Ewoud gulped, but silently.
Meester Haakom lumbered across the room, ducking under the ceiling beams. He bent over a chest that had been fastened to the floor, unlocked it. The lid opened with a loud screech. “Do not oil the hinges or you will be fined everything you might make this year,” he warned, looking over his shoulder. Then he removed a canvas-wrapped bundle and brought it to the sorting table. There he unrolled the rough buff-colored cover, revealing a white satin lining stitched to the canvas. Ewoud noticed movement and glanced toward the accountant. He braced on his walking stick, stood, and walked over to the table, standing beside Meester Haakom.
“This is bank rat.” Haakom unrolled a dark brown, oval pelt as long as one of Ewoud’s arms and almost as wide in the center. “We pay nothing for the raw pelts. If it has the head, paws, or tail still attached, return it, unless it is a god-washed pelt, of course. Look for the double pelt, and the long red guard hairs.” The accountant handed the trader a small bristle-brush, and held down one end of the pelt as Meester Haakom brushed the fur backwards. A short, thick black under-coat appeared, then the longer dark brown hairs, and a scattering of longer, reddish hairs. “If it is prepared, and the fur layers are thick enough, we buy the pelts. You do not do anything other than come get one of us,” he pointed to his chest. The accounts keeper rolled the fur, clearing the table.
“Now, this is part of a tamman. Only the men of the north bring them in, and you will know the moment you see a North Man.” Ewoud’s mouth hung open a little at the sight of the beautiful, pure white fur. Once unrolled, it extended two-thirds the length of the table, and half the width. “This is half a tamman. The other half we sent on, but there is a flaw in the hide.” Meester Haakom flipped back the cut side of the pelt, showing what looked like scorch marks. “Some fool tried branding his mark on the hide. He no longer trades in the Free Cities.” Ewoud shivered at the hot anger in Meester Haakom’s eyes. “Tamman has a triple coat in winter, double in summer. The North Men only bring winter pelts. The animal, I am told, resembles a larger version of out house cats, but with very long legs, and claws fixed out like a dog, with a curved, feathery tail like a dog. I have not seen an entire pelt with head, paws, and tail, only these. Never, ever attempt to bargain for one of these. And if anyone but a North Man tries to sell you one?” he turned to the accounts keeper.
The hunch-backed man snorted. “Run him out, at spear point if need be. Do not touch the pelt, do not accept it or reject it, chase the man out and toss everything he brought after him. He is violating our trade laws, those of the North Men, the laws of Wald’dana, and of the Great Northern Emperor. And I will know if anyone tries to do otherwise.” He made a complicated gesture with ink-blotched fingers, and the pelt twitched. “This has been properly caught, properly tanned, and properly marked and purchased.”
Jan made a face. “How can you say it was properly marked with that huge scorch on the hide-side?”
Ewoud scooted a pace sideways, away from Jan’s vicinity. The others did the same, leaving him on his own. The account’s keeper’s eyes narrowed and the hand resting on the table twitched. Jan’s scarf wrapped itself tighter around his throat, then tighter still, and his eyes began to bulge as he fought for air. Then the scarf flopped limp and loose once more. Jan bent over, hands on knees breathing as loudly as a seasheep. “Because I am a master mage, and I am familiar with mage marks.” The accounts keeper’s bland tones raised the hair on Ewoud’s neck. Not all mages wore guild tags and elaborate clothes, and he made a mental promise to be polite, respectful, and obedient to all the staff working at the vlee.
“So tamman we buy only from the Men of the North. They almost always ask to speak with one of the masters. Fulfil their request.” Meester Haakom met everyone’s eyes, making the command absolutely clear.
“Sir, how do we know such a man?” Kirk asked.
Ewoud bit his tongue to keep from answering. How could Kirk not know? Everyone had seen at least one of the North Men, or had read about them! Hadn’t they?
“They look like this.” Meester Haakom pointed to the tamman. “White of skin, hair, and clothes. White hunting cats. You will know.”
He and the accounts keeper rolled the tamman hide once more and he locked it back into the chest. Then Meester Haakom turned to the young men. "You, you, and you, have hides to sort. You," he pointed to Ewoud, "and you three, start bringing fur bundles in from the trade building."
As he struggled to keep the bundle off the ground, Ewoud decided that this would be a very long trading season indeed.
5
Ewoud's Dilemma
So much for the privilege of being the eldest son of a prosperous family. Ewoud crouched and peered into the corner of the room, looking for any lingering bit of dirt. He stood and swept the corner once more, just in case, then gathered the dirt and small rocks into a pile, swept them into a pan that had passed kitchen use, and carried the dirt to the rubbish mound. Once every eight days the life-servants carried it out for the scavengers of Kehlibar to sort through.
The routines of the vlee felt familiar. Wake before dawn, dress and clean the sleeping area, then eat. Depending on what was needed, Ewoud worked in the peltery or helped log incoming and out-going goods, or assisted other masters with their trade. He'd learned more about furs good, furs bad, furs forged and painted, than he'd imagined possible. He preferred hides, but Ewoud kept that to himself. He also found himself in the great-hauler pens, sorting and harnessing the birds as caravans came in and out. The local men took care of the ovsta, each man with his own teams that he cared for. They did smell as bad in the rain as Ewoud had suspected.
Come evening, after the gate closed, the men of the vlee and some women worked on staff and sword practice. A few, including journeyman Hanka, also did knife work. Then came the night meal. Everyone took at least one rotation on fire watch, learning how to carry the big leather buckets and how to make certain that the waterproofing spells and pitch-seals on the seams remained sound. On the eighth day, those who wanted attended worship at the temples within the vlee while Scavenger-born or their local brothers removed the scraps and rubbish from the vlee. Despite the sister-lady's warning, some of the journeymen and sons also snuck out into the city for companionship.
Ewoud thought about it. He'd made acquaintance with the professional women of Rhonari, and he wore a contraceptive charm. But he had a nagging suspicion that if he wasted his energies now, he'd not have such an easy time siring children once he married. Despite being cold-blooded, his father had managed ten offspring, but he'd also been continent until marriage, saving himself. Between the sister-lady's threats and his own fears about having a cold-streak even though he'd been born to Maarsdam, he opted to abstain. The trouble he did not seek out was one less trouble to worry over. He had more than enough woes as it was.
Ewoud returned pan and broom to their places and returned to the peltery in time to help Kirk as he staggered in with an enormous sack full of pelts. "Meester Guess-Who just bought these," Kirk whispered. Ewoud couldn't suppress the groan as they carried the sack to an empty counter. "He wants them sorted and packed as soon as possible." Which meant the free moment Ewoud had been hoping for had just vanished, because Meester Dogald still wanted "something done about" Ewoud.
Should they wait for a journeyman? Kirk and Ewoud exchanged a look, and both shook their heads. "I'll get tags," Kirk sighed, resignation obvious in his stooped back and slumping shoulders. He trudged across the room and found Meester Dogald's tags and the quality tags while Ewoud set separators on top of half the table. Then he reached into the sack and pulled out an armful of furs. "They're a mixed lot." Kirk set the tags down, pulled a veshla skin out of the mass, then tugged a bank-rat pelt loose.
"Kind, then quality," Ewoud suggested. Kirk began pulling pelts out of the heap and passed them to Ewoud, who laid them between the temporary partitions. "Veshla, veshla, bank-rat, bank-rat, veshla, rabbit?, veshla, veshla, can't tell, veshla," Ewoud recited
under his breath. "Mynkha? Veshla, bank-rat, bank-rat, bank-rat, can't tell," the piles grew higher and higher, and the number of unknown pelts soon towered over the others. By the time Kirk finished emptying the sack, Ewoud had grave doubts as to the size of the remaining population of fur-bearing creatures in the eastern forests. There were enough pelts to populate the entire land, as far as he could tell. The quality did not match the quantity, alas, even he could tell that.
Kirk surveyed the results, fists on hips. "I think we need Waldis, or Meester Haakom or Meester Arsenloe."
"I'll get Waldis. The masters are in a price meeting, those not on the trading rotation." Ewoud trotted out before Kirk could move, eager to be out in the sun and fresh air. He hurried to the secondary general storage building and found Waldis keeping notes for one of the brewers. "Your pardon, sir, but Waldis is needed in the peltery."
The stocky brewer took the note board and stylus. "Go, boy. The grain can wait."
Waldis waited until they were half-way across the great courtyard. "What does Meester Haakom need?"
"Meester Dogald, and he bought a mixed lot that Kirk and I can't sort. The masters are discussing prices and can't be interrupted—"
"Unless there's a fire or the Great Northern Emperor himself arrives," Waldis finished. "Ja, ja, lazy," he ducked under the door, paused as his eyes adjusted, and gaped. "Ohshit." He grabbed one grey veshla and flipped it over, looking at the skin. "These are already paid for?"
Kirk ducked as he mumbled, "Yes. Meester Dogald bought the entire sack."
"Shitshitshit." Waldis dropped the grey fur onto the floor, took two-handfuls of his own hair, and closed his eyes as he pulled on his hair. "Right. You already sorted them by kind?"
"Yes." Kirk pointed. "Veshla, bank-rat, rabbit, squirrel, unknown, and mynkha."
Waldis let go of his hair and shook all over. "We start with hide quality and the unknowns. Kirk, get two boxes, because one's not going to be enough. Ewoud, you know hides, so look at them and pull out the really bad and mostly bad ones. Then I'll look at the fur, and any good ones we'll leave on the table. Kirk, start looking at the veshla, and box any really bad ones."
That sounded like an excellent plan, and Ewoud began flipping the furs over, testing them for pliability and soundness, then looking at the quality of the leather. It needed to be even, no thin spots scraped in it, and without raw or lumpy spots. The third one he picked up stank. "This is barely tanned. I think they waved it over the vat twice, then packed it." Into the refusal box it went. Another could have been used for a floorboard or hand fan, and he waved the rigid rawhide back and forth. "I'm surprised it didn't crack in the sack." Thunk into the box.
"These have holes in them." Kirk held up two veshla, and Ewoud winced at the light visible through the fur-side. "We have a problem."
"No, Meester Dogald has a problem," Waldis corrected. "Hand me the brush, please. Ugh, that's what I thought." Broken hairs pulled out of the hide even brushing with the grain. "Bad chemical tanning. Meester Haakom will not be pleased."
"Neither will Meester Dogald." Kirk looked at another pelt, put it to one side, and added another to the box at his feet.
By the time the three would-be traders finished their rough quality sort, over half the furs overflowed from the reject boxes. Of the rest, several appeared to have been dyed, and Ewoud wrinkled his nose at four more. "The marks on these do not look right. Meester Arsenloe needs to read them."
The far door opened, and they heard uneven steps and a staff on wood. "What is this?" Meester Arsenloe called.
"One of the masters purchased a unsorted lot, sir, and some of the marks are unfamiliar." Ewoud opted for diplomacy before Waldis or Kirk could be too honest. Waldis rolled his eyes but scooted out of the way as Meester Arsenloe limped over. Kirk hurried to the notary and accounts keeper's table and brought his chair over to the sorting area.
"This is from Preuss, a clan well to the north and east," Arsenloe said. He touched it with the rock that hung around his neck and Ewoud saw a little flash. "It is valid." Waldis moved the pelt back to the veshla pile. "This is not, nor is this mark. Put them on my table." Ewoud hurried them to the back of the room. "This is... Meester Haakom needs to look at it." The mage pressed his lips together. "And you rejected all those," he pointed to the boxes.
"On quality grounds, sir." Waldis pulled one from each box and handed them to the mage. Arsenloe studied the furs, nose wrinkling as the pong from one of the half-tanned hides reached him. "We only rejected those with obvious flaws and falsifications."
Arsenloe returned the pelts, then brushed his hands free of hairs. "Do not tell me who purchased these. Kirk, get my tablet and writing stick. Continue sorting, and I will make notes."
They'd gotten through the veshla and the mynkah, with two pauses to let their eyes rest and to use the privy, when Ewoud held up a bank-rat pelt. "Sir, I thought this was bank rat, but now I'm not so certain. And, um, I think it has been dyed." He gave it to Waldis, who took it to the window.
"It has been dyed, and I'm not certain..." his voice trailed off. "Meester Haakom needs to see this."
Arsenloe pointed with his writing stick. "Put it there." They'd gotten through most of the bank-rat when Meester Haakom lumbered into the peltery, muttering under his breath about stubborn fools and Radmar's wheel. "Ah, very good, sir," the mage called. "We have pelts of unknown animals, and one that might not be a bank rat."
Haakom's sigh could have filled The White Wave's sails and propelled it the length of the Scythe. "No matter how often I tell journeymen..." Ewoud, Waldis, and Kirk backed away from the table as Meester Haakom picked up the bank-rat. "Huh, this has been cut out of a larger fur. And dyed." He took it to the window and drew his knife, then scraped the leather-side. "Scavenger take them, someone overdyed a god-washed pelt. It's not bank-rat, but something larger, without a double-pelt." The big man shook his head and returned to the table. "Schry, another schry, mountain mynkah, maultan, false-ovsta," he flipped through the unknown furs. "Keep the schry and the mynkah. The others we don't buy but the locals do." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Someone got sheared like a schaef."
Ewoud and the others all sagged. Meester Dogald would blame them. Meester Arsenloe took a deep breath. "Who brought these to the peltery?"
Kirk raised his hand, very slowly.
"What were your instructions?" Arsenloe didn't sound angry, or did he? He sounded cold, and that probably did not bode well.
"Sir, I was instructed to bring them here, sort them by kind and color, tag them, and pack them." Kirk hesitated, licking his lips. The masters both looked at him. "Um, I was not supposed to reject any, just sort by kind and color, tag, and pack."
Arsenloe used his walking stick to flip one of the raw furs out of the box. "If you pack that with the others, it will ruin them and attract vermin."
Meester Haakom picked up the raw fur and frowned so hard his eyes disappeared in wrinkles. "This is not acceptable. Word will spread, and we will have more people bringing inferior goods to trade. Not acceptable." He held the fur with two fingers, at arm's length. "Absolutely unacceptable and all know this," he enunciated. Ewoud's knees shook a little and he ducked, afraid of what might happen next.
The main door banged open and Journeyman Hanka marched in. Ewoud and the others retreated to the safety of the other side of the room. The chief fur merchant stood motionless, still holding the offending pelt. "Are they ready for packing yet?" He ignored Meester Haakom and stared at the table. "What fool thing have you been doing? These are not color sorted! And why are those in boxes, boy? Your job is to sort and pack. Meester Dogald told you to sort and pack them, not dump them into boxes." He saw Ewoud and his grimace turned into rage. "I should have known you'd be involved. Trying to make Meester Dogald look bad, are you? I'll show—"
Fwap. Meester Haakom slapped the journeyman across the face with the part-rotten fur. "Your master," he said quietly, "was deceived. These young men have been attempting to save him from the
worst consequences of his error."
Ewoud saw the journeyman's fingers moving. Meester Arsenloe's hand moved faster, and the journeyman yelped, then blew on that hand. "You know better," the hunch-backed mage murmured. "Stay within your specialty."
What was Hanka's specialty? Ewoud couldn't recall. Surely a preservation mage, because most traders hired preservation mages in order to provide a second level of security on things like wax or herbs or salves and oils that might go bad. Or a notary mage, that also made sense, like Arsenloe's assistant was. Hanka snarled, the corner of his mouth rising, baring his teeth as his eyebrows lowered and his eyes tried to bore into Ewoud. Should he be scared? No, but wary. Hanka wasn't as big in the shoulders as Ewoud, or at least didn't look that big, but he was probably older and was a mage. And Meester Dogald would side with him.
"I will personally supervise the further sorting and tagging of these pelts, and report to Dogald with the final tallies." Meester Haakom folded his arms and loomed. "I can tell already that it will not make a full barrel. And I will return the rejected pelts to him. Personally." Ewoud savored the idea of Haakom upending the boxes over Dogald's head, then made himself scratch out the picture. Upsetting the masters farther would not end well for him. "You are dismissed."
Hanka opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he'd intended to say, and bowed. "Meester Dogald will be pleased that you showed such personal care with his purchase," Hanka managed, then eased out of the peltery much more quietly than he'd entered.
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