“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 rosecolored, gossamer gown. Garion swallowed hard and discovered that he had almost stopped breathing.
Vella began to whirl, and her long black hair flared out, almost perfectly matching the flare of her gown. Then she slowed and once again dropped back into that proud, sensual strut that challenged every man in the room.
They cheered when she stopped, and she smiled a slow, mysterious little smile.
“You dance very well,” the scar-faced trapper observed in a neutral voice.
“Naturally,” she replied. “I do everything very well.”
“Are you in love with anyone?” The question was bluntly put.
“No man has won my heart,” Vella declared flatly. “I haven’t seen a man yet who was worthy of me.”
“That may change,” the trapper suggested. “One goldmark.” It was a firm offer.
“You’re not serious,” she snorted. “Five goldmarks.”
“One and a half,” he countered.
“This is just too insulting.” Vella raised both hands up in the air, and her face took on a tragic expression. “Not a copper less than four.”
“Two goldmarks,” the trapper offered.
“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed, spreading both arms. “Why don’t you just cut my heart out and have done with it? I couldn’t consider anything less than three and a half.”
“To save time, why don’t we just say three?” He said it firmly. “With intention that the arrangement become permanent,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Permanent?” Vella’s eyes widened.
“I like you,” he replied. “Well, what do you say?”
“Stand up and let me have a look at you,” she ordered him. Slowly he unwound himself from the chair in which he had lounged. His tall body was as lean as his scarred face, and there was a hardmuscled quality about him. Vella pursed her lips and looked him over. “Not bad, is he?” she murmured to Tashor.
“You could do worse, Vella,” her owner answered encouragingly. “I’ll consider your offer of three with intentions,” Vella declared. “Have you got a name?”
“Tekk,” the tall trapper introduced himself with a slight bow.
“Well then, Tekk,” Vella told him, “don’t go away. Tashor and I need to talk over your offer.” She gave him an almost shy look. “I think I like you, too,” she added in a much less challenging tone. Then she took hold of the leash that was still wrapped around Tashor’s fist and led him out of the tavern, glancing back over her shoulder once or twice at the lean-faced Tekk.
“That is a lot of woman,” Silk murmured with a note of profound respect.
Garion found that he was able to breathe again, though his ears still felt very hot. “What did they mean by intention?” he quietly asked Silk.
“Tekk offered an arrangement that usually leads to marriage,” Silk explained.
That baffled Garion. “I don’t understand at all,” he confessed.
“Just because someone owns her doesn’t give him any special rights to her person,” Silk told him, “and those daggers of hers enforce that. One does not approach a Nadrak woman unless one’s tired of living. She makes that decision. The wedding customarily takes place after the birth of her first child.”
“Why was she so interested in the price?”
“Because she gets half,” Silk shrugged.
“She gets half of the money every time she’s sold?” Garion was incredulous.
“Of course. It’d hardly be fair otherwise, would it?”
The servingman who was bringing them three more cups of ale had stopped and was staring openly at Silk.
“Is something wrong, friend?” Silk asked him mildly.
The servingman lowered his eyes quickly. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just thought – you reminded me of somebody, that’s all. Now that I see you closer, I realize that I was mistaken.” He put down the cups quickly, turned, and left without picking up the coins Silk had laid on the table.
“I think we’d better leave,” Silk said quietly.
“What’s the matter?” Garion asked him.
“He knows who I am – and there’s that reward notice that’s being circulated.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Belgarath agreed, rising to his feet.
“He’s talking with those men over there,” Garion said, watching the servingman, who was in urgent conversation with a group of hunters on the far side of the room and was casting frequent looks in their direction.
“We’ve got about a half a minute to get outside,” Silk said tensely. “Let’s go.”
The three of them moved quickly toward the door.
“You there!” someone behind them shouted. “Wait a minute!”
“Run!” Belgarath barked, and they bolted outside and hurled themselves into their saddles just as a half dozen leather-garbed men burst out through the tavern door.
The shout, “Stop those men!” went largely unheeded as they galloped off down the street. Trappers and hunters as a breed were seldom inclined to mix themselves in other men’s affairs, and Garion, Silk, and Belgarath had passed through the village and were splashing across a ford before any kind of pursuit could be organized.
Silk was swearing as they entered the forest on the far side of the river, spitting out oaths like melon seeds. His profanity was colorful arid wide-ranging, reflecting on the birth, parentage, and uncleanly habits of not only those pursuing them, but of those responsible for circulating the reward notice as well.
Belgarath reined in sharply, raising his hand as he did. Silk and Garion hauled their horses to a stop. Silk continued to swear.
“Do you suppose you could cut short your eloquence for a moment?” Belgarath asked him. “I’m trying to listen.”
Silk muttered a few more choice oaths, then clamped his teeth shut. There were confused shouts far behind them and a certain amount of splashing.
“They’re crossing the stream,” Belgarath noted. “It looks as if they plan to take the business seriously. Seriously enough to chase us, at any rate.”
“Won’t they give up when it gets dark?” Garion asked.
“These are Nadrak hunters,” Silk said, sounding profoundly disgusted. “They’ll follow us for days just for the enjoyment of the hunt.”
“There’s not much we can do about that now,” Belgarath grunted. “Let’s see if we can outrun them.” And he thumped his heels to his horse.
It was midafternoon as they rode at a gallop through the sunlit forest. The undergrowth was scanty, and the tall, straight trunks of fir and pine rose like great columns toward the blue sky overhead. It was a good day for a ride, but not a good day for being chased. No day was good for that.
They topped a rise and stopped again to listen.
“They seem to be falling behind,” Garion noted hopefully.
“That’s just the drunk ones,” Silk disagreed sourly. “The ones who are serious about all this are probably much closer. You don’t shout when you’re hunting. See – look back there.” He pointed.