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be glad to leave
the noise and confusion; glad to return to his quiet, solitary existence in the
wilderness. And thus he tended to forget, from year to year, the thrill he
always felt when first arriving at the faire.
    People were in a good mood at the start of the faire. Merchants anticipated
fat profits. The common folk anticipated some fun to brighten their drab lives.
The nobility anticipated intrigue, shopping, and gossip. And so, while there
was much confusion during the setup of booths and tents, jostling and
collisions were taken in good humor. Strangers pitched in to help when a wheel
fell off a wagon. The traveling actors, busy erecting a stage at one end of the
field, enlivened the work with the music of tambour and drum.
    The mood would change by faire’s end. Exhaustion, disappointment,
pickpockets, and hangovers would take their toll on the fairegoer’s good
nature. But for now, every man was every other man’s brother. The merriment was
contagious and Ven felt himself swept up in the excitement and gaiety.
    Not so Bellona. She pushed the cart with grim determination, glared at
anyone who jostled her, and swore at those who hampered her progress. Most
people rolled their eyes and got out of her way. Those who thought they might
want to make something of it were usually put off by the speed with which she
dropped the handles of the wagon to clasp the short sword she wore strapped
around her waist.
    Bellona did not look like a woman, nor did she behave like one. By her dress
and her walk, she appeared to be a clean-shaven man in his mid-thirties. She
wore her black hair cropped short. Her gaze was bold and challenging and
unafraid. Her arms were muscular from hard labor, and she handled her sword
with practiced ease. All but the most obdurate (or the most drunken) backed
down from an encounter with her. Those who persisted in fighting often found
themselves lying on the ground, rubbing a cracked head or nursing a broken jaw.
    Bellona made no friends at the faire. She wanted none. She made no enemies,
either. Most people were glad to leave the dour and half-mad fur trader to her
own devices.
    She and Ven pitched their small tent made of bear hide at the very edge of
the encampment, as far from the other tents as they could manage, while still
staying within the established boundaries. The tent was intended more for the
comfort of the furs than it was for their own.
    They both unloaded the cart; then Ven hauled it away to the nearby woods,
where he stashed it beneath a tree. Bellona arranged the furs inside the tent,
then both went to their rest. Ven slept inside the tent, lying on the ground so
as not to damage the pelts. Bellona slept outside, guarding the tent, her hand
on her sword’s hilt. Both were so weary from the road that they fell asleep
quickly, oblivious of the sounds of raucous merrymaking all around them.
    The next day, the faire opened and business
commenced.
     
    “If you please, kind sir,” said Ven, tugging on his forelock in respect, “my
master has arrived with his furs. He trusts that you are in the market for fine
pelts this year and, if so, he asks if you would be so good as to favor him
with your business.”
    The busy merchant barely glanced at the boy. He knew Ven from years past. “The
usual place, I suppose?”
    “Yes, kind sir,” Ven replied.
    “I’ll be there,” the merchant promised, and turned back to wait upon his
customers.
    It was Ven’s task to visit all the merchants with whom they’d done business
in the past, bringing the word that “Master Bell the Fur Trader” was in attendance.
Ven was also tasked with seeking out possible new customers, and he carefully
scrutinized all those merchants dealing in furs. Bellona had taught him how to
judge the merchant’s quality by the quality of the furs he sold and the type of
customers he attracted. Ven watched and appraised and noted down two new
merchants who looked like potential buyers.
    Of necessity, such business