The Emperor's Elephant(21)

His client was not persuaded and dropped the heavy rope’s end with a disdainful grunt, then wandered off. I waited until he was out of earshot, then asked the shopkeeper. ‘Excuse me, I heard you speaking of a “hross-hvalr” just now. Is that some sort of horse?’

The man looked me up and down. He must have seen by my clothes that I was not a seafarer and therefore an unlikely customer. He was about to turn away when perhaps he noticed the colour of my eyes because he hesitated. His expression, which had been dismissive, changed to one that was more wary.

‘Why would you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Just curiosity. I’m a stranger to these parts and “hross” sounds much like horse.’

‘You’re right in that,’ the man agreed.

‘I’m told that many of the animals native to this region are white. I’m wondering if this type of horse is also white.’

‘I’ve never seen a live hross-hvalr,’ said the merchant. ‘I get offered lengths of rope made up from their skin. It’s always the same colour as that one there.’ He nodded towards the coil of rope on the ground. It was a dull, grey-black.

A thought occurred to me. ‘So you don’t make the rope yourself?’

‘No, it comes ready made. The hross-hvalr lives far in the north where the winter nights are so long that there’s plenty of dark time for a man to fill in the hours sitting by his hearth, slicing up skin into rope.’

‘Perhaps I should ask someone from that area,’ I suggested.

The man paused before replying, cautious about giving information to a stranger.

‘If you can help me find what I’m looking for,’ I coaxed, ‘I would gladly pay a small reward.’

He cocked his head on one side and looked at me sharply. ‘What exactly is it that you are seeking?’

I hesitated, aware of my own doubts. ‘I’m looking for an unusual sort of horse, a white one. It’s called a unicorn.’

There was a startled pause, and then he threw back his head and hooted with laughter. ‘A unicorn! I don’t believe it!’

I stood there, feeling foolish and trying not to show it.

He laughed so hard, he almost choked. ‘In these parts you’ll find Sleipnir before you come across any unicorn. A hross-hvalr is a horse whale,’ he gasped finally.

I waited until he had regained his breath and, curbing my irritation, asked him again who had supplied him with horse whale rope.

‘His name is Ohthere,’ he told me. ‘He owns a large farm on the coast and so far north that it takes him almost a month to get here, sailing every day and anchoring each night. He shows up in Kaupang every year, probably the only time he meets anyone outside his own family.’

‘Where can I find this Ohthere?’

The shopkeeper was still chuckling. ‘At the end of the street, on the outskirts of town. He always sets up a big tent there, on the right.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, stepping back. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘And tell him that Oleif sent you!’ he called after me as I trudged on, Osric limping beside me.

‘What did he mean about finding Sleipnir before we came across a unicorn?’ Osric asked.

‘It was his way of saying that there’s no such creature as a unicorn. Sleipnir is the horse Odinn rides. According to the old beliefs, Sleipnir travels on eight legs.’

We were passing one of the large boat-shaped houses with a turf roof. Three men stood in the open doorway, deep in conversation. Judging by the tints of grey in their neatly trimmed beards, two of them were in their mid-forties. Their companion was younger, perhaps in his twenties. All three were dressed in the same unobtrusive style – loose trousers of dark wool, a long shirt belted at the waist and soft knee-length boots. Two of them were bare headed; the third wore a round felt cap with an unusual trim of alternating patches of glossy dark and light fur.

Osric nudged me with his elbow. ‘Over there,’ he murmured, flicking a glance towards the strangers.

At first sight there was nothing noteworthy about them apart from the fact that their skins were a darker shade than most visitors to the market and they appeared to be more neatly groomed.

‘Look at their belts,’ Osric prompted under his breath.

I took a second glance. Their broad leather belts were stitched with complicated interlocking red and green patterns in loops and whorls. The buckles were ornate and of massive silver.

‘Slave dealers,’ muttered Osric. There was sadness in his voice and I remembered that once he too had been traded as a slave.

I felt the pressure on my arm as he steered me so we passed close enough to the three slave-dealers to overhear their conversation.