Chapter Thirty-Two
Galpernia. Erected atop an expansive tor gave the watchtowers an unobstructed view, a high stone wall shielded all but the tallest city buildings from sight. Conspicuously cleared meadowland had been cleared for at least five hundred yards from the city's weather-faded double gates to the forest edge. As the farmland grew, the border of cleared land increased, strengthening Galpernia's tactical advantage against invaders. Typical of the period, long before mass production was so much as a concept, individual vendors and tradespersons operated small, specialized shops to meet Galpernia's manufacturing needs. Vegetable- and fruit vendors, saddle-makers, horse stables, coopers, weavers, potters, butchers, tailors, masons, shoemakers, and an ironsmith had built small businesses that lined the hard-packed road in the hope of claiming hard currency from travellers before they visited their city-ensconced, licensed competitors. A sawmill that used water to power its blade, and a flour mill with a giant waterwheel to turn the milling stone were built further upriver.
The caravan crested the gentle rise of the tor upon which Galpernia was built and halted in front of the open portals. A guardsman, whose ale-nurtured girth spilled over his sword belt, ambled up to the lead wagon to speak with Yakuth. Wearing the mundane expression of one who had conversed with wagoneers a thousand times previously, the guardsman leaned lazily on his spear while Yakuth made his greeting. After a quick, lackadaisical inspection of the wagons, and the customary exchange of silver currency, he waved the caravan through.
The hinterland metropolis stank worse than any village relief pit Tarn had had the ill fortune to cover with dirt once filled. The pungent smell of urine, stale food, smoke, decomposing garbage, human waste, and animal feces, besieged him in eye-watering waves of acerbic distaste. Off to his left a few yards distant, a scruffy, brown-coated dog lifted its leg against the corner of a shop and released a stream of dark yellow urine. In an alley between two buildings, a man held himself erect by putting one hand on the wall while urinating against the building that produced loud music, raucous shouts and other merrymaking noises. Crinkling his nose at the foul blend of odours, Tarn noted the inhabitants dressed in all manners of clothes and colours. Some attired themselves in leather and deer, but the majority wore brightly woven garments. An image of strutting birds came to mind.
Once they reached the merchant stable grounds, the oxen's' relatively mild and inoffensive odours were a relief. When Tarn finished unhitching the oxen teams, Yakuth settled his wage and magnanimously offered to pay their inn expenses for four nights; on the fifth day, Yakuth departed for the interior of Aquilonia. They were welcome to join him if they concluded their business.
Since Ludvic possessed a familiarity with the city, he led the way to the Redbull Inn. Children, barefoot and dirty-faced, stared at Tarn's strange animal apparel. A few boldly patted the soft fur of his snow leopard cloak, having only heard hearthside stories of the almost mythical beast that turned invisible and favoured to hunt young children for their tender flesh—great cats that were pets of the Northmen. Most hid behind posts or retreated into doorways, white-faced and trembling. They remembered the tales told around the home hearths about the ignorant and savage Northmen who ate their own kind, including those foolish enough to venture into their mountains in search of game, or a quicker route to Tadmornia, which lay beyond Asgard. Children need be wary of those from Asgard; everyone knew an Asgard warrior prised children above all else as slaves.
Many of Galpernia's inhabitants stared openly at the tall, fur-clad youth with the big sword slung across his back; open fear, poorly hidden contempt, and thinly disguised distrust were commonplace. Previous wars between the two nations, now several generations past, had left residual hard feelings and distrust. Infrequent raiding and cultural differences exacerbated the problem. While the odd woman eyed him thoughtfully, most shied away, recoiling under rumour and suspicion cast upon his barbarian caste. Tarn ignored the looks he received and studied the city core.
Specialty shops and three-sided kiosks of every description advertised their wares in and around the market square. When the city's population was less than one thousand people, the market was open only two days per week. The last city census, conducted the previous year, had placed the population at over seven thousand. The local monarchy, not unaware of the potential financial gains, instituted licensing and charged a lease rate for each stall or kiosk. No longer confined to two days per week, every day was market day. The Sabbath and other Christian principles and religious dogma were not to be known for many thousands of years. At present, a live and let live attitude existed. Inhabitants found common wisdom in worshipping the sun God for their crops, the moon Goddess for successful hunting, and a different one yet for conception and fertility among wives and prosperous animal husbandry. Competition among the Gods was a well-known fact.
Vegetable stands, sewing- and clothing shops, a map shop, as well as an armourer and weapon's shop, were but a few of the portable stalls that ringed the market square. Come sundown, the merchants, generally with the help of their families, carried all unsold items home. The narrow streets teemed with small two-wheeled carts at sunrise and sundown. The more prosperous vendors might employ slaves or indentured servants rather than family members. Savoury charcoal broiling aromas rose from one stall. Small, four-legged animals with long tails, skewered from stem to stern by a wooden stick, sizzled enticingly. Intermixed with all of the sights and smells, the throng of city-dwellers created a cacophony of noises that overwhelmed Tarn with their vocal diversity. Ludvic appraised Tarn's wide-eyed look and nodded toward the Redbull Inn.
"There, lad," said Ludvic, pointing. Having noted the way people stared at Tarn, and his scowling response, he allayed, "Scary bedside stories of Northmen are used by mothers to keep the young ones in line, eh. I imagine thy people have stories about flatlanders as well."
Tarn nodded and smiled, answering Ludvic's inquisitively raised eyebrows with, "Oh, aye, all lowlanders be slavers. Everyone of ye a wanton murderer. I don't blame the younglings their stares, but the grownups should know better."
"What makes ye think a person's age be any indication of having grown up? Many a folly do grownups make. More so, I dare say, than all children put together," said Ludvic thoughtfully.
Not discounting the truth Ludvic's theory, Tarn snorted in a decidedly Asgard fashion. Further conversation would have to wait as they climbed a short set of weather faded, grey steps that led into the Redbull inn. Double, thick wooden doors stood wide open, all dented and gouged from blunt and pointed weapons that had hammered upon them over the years.
Being mid-afternoon, few patrons occupied the sturdy, rectangular tables of the tavern's eating room, which doubled as a tavern after dark. The trio walked to the bar where a round man in his middle years, his bulging belly pushing out against a stained apron that cast shadows on his feet, introduced himself as the owner. Smoothing his sparse and oily hair back upon his balding pate, the man took in the trio with a practised eye. Much scrubbed and permanently stained grey, a long countertop ran half the length of the eating area.
Planting heavy hands with fat, sausage-like fingers upon the faded countertop, the heavy innkeeper eyed Tarn through narrowed eyes, and leaned forward, saying, "Ye git two meals a day. One at sunrise and the other at sunset." Pushing off with his short-nailed hands, folding his thick arms across his chest, and in a father's stentorian voice, he added, "I don't abide no fightin', and ye'll use the chamber pot. A respectable inn this is."
Tarn understood the innkeeper's warning, but wondered what use a chamber pot had? Cooking? If so, where would he build a fire? Following Ludvic and Torrocka up the short flight of stairs, he pondered the necessity for cooking when the inn seemed well-kitchened and offered two meals a day included. Perhaps each room had a hearth. What a novel idea.
The room was spartan and dismally small. A narrow bed, out of whose frayed mattress tufts of straw poked, sat beneath a window with a cracked pane of smoke-stained glass. Against the far wall, a battered pine chair, and a scarred table with a pitcher of fresh water on it, completed the room's furnishings. Not a fireplace to be found. A malodorous, dented pot with a bell-shaped rim squatted near the bed, leaving no doubt as to its function. Tarn stowed his pack under the bed and went downstairs, contemplating the civility of a people who urinated where they slept. And they called his people uncivilized.
He chose a table along the wall and sat facing the common room, waiting for Ludvic or Torrocka to appear. Measuring at least two strides wide and standing nearly five feet tall, the largest fireplace Tarn had ever seen was centred along the back wall. Although it was mid-spring and the air seasonably warm, a roaring fire crackled in the redbrick hearth, cloaking the smell of stale ale and the more pleasurable odours wafting out of the kitchen with a smoky pine scent. Dust- and mud-covered fellow travellers, glanced at him curiously, but who averted their gaze lest it became obtrusive, occupied several tables. A comely wench wearing a homespun, heavy dress that fell about her ankles, and a modest V-neck from which heavy breasts were pushed up, appeared to take his food order. Long ringlets of wavy brown hair framed friendly, almond-shaped eyes. The wench's brown eyes sparkled with interest at his odd apparel, fair skin tone, and green eyes, apparently unafraid of the rumours attached to Northmen.
"Something to drink?" she asked, returning Tarn's friendly smile.
"Ale. And bring me something to eat."
"A pitcher or mug? Stew or beefsteak?" she asked, fluttering her long lashes provocatively.
Gaining the bottom of the stairs, Ludvic called out, "A pitcher, lass. Two rare beef steaks, and two loaves of fresh bread." As the serving girl departed, Ludvic seated himself across from Tarn, saying, "Aye lad. Ain't nothin' like a meal to fill the belly and a pitcher of ale to wet the gullet before a night of carousing. Are ye sure ye haven't done this on occasion?"
The serving girl reappeared with a pitcher, two mugs, and two warm loaves of bread on a wooden board. Ludvic filled their mugs and then held up his for a toast. "May thy wine never be watered, ye belly always full, and the plunder rich," he proclaimed and overzealously banged Tarn's raised mug. Ale slopped on the table.
Not long afterwards the dark-haired serving girl returned, heavily laden with two platters of sizzling rare meat. Tarn dug into his purse and gave the girl a gold coin. She smiled prettily, fluttering her eyelashes.
"Keep the coppers, but return with the silver," instructed Ludvic. Robbed of gratitude fairly won, she tossed her head haughtily and spun on her heels, her friendly demeanour vanished. "That coin could buy half a score of these meals, the ale to go with them, and copper change comin' back to ye still." Tarn's eyebrows arched. He had something to learn about gold and its true worth. "Hold thy wage for the wenches who render thy gold full value," he advised, winking broadly. "Now, let's eat. Mithras keep me young, but I could devour the whole bull!"
Part-way through their steaks and the second mug of ale, Torrocka stopped by the table to inform Tarn that he would join Yakuth shortly to sup and find out how his enquiries progressed. He bid farewell and departed.