Garion jumped, a bit startled. “I didn’t know you were there,” he said.
“You should have,” the old man replied, stepping out of the shadows.
“How did he know?” Garion asked. “That I’m a wolf sometimes, I mean?”
“It shows. A wolf is very alert to that sort of thing.”
Silk came out from under the tree where he had been sleeping. The little man’s step was wary, but his nose twitched with curiosity. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“The wolves wanted to know what we were doing in their territory,” Belgarath replied. “They were investigating to see if they were going to have to fight us.”
“Fight?” Garion was startled.
“It’s customary when a strange wolf enters the hunting range of another pack. Wolves prefer not to fight – it’s a waste of energy – but they will, if the situation demands it.”
“What happened?” Silk asked. “Why did they just go away like that?”
“Garion convinced them that we were just passing through.”
“That was clever of him.”
“Why don’t you stir up the fire, Garion?” Belgarath suggested. “Let’s have some breakfast and move on. It’s still a long way to Mallorea, and we don’t want to run out of good weather.”
Later that same day, they rode down into a valley where a collection of log houses and tents stood beside a fair-sized stream at the edge of a meadow.
“Fur traders,” Silk explained to Garion, pointing at the rough settlement. “‘There are places like this on just about every major stream in this part of the forest.” The little man’s pointed nose began to twitch, and his eyes grew bright. “A lot of buying and selling goes on in these little towns.”
“Never mind,” Belgarath told him pointedly. “Try to keep your predatory instincts under control.”
“I wasn’t even considering anything,” Silk protested.
“Really? Aren’t you feeling well?”
Silk loftily ignored that.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to go around it?” Garion asked as they rode across the broad meadow.
Belgarath shook his head. “I want to know what’s going on ahead of us, and the quickest way to find out is to talk to people who’ve been there. We’ll drift in, circulate for an hour or so and then drift on out again. Just keep your ears open. If anyone asks, we’re on our way toward the north range to look for gold.”
There were differences between the hunters and trappers who roamed the streets of this settlement and the miners they had met in the last village. They were more open for one thing – less surly and distinctly less belligerent. Garion surmised that the enforced solitude of their occupation made them appreciate companionship all the more during their infrequent visits to the fur-trading centers. Although they drank probably as much as the miners, their drinking seemed to lead more often to singing and laughter than to fighting.
A large tavern stood near the center of the village, and they rode slowly along a dirt street toward it. “Side door,” Belgarath said tersely as they dismounted in front of the tavern, and they led their horses around the building and tied them at the porch railing.
The interior of the tavern was cleaner, less crowded, and somewhat lighter than the miners’ tavern had been, and it smelled of woods and open air instead of damp, musty earth. The three of them sat at a table not far from the door and ordered cups of ale from a polite servingman. The ale was a rich, dark brown, well chilled, and surprisingly inexpensive.
“The fur buyers own the place,” Silk explained, wiping foam from his upper lip. “They’ve discovered that a trapper is easier to bargain with if he’s a little drunk, so they make the ale cheap and plentiful.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Garion admitted, “but don’t the trappers know that?”
“Of course they do.”
“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 leanfaced 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.”