Night Birds' Reign(64)

“Ahem,” the peddler went on. “As I was saying, my fine lord and ladies, a good evening to you all. How pleased I am to be guesting here in such a fine village.” He gestured expansively at the huts as the crowd looked at him blankly. “Indeed. Nestled here in these beautiful mountains like a pearl nestles within its oyster.” Still, there was no response as the crowd stared back at the peddler as though he had lost his mind.

“Ahem,” he went on, clearing his throat. “Yes. A jewel of a place this is. For within such surroundings beautiful women do reside, hidden away like treasures, gleaming like gold and precious gems.” He gestured to the stout, plain women by the well, who stared back in astonishment. “And what do such pearls, such treasures, deserve from the men who love them? Why, ribbons, of course, to vie with the brightness of their hair.” He drew tangled lengths of ribbons from his pack, holding them up with a flourish. “Any man with a sweetheart would buy a ribbon for her hair. And, truly, a man who cared for his wife would buy her pots and pans to cook his dinner in. Fair receptacles for the fruits of her labor.” He opened another pack, spreading the pots on a hastily set length of cloth.

The women began to eye the goods speculatively. The older ones eyed the tins, the younger ones eyed the ribbons. And the men eyed the women, warily.

The peddler’s eyes picked out a young, fresh-faced girl. He picked up a length of blue ribbon and held it up to her fair hair. “Oh, indeed. Blue to match your eyes, my dear. A man would be mad not to have his eye on you—and mad not to purchase such a pretty trifle for such a pretty girl.” The girl blushed, peering up at the peddler shyly.

A young man pushed his way through the crowd, holding a short length of undyed wool cloth. “This for the blue ribbon,” he said, turning bright red, but standing his ground. The young girl blushed even more and looked fixedly at the ground.

The peddler deftly took the cloth and squinted at the close weave. He smiled. “Indeed, young sir. So be it. A ribbon for your lady fair,” as he gravely presented the ribbon to the young man.

“You’re overcharging,” the guard said very quietly into the peddler’s ear.

The peddler replied through his fixed smile, his lips barely moving, “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“Be fair with these people—or I’ll pull all your teeth out,” the guard replied, also smiling and giving the peddler a slap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling.

The peddler laughed as though the guard had said something witty then picked up a red ribbon. “Ah, young sir,” he called to the young man, “your fine cloth has brought you two ribbons.” The young man came back to retrieve the second ribbon then went to the girl, shyly handing her the ribbons. The girl drew them through her work roughened hands wonderingly and, finally daring to look up at the young man, smiled softly.

Then the village women began to seriously inspect the pots and pans and slowly the stock began to disappear, replaced by lengths of undyed wool, wheels of cheese, a wooden comb or two. The peddler smiled in satisfaction as the loot mounted up when an old man made his way through the crowd. His beard was long and gray and his robe was of plain, gray cloth. Sheepskin boots were wrapped around his feet and he carried a stout walking stick. His dark eyes flashed for a moment then subsided.

“What’s going on here?” the old man asked.

The peddler bowed. “I am a merchant, good sir, on my way to Caer Dathyl when I stopped in this lovely village, nestled in these mountains like a pearl in an oyster—”

“Selling shoddy wares,” the old man broke in. “Down on your luck, eh?”

The peddler drew himself up haughtily. Although his face was still hooded, his eyes could be seen to gleam deep within the hood. “I assure you, good sir—”

“And who is this? Leader of your illustrious warband?” the old man continued, jerking his stick at the now scowling guard.

“Are you insulting me?” the guard demanded, his hand on his knife.

“I? Insult you? No indeed. It must be insult enough to be forced to endure this peddler’s company.”

“I don’t have to take that from you, old man,” the peddler said angrily. The guard came to stand by the peddler, his hand still firmly on his dagger.

There was a commotion in the back of the crowd as a boy burst through to stand protectively in front of the old man. The boy’s hair was sandy, darkening to auburn. He had large, dark eyes set in a thin, tanned face. He was lanky and awkward as though he did not yet know what to do yet with his hands and feet. “Are you threatening my uncle?” the boy asked belligerently.