasoned in the sometimes harsh Suel way, they could entertain or beg for money from rich nobles and members of the court as they passed, not to mention from Market-goers themselves. And, being entertainers they were probably weak and cowardly, craving the protection of the Viscount's soldiery. The hard lives of the people of the Northern wastes produced a practical air shot through with a certain savage skepticism. But how was it otherwise, she wondered?
Behind this area, which she surmised was the Artists' District, rose the high ipp trees of the Dawn Quarter, as Colson had described. It was indeed exceeding beautiful in the bright sun – already the great trees were starting to sprout into great, hand-sized emerald leaves as if immune to the cold – but all the same she sensed an eerie alien tinge in them that made the small hairs on the back of her neck rise. Elves might well be good people in truth, but they were new to her and they were not human and it made them suspicious. She turned her eyes aside and explored the rest of the District.
It seemed a particularly cheerful and joyous place. Neither of these things had seemed true of her father's skalds, but these players appeared genuinely happy. The Elfwoman in particular appeared jolly and lively, although something about her attitude seemed a little forced to Askyrja, though none of the men watching seemed to notice; some Elvish witchery perhaps. Askyrja did not throw her any money.
The crowd began to part then for – to her delight – a pair of actual jugglers appeared wearing matching linens and silks that seemed to shine in the sunlight. They were lightly dressed and must have been cold, but they began gaily tossed coloured curved pieces of wood back and forth to each other, so similar to one another that she realized they must be twins. She had seen jugglers before, of course, but their paired skill was consummate and clearly born of long practice: their every motion of feet and hands seemed perfectly timed, like a dance. She watched entranced as they came closer, each step calculated and studied, as the rest of the people scattered out of the way until she was suddenly standing alone clapping in delight as the rest of the crowd receded like a sea-swell.
Then she squealed with fright as they suddenly sidestepped to trap her in the corridor of spinning batons. 'No!' she shouted, ducking and covering her head as the twins grinned and the crowd laughed at her discomfiture.
'Look what we caught!' the twin to her left crowed.
'A golden fish!' cried the one to the right.
'Don't move!' the first one laughed as she stepped back and a heavy juggling pin spun by her face.
'You'll get dinged!' warned the second. 'Stand still!'
Askyrja froze perfectly in place, her hair rustled by the pins spinning past mere inches from her head, only her big emerald eyes flicking back and forth as she tracked them, while people watching gasped or laughed at her predicament. 'Let me go!' she called out, wincing as a pin missed her nose by a finger's breadth.
'No!' teased the one to her right. 'We think we'll keep you!'
'Aye to that!' the one to the left cried, playing to the crowd. 'You're ours now!'
The onlookers chortled or shouted as the little spectacle played out. 'Don't you hurt her!' a stolid matron called, shaking a fist, succumbing to the moment's drama.
Askyrja started to cringe and affect a helpless laugh, as if submitting to their will as a woman ought – then a tremor of steel fury shuddered through her spine. She was a daughter of the Suel, not some weakling trollop, a daughter of Orvung, Jarl of the Snow Barbarians, slayer of giants and trolls!
She glanced left and right, reading their timing, then darted forward.
Immediately she snaked her head back and left as a pin almost clipped her jaw – the crowd gasped – then ducked forward in an explosive turn, spinning through the hurtling wall of wood, her skirts whirling wildly. And then she was out.
The onlookers gasped; one or two of the women cheered or screamed while others clapped. A few groaned at the apparent end of the show.
With a shout the jugglers quickly sidestepped to try and trap her again, but she dashed away and ducked into the safety of the crowd, giving the twins a victorious sneer from behind her human shields. She lifted two fingers at them in insult – a Verboncian thing – then hurried away through the mob.
'She's quick!' said one twin to the other.
'Quick and daring,' the other mused, craning his head to follow her, his hands autonomically catching and returning the pins his brother flung. 'I wonder if she'd walk the high rope?'
But Askyrja was gone, already emerging on the far side of the crowd – to a little scattered applause. She headed out of the Market just to avoid any further embarrassment; she'd had enough of that today, to be sure! Stupid Southerners! she thought angrily as she hurried towards the Coster house, her purchases still gripped tight. Still, she smiled to herself a little; maybe she'd really learned her footwork after all.
The audience slowly wandered away, sated; the day was getting on and there was business to be done, food to be made, houses to be minded. The Verboncians were a practical people by and large, dependable and staid, and while they enjoyed spectacle they did not live for it.
Among them, however, was a man neither Oeridian nor Flan, nor even Verboncian. He stood staring after the girl, trying to see where she had gone.
He was taller than the locals with the broad, muscular build of a man used to dangerous, physical trades and he wore the loose trews and tunic of a man of the far, far North from round the Azure Sea, past the Oljatt, across great Grendep Bay where monsters cruised the waters by summer; indeed, he had often been on a Schnai longship raiding down the Aerdy coasts as far as Winetha and even Roland. He still carried his old battered broadsword and axe though he was now a peaceful trader – mostly – and the sides of his head were still shaven and his hair pleated into one great thick braid that ran down over his skull in the manner of a Viking raider. His face was marred by a thick scar from nose to jaw and he had a blue-tattooed star tattooed over his right eye.
A striking young Northern girl all the way out here was an unexpected surprise; there were Suel among the Verboncians, of course, but despite her very local dress her looks and accent immediately betrayed her even as they lit a fire in his heart. How had a Rhizian woman come to be here, of all places? Who was she? He had to know.
As the crowd dispersed he trailed after her like a wolf but she was unexpectedly quick and to his astonishment she simply disappeared in the mass of people as cleanly as smoke on a stiff wind.
He looked around a few more minutes, hoping to catch sight of her again, but she did not reappear and in the end he returned to his ship, musing on the mystery of the girl.