One of the guards stepped forward with an ingratiating smile.
“Sir, is there anything I can do for you?” He leaned against a long spear and wore a battered suit of leather armor.
Its surface had been polished smooth by years of use, the edges were badly frayed, and two missing rivets across the chest exposed the worn linen shirt underneath.
He was most likely one of the market guards.
Adrian lowered the bundle from his shoulder and placed it at his feet.
“I’m only passing through and need supplies.
Where can I trade goods in the market?” The guard glanced at the large bundle wrapped in boar hide, then at the arming sword hanging from Adrian’s waist.
His smile remained unchanged, though his gaze lingered briefly on the sword’s hilt.
“Head inside, sir.
Furs are traded on the western side of the square, while salt and ironware can be found beneath the southern sheds.” He paused before adding, “Is this your first time here?” Adrian nodded.
“Then I must ask you the customary question before you enter.” The guard shifted the spear into his left hand and rubbed his right palm against his leather armor.
“Have you come from the north?” Instead of answering, Adrian reached inside his clothing and removed his leather coin pouch.
He loosened the drawstring, took out a silver coin, and pressed it into the guard’s waiting hand.
The man looked down and immediately closed his fingers around it.
He stepped aside, and his smile became noticeably warmer.
“Go right in, sir.
Old Thomas’s fur shop on the western side offers the fairest prices.
Beneath the southern shed, you’ll find a red-haired blacksmith—I’ve forgotten his family name.
He accepts dried meat in exchange for ironware.” Adrian lifted the bundle onto his shoulder and walked past him.
As he entered through the gate, the guard called after him in a quieter voice.
“If you need salt, speak to the fat woman beside the blacksmith.
Her husband transports goods, so her prices are slightly lower than everyone else’s.
Stay away from the tall, thin fellow beneath the eastern shed.
His scales cannot be trusted.” Adrian gave a small nod and continued into the settlement.
The market square was much larger than it had appeared from outside.
Stalls stood irregularly across the packed earth, with merchants crouched behind displays of sickles, coils of hemp rope, and piles of crooked iron nails.
The air was thick with conflicting smells.
Livestock manure mingled with the toasted aroma of wheat cakes, the bitter smoke of quenched iron, and the sharp fishiness of salted fish.
Only a few people moved between the stalls.
As Adrian entered, several gazes settled on his chainmail and the sword at his waist before quickly turning elsewhere.
He did not head toward the fur merchant on the western side.
The hides he carried were still useful to him—the roe deer hide was soft, while the boar hide was thick and durable.
The smoked meat was what he intended to trade.
The blacksmith’s stall beneath the southern shed was easy to identify.
Several iron bars leaned against its outer posts, while newly forged hoes and sickles lay nearby, their surfaces still covered in dark forge scale.
A charcoal furnace burned inside the shed, glowing red with heat.
A red-haired man crouched before it, holding a piece of hot iron with tongs while striking it against an anvil.
The hammer fell with a ringing clang, followed by another.
Beside him sat a stout woman surrounded by pottery jars and burlap sacks.
She slowly fanned herself with a woven straw fan.
Adrian approached, lowered his bundle in front of her, and untied the hemp rope.
The boar hide unfolded to reveal several strings of smoked meat.
The woman set down her fan, picked up one of the strings, and weighed it in her hand.
She brought it close to her nose and sniffed.
“Roe deer?” “And wild boar.” Adrian pulled out one of the darker strings from the bottom of the bundle.
The boar meat had been smoked until it was hard as wood and was noticeably darker than the venison.
The woman examined both kinds before returning them to the pile.
“Two strings of roe deer meat for one jar of salt.
For boar, one and a half strings.” Adrian did not bargain.
He selected the required strings and placed them before her.
The woman reached behind herself and brought out two pottery jars.
Their mouths had been sealed with dried grass and a layer of hardened mud.
Adrian lifted one and tested its weight.
It was satisfyingly heavy.
Salt was the resource he lacked most.
His alkaline wood-ash mixture was enough to survive on, but he could not depend on it forever.
Nearby, the red-haired blacksmith stopped hammering and plunged the forged iron into a bucket of water.
It hissed loudly, releasing a burst of white steam.
Adrian removed the bundle of boar bristles from his pack and held it out.
“What will you give me for these?” The blacksmith accepted the bundle and ran his fingers over the stiff tips.
“They can be used for brushes.” He placed the bristles beside the anvil.
“Three iron nails.” The man waited for Adrian’s response.
After a moment’s consideration, Adrian agreed.
Iron nails would be useful once he returned to the cabin.
They could help reinforce a wooden door, or they could be attached to his arrow shafts and shaped into crude arrowheads.
The ash bow stave was still drying behind the stove, while seven or eight hazel shafts were already leaning beside the door.
All they lacked were proper points.
An iron-tipped arrow driven into a deer’s ribs would be far more effective than a fire-hardened wooden shaft.
Iron bars, on the other hand, would be useless to him.
He had neither a furnace nor an anvil and possessed no means of shaping them.
An iron bar in his hands would remain nothing more than an iron bar.
The blacksmith turned to a wooden box behind him, took out a handful of nails, and counted three.
He wrapped them in a scrap of cloth and handed them over.
Adrian tested their weight before placing the bundle inside the boar hide and tying it securely.
Only one silver coin remained in the pouch at his waist.
He preferred to save it for something he could not obtain through barter.
Several more burlap sacks stood beside the woman.
Adrian loosened the mouth of the first and found rye inside, the grains reasonably full and healthy.
The next sack held oats.
He scooped up a handful and let them run slowly between his fingers.
They were dry and showed no signs of mold.
“What is your price for the rye?” “One string of smoked meat for half a sack.” Adrian frowned.
It was expensive.
Each string of meat represented days spent watching traps and processing prey.
Yet he had no idea how much grain half a sack truly contained or how long it would feed one person.
He crouched and removed the remaining strings of smoked meat from his bundle, arranging them one by one on the ground.
“What will all of these buy?” The woman glanced at the pile, and her straw fan came to a stop.
“How much grain do you want?” “How much do you have?” She turned to examine the sacks stacked behind her.
“Three sacks of rye and two of oats.” Adrian pushed the meat toward her.
“Is this enough for all three sacks of rye?” The woman said nothing at first.
Her gaze moved from the smoked meat to the sacks and then back again.
Finally, she nodded.
“Fine.
Three sacks of rye for the entire pile.” She gathered the strings, weighing and smelling several of them again before turning toward the rear of the shed.
One by one, she dragged three tightly sealed sacks of rye to the entrance.
“You cannot carry all of these alone,” she warned.
“Leave them here.
I’ll return for them later.” The woman nodded and resumed fanning herself.
“Very well.
I’ll keep them here until you come back.” Adrian retied the boar-hide bundle and rose.
Another shed stood farther along the southern side of the square.
Several bolts of linen had been stacked beneath its roof, and he had not yet inspected them.
For the past several days, he had worn the roe deer vest directly against his skin.
Sweat had stiffened the hide, while the fur had begun to mat into uneven clumps.
Without a linen layer beneath it, the garment would eventually be ruined.
A thin old man sat beneath the shed with several bundles of coarse linen piled in front of him.
The cloth was grayish white, loosely woven, and badly frayed along the edges.
Beside it lay half a bolt of finer linen.
It was lighter in color and felt noticeably smoother beneath Adrian’s fingers.
He crouched and tugged gently at the material.
The old man lifted his eyelids, glanced at Adrian, and then looked toward the sword at his waist.
“Trading or buying?”