Old Man Johnson led the way through the stupid Flightless, with Kit at his heels and me trailing behind. An enormous, garish yellow and black tent rose above the normal stalls, and it looked like half the town crowded around its open side, spilling into the central square.
"Bones and feathers." I glanced around, spotting several smaller but equally eye-searing booths, filling spaces around the square that were normally occupied by more familiar faces.
Kit scampered ahead, somehow slipping through the crowd despite the kayak on her shoulders. When she reached the furor's focus, she lowered the boat, leaning on it while she peered at the wares on display.
"Look! This one's so pretty!" She smiled and beckoned me forward. "Come see!"
The Flightless nearest smiled in the same indulgent way that Johnson greeted his youngest family members, and budged over, leaving room for me to squeeze in next to Kit. She pointed toward a blade that was flat and slim, with a wide base and sharp point. The leather-wrapped handle would sit easily in my grip, and my fingers twitched, wanting to grasp it and test the heft.
"Milady, that is a very fine knife, but we have designed it for throwing." The black-robed Gitano inserted himself smoothly. "Perhaps it would not suit your purposes. If I may be so bold, if you would tell me what you want the knife for, I could point out which ones would work best."
'He's at least got more sense than Mitry.' Despite myself, he impressed me. 'How he couldn't tell Kit's a girl…' I shushed the voice that reminded me I hadn't been sure at first, either, and darted a glance at Old Man Johnson, who'd hung back, close enough to observe but not interfering.
"She's not buying," I growled. 'Last thing Kit needs is a throwing knife.'
"You're right; I'm not buying. At least not for me. I have two very nice knives."
The Gitano's eyes lit up, so Kit produced yesterday's knife and its twin and displayed them proudly. After a murmured request to touch and Kit's agreement, he ran a finger down the edge and scraped at the surface.
"Mostly silver? Yet holding an edge like steel!" He hummed in approval. "Oh, yes, those are very fine knives. Seldom have I seen such magnificent work, such carefully blended metals. Certainly, there are few knives here to compete with such artistry, and none at all with silver blades."
His eyes skimmed the Flightless and his voice lowered.
"They — and you, perhaps? — are not from this, hmm, area?"
'Pointed questions, indeed.' My skin prickled, and if I'd had feathers, they would have stood on end.
"But you said you are not looking for yourself. Perhaps it is for this other young woman?"
That left me feeling like I'd been stripped naked and dunked in the river again. 'No one here suspects I'm a girl. Well, maybe Old Man Johnson.' I met Johnson's frown with my own, and he stepped closer. 'Mitry's never caught on. This Gitano's too observant by far.'
"Uh-huh, she needs a knife, maybe two. The best!"
"Yes, but as I said, selecting the best knife really depends on its intended purpose. What would you be using the knife for, milady?" This time, he directed the title at me, and I stifled a snort.
'I'm no lady.'
"General outdoor use. It needs to hold an edge," I said. "But since I doubt you're interested in barter, we'll leave you to your sales." I debated dragging Kit away and wondered if Old Man Johnson would help or hinder.
"Oh, no, barter is fine. It just requires a more... personal touch, shall we say? Please, step this way." He gestured to an unoccupied side of the booth, where two empty tables stood.
Kit scampered eagerly over, boat and all. I thought of the peaceful forest, covered with a blanket of white snow, and the serenity of feathers puffed up against the chill. Johnson herded me after Kit; his silent warmth at my back urging me to take the next step.
The merchant produced a velvety cloth bundle and unrolled it with solemn dignity. I glared, daring him to suggest I display my goods. With a smile, he settled an array of blades on the cloth.
"These are a small sample of our finest outdoor, multipurpose knives. They were crafted by one of our three master smiths, and that master signed each one." He picked up a blade with a breathtaking ripple pattern in the metal and held it so that we could see the delicately inscribed ten-pointed star. "There was no magic involved in their crafting, but these blades will last at least twenty years with a modicum of care. They hold their edge well, only having to be sharpened once a month with heavy use, unless, of course, the finest edge is required for the task." His knowing smile made me want to choke him. He had obviously heard of Mitry's knives.
"But what are they made of?" Kit leaned forward.
"Only the finest steel, refined and forged in a manner that is the secret of the top Gitano master smiths, who only tell their best apprentices."
"They look perfect." She glanced at me and blinked at my expression.
Old Man Johnson cleared his throat, and I jumped. My heart rate picked up again — 'not that it'd slowed much since the river' — and I wanted to leave. 'But…' I shot a look back at the knives. 'If I can get one of these, I won't have to do this next year. Surely that's worth it?'
Bracing my feet, I swung my pack around, and it hit the table with a dull thud. Kit skittered away, much as she had on the river yesterday, and when I sniffed there was a faint tang to the air, though I wasn't sure if it was the metal or the venison.
"This is what I've got. I need at least one knife, preferably two. And if they don't last at least a year, I will make you regret it."
The Gitano winced, disliking either my bluntness or my threat, but I didn't care. Just like I didn't care that Johnson was stifling another bark of laughter behind my back.
"If I may?" The Gitano gestured delicately toward the pack.
I nodded. 'May as well have him kick me out for bringing trash now rather than later.'
Strangely, the Gitano didn't say a word as he pulled out the roasts, still red and fresh, then the furs. His eyes grew wide when he saw the meat, but they nearly fell from his head when he caught sight of the furs.
'I supposed I can't blame him. The furs — the only part I can salvage when I have to destroy an Infected beast — are striking.' The varicolored stripes and spots appeared on the black fur only after the cursed animal was dead. 'And I'm sure none of them make it within the town's hunting range.' A smug little smile tried to lift my lips, but I drew them back into a scowl. 'Still, no one here really cares what color the lining of their winter clothes is, except to complain that the pinks and purples are hard to match.'
"I — Excuse me," the Gitano said once he'd laid out all the venison and furs to the side of the velvet cloth. "I — This will require a Master Trader's oversight." He bowed and hurried away to tug at the sleeve of a slender Gitano whose black robe was hemmed with blue striped ribbons.
"If he wants to turn me down, he could have the courtesy to do it himself." I folded my arms, the wet leather suit over my denims stiff and unwieldy.
"He don't want to turn ya down," Johnson said, shaking his head. "The Master Traders only get involved in the more costly sales — the bulk deal I got for m'farm or, well, at the start of the fair, someone walked in with a handful of raw gemstones." He patted my shoulder, and I fought the urge to move away. "I told you Mitry's a cheapskate and a cheat."
"No choice when he's the only smith in town." I looked away, knowing that Johnson had, each year, intercepted me before I could get to Mitry's booth and tried to convince me to trade with him instead. 'Maybe he was right about being able to get a better deal from the rat.'
Kit hummed thoughtfully and leaned over the meat. Her face twisted into a disgusted, yet curious, expression.
"How do you keep the meat fresh?"
Johnson's brows shot up, and he glanced from the venison to me.
"It's just fresh." I scowled.
I let my fingers caress the soft fur and didn't meet anyone's eyes. 'I can't let on that I locked them. Kit knows I'm a Flit, but if Old Man Johnson finds out.' My eyes widened. 'Bones and feathers! I didn't tell Kit not to say anything!'
Contingency plans raced through my mind, and I carefully tipped my head back, looking over my shoulder to confirm my exit path. Kit frowned at me, quizzically, and smiled.
"It's okay, you know. We'll get your knives and then you can go home."
A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard. 'She makes it sound easy.'
"Or ya can stay. A day or two?" Johnson's suggestion rattled me, just like it did every year. "My daughter — she makes a fine stew, with fresh bread."
'Bones!' My mouth watered. 'He knows I can't resist real bread.' Not that I hated the little flat-breads I made from my coarse-ground acorn flour. 'It just takes so much time to make it, and stuck flightless the whole time!'
"You're welcome, too, of course." He smiled at Kit. "A friend of—"
"M'ladies, I am Saga." The Gitano with the blue-accented robe interrupted, and the original Gitano was at his elbow. "I would be honored to accept any ten of your variant furs for the set of knives you've selected. Please, come to our tent, take some refreshment, and consider our offer."
'Variant furs? Only ten?' My eyes swept over the 17 furs I'd harvested. 'And what about the roasts, and the hide?' I tried to calculate how long it would take me to get home with the… leftovers? 'I've never climbed up the cliff.'
"Wait." My scowl deepened. "Your tent? Why can't we do this here?"
"Here?" Saga blinked and gestured around at the crowds. "I had thought you might appreciate privacy for our bargain. And you appear fresh from the road." His eyes danced over my still-wet clothes and the puddle at Kit's feet. "Surely you wouldn't mind some food and drink?"
Old Man Johnson's chuckle rumbled at my back; he knew me too well.
"Honest deals don't require privacy. And I don't sit for meals with dishonest traders." I reached for the furs. 'At least I know what they're willing to trade for this stuff. Maybe I can use that against Mitry?'
"Ah! That's—that's not necessary." Saga held up his hands, empty palmed. "If it pleases you, we can make a bargain here." He glanced at the first Gitano, and the man hurried into the crowd.
Leaving the furs to lie on the table, I watched the Gitano disappear. 'This isn't safe. Whatever Johnson and Kit think — it isn't.'