The Horse Merchant and the Mayor’s Request

Noren had already circled the city six times before a fine sheen of sweat finally broke across her smooth brow. Finding herself unobserved, she slipped into a shadowed alley. There, she activated a blood-stone qi membrane, drawing all the perspiration from her skin. With a subtle command, she dispersed the membrane at its furthest reach, releasing the absorbed moisture to dissipate into the air.

She tugged at her collar, inviting the cool air to rush in and lower her body temperature. Only by cooling her skin’s surface could she prevent further perspiration.

Upon entering the “Beauty” tavern, Noren found many of its guests were only just stirring awake. The more industrious among them had descended to the main hall for their morning meal, while the lazier ones simply summoned a young bartender to deliver breakfast directly to their rooms.

Ogmund, meanwhile, was devouring a pork chop, dunking it into a thick, minced meat stew. His hands were glistening with grease.

Noren watched him with a look of distaste, ‘Would the man even bother to wipe his hands after finishing that chop?’ she wondered.

Once the pork chop was gone, Ogmund “cleaned” the grease from his fingers with his tongue, then licked his lips with lingering satisfaction before patting his ample belly.

“Ogmund.”

Hearing his name called, the man looked up to see Noren. He hastily gulped down the last of his stew, then scurried over to her, a fawning smile spreading across his face. “My lady, my caravan is waiting at the merchant market. Shall we head there now, or…?”

“Lead the way.”

Only a few days had passed since Hradec’s grand fair concluded. Now, on the market’s open grounds, numerous merchants were busily packing their belongings, preparing to journey to the next city, thus laying another brick in the edifice of medieval economic progress.

Ogmund was among them, though he intended to finalize one more transaction before his departure.

He soon returned, leading two horses. One was a slightly taller bay, distinguished by a white tuft on its forehead. The other, though dappled grey with mixed white spots, appeared far sturdier.

“These are all you have?”

Noren stepped closer. The withers of both riding horses barely reached her shoulder. “They’re too short,” she observed, “If only they were this tall.”

As she spoke, she gestured to her own right shoulder.

The stout man subtly eyed the nearly six-foot tall maiden, carefully choosing his words. “My lady,” he began, “your stature is as awe-inspiring and unattainable as your beauty.”

He paused. “It’s rare, perhaps… to find riding horses of such towering height. Those so grand are typically trained as warhorses, and while I could procure one for you, it would command a price of approximately fifty pounds of silver.”

Noren let out a wry chuckle. “Odd,” she mused, “I was under the impression that even the finest warhorse fetched no more than ten pounds of silver. Truly, there’s no merchant without a touch of guile.”

“Ah,” Ogmund protested, “the horses I offer are superior breeds from Prague! They receive the finest training, are fed the richest fodder, and are attended by servants daily. Naturally, such quality comes at a premium!”

The stout man’s expression clearly conveyed, ‘Are you the horse merchant, or am I?’

The young woman had no patience for his blustering. “Enough!” she snapped. “State your price directly. Otherwise, I’d sooner await the next grand fair or seek another horse trader.”

Ogmund rubbed his palms together, a wide grin spreading across his plump face. “For you, my lady,” he declared, “a fair price: ten pounds, including the saddle.”

“I only want one.”

“Eh?”

“Are you selling, or not?”

“Selling, selling! Five pounds.”

Noren stepped forward, deftly undoing the girth strap of the bay riding horse. With a forceful heave, she tossed the entire saddle into the crooked merchant’s startled embrace. “Your stirrup straps are too short, and the saddle seat is far too small,” she stated. “I only want this horse, for a thousand silver coins. Are you selling, or not?”

Ogmund let out an “Ouch!” as the saddle knocked him to the ground. Caravan guards quickly moved the heavy tack off him, then helped him to his feet.

As he stood, clutching his lower back, his fingers unconsciously brushed the thin mustache beside his philtrum. ‘A thousand,’ he thought, ‘even usurers don’t lend that easily. Ah, forget it. In these times, deceiving… earning money isn’t simple. I’ll just consider it a personal sacrifice.’

The stout man, with a visible sigh of resignation, conceded, “Deal.”

****

That afternoon, Noren and Tolke found themselves dining at the mayor’s residence. The party of six included the mayor’s family of three, Noren, Tolke, and Krull, the captain of the guard.

The table was laden not with white meats like chicken, duck, or fish, nor even pork, half-pale and half-red. Instead, platters overflowed with venison and beef—some seasoned with salt and pepper, others charcoal-grilled, and still others glistening with golden honey. A basin of white bread occupied the center, while each guest’s wooden plate held a bowl of tart red fruit jam, stewed from wild berries like barberry, which promised to greatly whet the appetite when spread upon the bread. To their left sat bowls of soup, a rich broth of red meat simmered with herbs, and several maidservants stood nearby, wine jugs in hand, prepared to replenish any glass.

“Did Svein teach you to eat with a fork?” Sithi, the mayor, asked, mimicking the action with surprising dexterity. He held a two-pronged fork in his left hand and a knife in his right, cutting a piece of meat from his plate and conveying it to his mouth. “Hmm… it certainly feels different.”

He took a sip of spiced wine, infused with wormwood and orange peel, then mused, “I feel more like a king than a king, yet I still find it more convenient to use my hands.”

“Indeed,” Noren agreed, “since we are born with hands, what else are they for if not to grasp our food?” Even as she spoke, her hand, deftly wielding chopsticks, continued to ferry small pieces of beef to her mouth without pause.

Aunt Anna’s gaze fixed on the wooden chopsticks in the young woman’s hand. “Then what is that in your hands?” she inquired.

“This is a form of martial art,” Noren declared with a perfectly straight face, fabricating a story. “Simply using two wooden sticks helps to hone my manual dexterity. A warrior must not only master overwhelming foes with brute force but also cultivate skill to enhance their chances of victory.”

“Did Svein teach you that too?”

“Uh… yes!” she affirmed, knowing her own reputation wasn’t enough to carry weight; it was always best to invoke her father’s name.

Mayor Sithi, whose appetite seemed poor that day, had barely eaten a bite before wiping the grease from his hands and mouth with a piece of bread. “Did you manage to buy a horse?” he asked.

“I did,” the young woman replied. “For a thousand silver deniers.”

“That greedy Ogmund!” Sithi cursed. “A thousand for two horses!”

Noren awkwardly clasped her hands, her two index fingers pointing upwards like a steeple. “One horse,” she clarified.

Sithi looked as though he had heard something utterly unbelievable, his eyes narrowed to mere slits by the creases of his forehead and cheeks—a comical image of an old man squinting at a tiny phone screen on a bumpy subway ride. “Forgive me, Noren,” he said, “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Noren raised her voice, enunciating clearly. “I said—I only bought *one* horse.”

Still incredulous, Sithi couldn’t help but challenge her. “Did you truly purchase it from Ogmund? He has supplied Hradec with many fine horses over the years. While his prices are steep, they never inflate by several times over!”

“He certainly introduced himself as Ogmund,” Noren confirmed. “A stout man with black hair, dressed in green.”

Realizing there had to be a misunderstanding, Sithi called out to the guard by the door. “Summon Buk!”

A quarter of an hour later, a clerk entered the banquet hall. He first bowed respectfully to the mayor at the head of the table, then offered a similar gesture to those seated on either side.

He spoke with utmost deference, “My lord, do you have a command for me?”

“Buk,” Sithi began, “tell me, who is the tax collector assigned to the city gates this month?”

“It is Lestislav.”

“Have him bring the list of caravans that have entered the city up to this month, then send him here.”

“As you command.”

From that moment until the conclusion of the meal, with everyone savoring their final sips of red wine, the city gate tax collector, Lestislav, finally arrived, albeit belatedly, clutching a stack of parchment.

Entering, he first offered a bow. “Good day, my lords and ladies.”

Sithi wasted no time with pleasantries. “Has Ogmund visited Hradec recently?” he inquired.

“Uh…” The tax collector fumbled through the names of caravans inscribed on the parchment. “He has, my lord.”

Sithi’s brow furrowed, but upon hearing the tax collector’s subsequent words, the muscles between his eyebrows tightened even further.

“However, he departed two days ago. His exact destination is unknown; the parchment only records each caravan’s primary goods, number of members, entry and exit times, and whether the entry tax and deposit were paid.”

“Are there any other caravan masters by the name of Ogmund?” Sithi pressed on.

The tax collector scanned the records once more, then looked up. “No, my lord, but…”

“You’re killing me with suspense! Speak quickly!” Noren exclaimed, slapping the table with an impatient huff.

The tax collector instinctively recoiled. “N-no, but there are a few caravans whose names were not recorded, only the physical characteristics of the merchants. One of them left the city this morning, the rest are still within the city walls. The master of the caravan that departed has the following features: stout, black hair.”

Swiftly, the young woman made to pursue. “Let’s go, chase him!”

Sithi called out to her. “Wait, Noren. After leaving Hradec, there are several roads leading to Kroměříž, Přerov, and Opava, the capital of the duchy. Do you know which route they took?”

Aunt Anna was already fuming. After scolding her husband, she turned to the captain of the guard. “Sithi, look at the foolishness you’ve caused! Krull! Pull all the mounted men from the patrol, and pursue them towards Kroměříž and Přerov. Opava can be searched last. I’m coming with you!”

“Anna, you!” Sithi exclaimed in astonishment. Ever since becoming the mayor’s wife, Anna had not once returned to her shieldmaiden duties, dedicating herself solely to her husband and children.

“What?” Anna’s willow-thin eyebrows shot up, and she pinched her husband Sithi’s ear. “Have you forgotten who rescued you from those Magyar Tatars?”

“N-no, no, no…” The man rubbed his earlobe. “Such a strong grip…”

“What did you say!?”

“Nothing, I said nothing!” Sithi quickly waved his hands, yielding to Anna’s formidable presence.

The Slavic guards standing at the door held their chins high, their eyes fixed straight ahead, yet in their hearts, they silently mused, ‘I must never marry a Norsewoman, no matter how beautiful she may be.’

Anna donned her armor—a full-face helmet, lamellar armor, splinted vambraces, splinted greaves, composite soft armor, oxhide gloves, a broad-bladed cavalry spear, a short axe, and a thirty-three-inch sword.

“Have the attendant armor my warhorse,” her voice boomed from beneath the iron helmet.

Noren tilted her head, asking, “Aunt, didn’t you say Norsemen don’t need to learn how to ride?”

“Did I? Have I ever said such a thing?” The feather on her pointed helmet swayed, as she disavowed the statement.

Noren’s eye twitched.

Anna then added, “Noren, you stay here in Hradec. Sithi’s negligence has cost you dearly, and it is only right that we retrieve the man for you. You can wait here quietly, or perhaps go try out the horse you just bought.”

“Alright…” the young woman responded, watching as Anna, leading a dozen cavalrymen, rode off in a hurry.

Beside her, her young cousin repeatedly bumped a wooden puppet against her thigh. “Edmund, you’re surrounded! Surrender at once!”

Sithi’s large hand stroked the little boy’s golden hair, his eyes full of indulgence. “He’s always exceptionally lively when Anna isn’t around. His brother has never liked him, perhaps because they’re half-siblings, but I feel Knutr really likes you, Noren.”

“Noren.”

“Hmm?”

“I have a request.”

“Please, speak,” she offered.

Sithi’s eyes burned with intense seriousness. “I wish to ask Svein to educate Knutr.”

“My father is merely a blacksmith…” the young woman gently declined.

“No,” he stated emphatically, “Svein’s identity as a blacksmith is merely for his livelihood. He speaks Latin, Greek, Norse, Slavic, and Saxon, even German and Italian Latin dialects. If he wished, sixteen years ago he could have been a court tutor or court physician for the Přemyslid dynasty. In fact, Lord Břetislav would have preferred to appoint him as military commander and master of the stables.”

‘How many languages was that? One, two, three, four, five… Incredible. Sixteen years. My tongue gets tied just learning Norse and Slavic. I truly don’t know how he memorized so many, let alone his knowledge of herbalism, blacksmithing, pharmacology, and combat.’

‘He’s practically a superman.’ Noren had always known Svein had a reputation for being a ‘genius,’ but she had never imagined it was so exaggerated.

The young woman spread her hands helplessly. “You should ask Svein, not me.”

But Sithi watched her silently, his black and white hair, dark eye bags, and sallow complexion making him look utterly unnerving.

The young woman raised her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to my father when I get back. But I can’t guarantee the outcome, you know how he is—stubborn as a stone.”

“Thank you, God bless you,” the man bowed his head in gratitude.

Noren pondered for a moment, then, still somewhat perplexed, asked, “Why don’t you ask Aunt Anna to speak with him?”

Now it was Sithi’s turn to wave his hand helplessly. “I don’t know. She’s unwilling to send her own children away for education, even if it’s to her brother.”

‘Damn it, this Sithi is truly underhanded. If Svein ends up taking my cousin, Anna will resent me, won’t she? Even if he doesn’t, it will still create unnecessary friction.’ Noren simmered with indignation, yet she couldn’t do anything to the man, after all, he was her uncle.