David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

“Why do they drink before they do business, then?”

Silk shrugged. “They like to drink.”

The two trappers seated at the next table were renewing an acquaintanceship that obviously stretched back a dozen years or more. Their beards were both touched with gray, but they spoke lightheartedly in the manner of much younger men.

“You have any trouble with Morindim while you were up there?” one was asking the other.

The second shook his head. “I put pestilence-markers on both ends of the valley where I set out my traps,” he replied. “A Morind will go a dozen leagues out of his way to avoid a spot that’s got pestilence.”

The first nodded his agreement. “That’s usually the best way. Gredder always claimed that curse-markers worked better; but as it turned out, he was wrong.”

“I haven’t seen him in the last few seasons.”

“I’d be surprised if you had. The Morindim got him about three years ago. I buried him myself—what was left of him anyway.”

“Didn’t know that. Spent a winter with him once over on the head waters of the Cordu. He was a mean-tempered sort of a man. I’m surprised that the Morindim would cross a curse-marker, though.”

“As near as I could judge, some magician came along and uncursed his markers. I found a dried weasel foot hung from one of them with three stems of grass tied around each toe.”

“That’s a potent spell. They must have wanted him pretty badly for a magician to take that much trouble.”

“You know how he was. He could irritate people ten leagues away just walking by.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Not any more, though. His skull’s decorating some Morind magician’s quest-staff now.”

Garion leaned toward his grandfather. “What do they mean when they talk about markers?” he whispered.

“They’re warnings,” Belgarath replied. “Usually sticks poked into the ground and decorated with bones or feathers. The Morindim can’t read, so you can’t just put up a signboard for them.”

A stooped old trapper, his leather clothing patched and shiny from wear, shuffled toward the center of the tavern. His lined, bearded face had a slightly apologetic expression on it. Following after him came a young Nadrak woman in a heavy, red felt dress belted about the waist with a glittering chain. There was a leash about her neck, and the old trapper held the end of the tether firmly in his fist. Despite the leash, the young woman’s face had a proud, disdainful look, and she stared at the men in the tavern with barely concealed contempt. When the old trapper reached the center of the room, he cleared his throat to get the attention of the crowd. “I’ve got a woman I want to sell,” he announced loudly.

Without changing expression the woman spat upon him.

“Now you know that’s just going to lower your price, Vella,” the old man told her in a placating tone of voice.

“You’re an idiot, Tashor,” she retorted. “No one here can afford me—you know that. Why didn’t you do what I told you to and offer me to the fur buyers?”

“The fur buyers aren’t interested in women, Vella,” Tashor replied in that same mild tone. “The price will be better here, believe me.”

“I wouldn’t believe you if you said the sun was going to rise tomorrow, you old fool.”

“The woman, as you can see, is quite spirited,” Tashor announced rather lamely.

“Is he trying to sell his wife?” Garion demanded, choking on his ale.

“She isn’t his wife,” Silk corrected. “He owns her, that’s all.”

Garion clenched his fists and half rose, his face mottled with anger, but Belgarath’s hand closed firmly about his wrist. “Sit down,” the old man ordered.

“But—”

“I said sit down, Garion. This is none of your business.”

“Unless you want to buy the woman, of course,” Silk suggested lightly.

“Is she healthy?” a lean-faced trapper with a scar across one cheek called to Tashor.

“She is,” Tashor declared, “and she’s got all her teeth, too. Show them your teeth, Vella.”

“They aren’t looking at my teeth, idiot,” she told him, looking directly at the scar-faced trapper with a sultry challenge in her black eyes.

“She’s an excellent cook,” Tashor continued quickly, “and she knows remedies for rheumatism and ague. She can dress and tan hides and she doesn’t eat too much. Her breath doesn’t smell too bad—unless she eats onions—and she almost never snores, except when she’s drunk.”

“If she’s such a good woman, why do you want to sell her?” the lean-faced trapper wanted to know.

“I’m getting older,” Tashor replied, “and I’d like a little peace and quiet. Vella’s exciting to be around, but I’ve had all the excitement I need. I think I’d like to settle down someplace—maybe raise some chickens or goats.” The bent old trapper’s voice sounded a trifle plaintive.

“Oh, this is impossible,” Vella burst out. “Do I have to do everything myself? Get out of the way, Tashor.” Rudely, she pushed the old trapper aside and glared at the crowd, her black eyes flashing. “All right,” she announced firmly, “let’s get down to business. Tashor wants to sell me. I’m strong and healthy. I can cook, cure hides and skins, tend to common illnesses, bargain closely when I buy supplies, and I can brew good beer.” Her eyes narrowed grimly. “I have not gone to any man’s bed, and I keep my daggers sharp enough to persuade strangers not to try to force me. I can play the wood-flute and I know many old stories. I can make curse-markers and pestilence-markers and dream-markers to frighten off the Morindim and once I killed a bear at thirty paces with a bow.”

“Twenty paces,” Tashor corrected mildly.

“It was closer to thirty,” she insisted.

“Can you dance?” the lean trapper with the scarred face asked.

She looked directly at him. “Only if you’re seriously interested in buying me,” she replied.

“We can talk about that after I see you dance,” he said.

“Can you hold a beat?” she demanded.

“I can.”

“Very well.” Her hands went to the chain about her waist, and it jingled as she unfastened it. She opened the heavy red dress, stepped out of it, and handed it to Tashor. Then she carefully untied the leash from about her neck and bound a ribbon of red silk about her head to hold back her wealth of lustrous, blue-black hair. Beneath the red felt dress, she wore a filmy rose-colored gown of Mallorean silk that whispered and clung to her as she moved. The silk gown reached to midcalf, and she wore soft leather boots on her feet. Protruding from the top of each boot was the jeweled hilt of a dagger, and a third dagger rode on the leather belt about her waist. Her gown was caught in a tight collar about her throat, but it left her arms bare to the shoulder. She wore a half dozen narrow gold bracelets about each wrist. With a conscious grace, she bent and fastened a string of small bells to each ankle. Then she lifted her smoothly rounded arms until her hands were beside her face. “This is the beat, scar-face,” she told the trapper. “Try to hold it.” And she began to clap her hands together. The beat was three measured claps followed by four staccato ones. Vella began her dance slowly with a kind of insolent strut. Her gown whispered as she moved, its hem sighing about her lush calves.

The lean trapper took up her beat, his callused hands clapping together loudly in the sudden silence as Vella danced.

Garion began to blush. Vella’s movements were subtle and fluid. The bells at her ankles and the bracelets about her wrists played a tinkling counterpoint to the trapper’s beat. Her feet seemed almost to flicker in the intricate steps of her dance, and her arms wove patterns in the air. Other, even more interesting, things were going on inside the rose-colored, gossamer gown. Garion swallowed hard and discovered that he had almost stopped breathing.