A Time of Dread (Of Blood and Bone #1) - John Gwynne Page 0,41

smell the place before sighting it, the sharp tang of his lime-water vats and the sickly stench of fat-scraped hides lying thick as smoke in the air.

Ulf met them with a grin and a bag of silver, and set two of his sons to unloading the wain of its pelts while Olin and Ulf chatted, mostly about mead and sore heads.

A woman entered the yard as they were talking, tall and stern-faced, an otter pelt cloak about her shoulders. Two men walked a step behind her, both muscled and scarred, belts brimming with axe and knife.

‘Hildith.’ Drem nodded a greeting. She ran Kergard’s mead-hall, had helped build it with her own hands and was one of the original members of the Assembly.

‘Still alive, then,’ Hildith said to Drem and Olin.

‘Aye,’ Drem said.

Just, as he thought of the white bear.

‘Forgive me, but I cannot stand here in conversation,’ Hildith said, pulling a sour face. ‘The smell is too much. I’ve come for my new boots and cloak, Ulf.’

Ulf ran to fetch them and Olin led Drem back to their wain, now unloaded.

‘Come see me at the mead-hall and tell me your trappers’ tales,’ Hildith called after them.

Olin raised a hand.

‘A good deal,’ Drem said to his da as he drove the wain out of the tanner’s yard, wheels bouncing now the load was lighter. They turned into a wide street, where clouds of steam were hissing from the roof of Calder the smith.

‘Huh,’ Olin grunted, making Drem frown. His da had been like this since they had found that lump of black rock in the elk pit – distant, quiet, uneasy, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

It is the starstone that worries him so, if that is what it is. I do not blame him; I am worried, too. Despite his da’s reasons for taking and keeping the lump of black rock, Drem thought it would be better for all if they took it and buried it again, or dumped it in the Starstone Lake.

‘Here,’ Olin said, pointing, and Drem whistled and pulled on the reins. They were at the market square, all manner of tents and stalls selling a variety of goods. Drem followed his da round and listened as Olin bartered and haggled, Drem carrying each purchase back to the wain. It was not long before the cart was groaning with the weight of grain sacks, barrels of salted meat and fish, and a fair few skins of stoppered mead. Olin had also bought a crate of ten chickens and two goats, who were now tethered to the wain.

A group of men were standing close to the cart, seven or eight of them, some trappers by the look of them, clothed in furs and deer-skin, knives and axes hanging from their belts.

One of their number, a man with red wisps for a beard, was prodding the butt-end of a spear at the feet of Drem’s new goats, making them dance. He was finding it much funnier than Drem considered it to be.

Drem loaded a huge round of cheese into the wain, looking at Wispy Beard.

‘They don’t like that,’ Drem said.

‘They must do, or they wouldn’t be dancing,’ Wispy said, laughing so hard at his joke he started coughing and choking. One of the men with him, hooded face in shadow, touched his arm and Wispy raised a hand.

‘All right, I’ll stop then,’ he said, ‘if you think they’re all danced out.’

A ripple of chuckles through his companions.

‘Thank you,’ Drem said, remembering his da’s advice to always be polite.

The hooded man looked at Drem. He appeared to be bald beneath the hood of his cloak; Drem did see a scar running across one cheek, through the edge of the man’s mouth to his jaw, giving him a permanent scowl.

‘We’re new to town,’ the hooded man said. ‘Heard there was a mine nearby, needing men.’

‘Aye, that’ll be up to the north of the lake,’ Drem said. ‘Easy to find.’

‘And somewhere to wet our dry throats while we’re here?’ Wispy asked.

‘Hildith’s mead-hall – that way.’ Drem pointed, then he headed back to the market.

There were new faces everywhere, some amongst the traders, but mostly those who were walking the market streets looking to buy rather than sell. Olin was talking to a stall holder about it when Drem returned.

‘Feels crowded for the north,’ Olin was saying.

‘Aye,’ the trader said, Asger, a short, round man, his forearms so hairy Drem could hardly see the skin beneath. ‘Lots of new faces