Svanhild followed Gerta out into the street, between the houses. Now that the sun had risen above the fjord cliffs, the town stank even worse than it had in the morning, a mixture of meat and vegetable offal, of human waste, of seaweed and sweat. Svanhild nearly gagged with it. Gerta was a few steps ahead of her, with longer strides, and she hurried to keep up.
Crowds pressed in upon them at the center of the town. Gerta slowed her step and walked next to Svanhild. Men with bundles parted on either side of them. Men and women called out greetings to Gerta, which she acknowledged with a nod of her head. Svanhild tried to keep her head up as well, but she had to look at where she placed her feet to avoid stepping in dung.
“How do you know so many?” she asked.
Gerta nodded to another shopkeeper. “Since my husband’s death, I have been allowed to speak at our local assembly. Here we are.” She stopped in front of a wooden door that looked like all the rest.
“Is it—will they see us?”
“He will see me,” said Gerta. She rapped loudly on the door.
A short man with a squint opened it. “Eh, Gerta, it’s early.”
“Yes,” said Gerta, walking in, with Svanhild behind her. “Fasti, my niece Thorfrida is visiting me, and she has tired of her brooches. She would like to sell them to you.” Svanhild tried not to gape at Gerta’s lies. Gerta knew what she was doing here.
“Yes?” said Fasti. “My wife, may she rest peacefully, was called Thorfrida. It’s a lucky name. She was a beauty too. Didn’t give me children, but she was a good wife. Ah, have a seat.”
Svanhild wondered how lucky the name Thorfrida could be, if she was barren and dead, but she only thanked him for the compliment. Inside the room was neat and snug. Oil burned in sconces on the walls, giving the room an orange glow.
“Haven’t opened up yet,” he said. The shop had a hole cut in the wall, like a little door, with shutters, and these he pushed open, letting more light into the room. “A niece of Gerta must be lucky indeed,” he said. His squint deepened. “And wealthy.”
Svanhild had seen little evidence of Gerta’s wealth. Perhaps there was more to her than met the eye—or maybe she was only a good manager, who ate simply and kept her wealth for other things.
“Why don’t you see what we have for sale?” said Fasti. He brought over a tray of brooches, some worked in gold, others in silver, all of the metal so beautiful and well cared for that it seemed to invite her touch. She looked at Gerta. She was not here to buy.
“She might consider your trinkets,” said Gerta dismissively, “after she sees what you can give her for her brooches.” She nodded at Svanhild, who brought them out. They seemed plain next to the gold Fasti had shown her.
Fasti took them and turned them over in his hands. “Amber,” he said flatly.
“See how beautiful the pieces are,” said Gerta. “They are almost perfectly matched, and clear.”
Fasti held the brooches up to the light coming in from the window.
“They’re from Dublin,” said Svanhild, “the king’s court.”
“They are known for their silver workers,” said Gerta.
“Put out your hand,” said Fasti. He took out a small pouch of silver coins and counted them into Svanhild’s hand.
She realized that she had no idea what might be reasonable, what she might need to take her to Tafjord and beyond. Transactions at Ardal and even at the ting were as often in trade as coin. She had heard the law recited recently enough to know the price of a free man’s life, but not of her jewelry. She folded her palm around the coins. “My brooches weigh more than this,” she said hesitantly.
“Is that so?” Gerta asked. “Fasti, come now, you know I’m no fool. Did you think my niece would be as well?” Svanhild opened her hand and put it out. Quickly, Fasti doubled the amount of coin Svanhild held.
“That’s better,” said Svanhild. She glanced at Gerta. Gerta would not scruple to speak, so Svanhild must be doing well enough. “Still, I don’t know,” she said to Gerta. “Didn’t you say there was another jeweler we could try?”
Fasti spat on the floor. “Haki? You would trust him over me?”
Svanhild looked to Gerta, who tilted her head, as if considering. “I’m sure you are doing the best you can for us,” Gerta said. “These are hard times.” She caught Svanhild’s eye again, and Svanhild thought she saw the corner of Gerta’s mouth quirk.
“Put this silver aside for us,” said Svanhild. “We will return after talking with Haki.”
“Five more coins if you take it now,” said Fasti. “And come back to look at my wares again.” Svanhild looked at Gerta, and pretended to think it over. It seemed like a game, one Svanhild liked, and thought she was playing well.
“Yes, of course,” said Svanhild. “You are a very fair trader.” Gerta produced a small satchel for Svanhild to pour the coin into, and secured it to her own belt. “Perhaps I had better . . . ,” said Svanhild, not liking to see it there.
Gerta gave her a stern look. “Thank you, Fasti, of course we will return.”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. She gave him a curtsy. “Your wares are enchanting.”
She followed Gerta out onto the street, sticking close to her as a burr. If Gerta meant to take the coin from her, there was little Svanhild could do about it. Gerta was taller and stronger than her, and more than that, Gerta had the respect of the whole town, while Svanhild was a stranger.
They returned to Gerta’s house the same way they had come; Svanhild noticed that the houses, which had all seemed the same before now, had subtle variations, banners of different colors hanging from them, open doors and windows.
As soon as they returned to Gerta’s house, she untied the coin purse and gave it to Svanhild. “You’re a sour little thing,” she said. “Did you think I would cheat you?”
“Well,” said Svanhild, feeling a bit ashamed now, “you did lie to Fasti.”
“I help you, you help me,” she said. “Not everything is swords and oaths like that tale you told me of your brother. Here, we trade instead. And anyway, I’ve brought Fasti nieces before—he knows it’s a game we play.”
“Are all your nieces named Thorfrida?” Svanhild asked, her hands on her hips.
Gerta smiled at that. “No, I’ve not tried that before. It will only work once, so count yourself lucky. Now, you’re a fair hand with a bargain, but you never would have made that deal on your own, so I want my fair measure.”
Svanhild felt badly about having mistrusted Gerta, and pulled out a few more coins than she had originally intended to give Gerta. From the way Gerta smiled as she closed her hand around them, Svanhild thought maybe that was the point of this whole little charade—Gerta had pushed Svanhild into mistrusting her and then feeling guilty for it. Svanhild poured out the rest of the coins into the sock she had been using for her brooches, and knotted it tight. She handed the coin purse back to Gerta.
“Does everyone here play these games?” she asked, gesturing at Gerta’s hand, which still clasped the coins Svanhild had given her.
“Yes,” said Gerta, “and you’ve a skill with them I didn’t guess. Though you can’t let yourself be swayed by a little indignance from your target.”