“You insult me,” said Hilda the Haughty, “to present me with such miserable merchandise! Is this the best that great Ar can offer?”
Had I been of Ar I might have been angry. As it was I was somewhat irritated. The perfumes I was displaying to her had been taken, more than six months ago, by the Forkbeard from a vessel of Cos. They were truly perfumes of Ar, and of the finest varieties. “Who,” I asked myself, “is Hilda, the daughter of a barbarian, of a rude, uncouth northern pirate, living in a high wooden fortress, overlooking the sea, to so demean the perfumes of Ar?”
One might have thought she was a great lady, and not the insolent, though curvacious, brat of a boorish sea rover.
I put my head to the floor. I grovelled in the white and yellow siLk of the perfumers. “Oh, great lady,” I whined, “the finest of Ar’s, perfumes may be too thin, too frail, too gross, for one of your discernment and taste.”
Her hands wore many rings. About her neck she wore, looped, four chains of gold, with pendants. On her wrists were bracelets of silver and gold.
“Show me others, men of the south,” said she, contemptuously.
Again and again we tried to please the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar. We had little success. Sometimes she would wince, or make a face, or indicate disgust with a tiny motion of her hand, or a movement of her head.
We were almost finished with the vials in the flat, leather case.
“We have here,” said I, “a scent that might be worthy of a Ubara of Ar.”
I uncorked it and she held it, delicately, to her nostrils.
“Barely adequate,” she said.
I restrained my fury. That scent, I knew, a distillation of a hundred flowers, nurtured like a priceless wine, was a secret guarded by the perfumers of Ar. It contained as well the separated oil of the Thentis needle tree; an extract from the glands of the Cartius river urt; and a preparation formed from a disease calculus scraped from the intestines of the rare Hunjer Long Whale, the result of the inadequate digestion of cuttlefish. Fortunately, too, this calculus is sometimes found free in the sea, expelled with feces. It took more than a year to distill, age, blend and bond the ingredients.
“Barely adequate,” she said. But I could tell she was pleased.
“It is only eight stone of gold,” said I, obsequiously, “for the vial.”
“I shall accept it,” said she, coldly, “as a gift.”
“A gift!” I cried.
“Yes,” said she. “You have annoyed me. I have been patient with you. I am now no longer patient!”
“Have pity, great lady!” I wept.
“Leave me now,” said she. “Go below. Ask there to be stripped and beaten. Then swiftly take your leave of the house of Thorgard of Scagnar. Be grateful that I perrnit you your lives.”
I hastily, as though frightened, made as though to close the flat, leather case of vials.
“Leave that,” she said. She laughed. “I shall give it to my bond-maids.”
I smiled, though secretly. The haughty wench would rob us of our entire stores! None of that richness, I knew, would grace the neck or breasts of a mere bond-maid. She's Hilda the Haughty, daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar, would kee,~) it for hersel~;
I attempted to conceal one vial, which we had not permitted her to sample. But her eye was too qwck ~or me.
“What is that?” she asked, sharply.
“It is nothing,” I said.
“Let me smell it,” she said.
“Please, no, great lady!” I begged.
“You thought to keep it from me, did you?” she laughed.
“Oh, no, great lady,” I wept.
“Give it to me,” she said.
“Must I, lady?” asked I.
“I see,” said she, “beating is not enough for you. It seems you must be boiled in the oiI of tharlarion as well!”
I lifted it to her, piteously.
She laughed.
My assistant and I knelt before her, at her feet. She wore, beneath her green velvet, golden shoes.
“Uncork it for me, you sleen,” said she. I wondered if I had, in my life, seen ever so scornful, so proud, so cold a woman.
I uncorked the vial.
“Hold it beneath my nostrils,” she said. She bent forward. I held the vial beneath her delicate nostrils.
She closed her eyes, and breathed in, deeply, expectantly.
She opened her eyes, and shook her head. “What is this?” she said.
“Capture scent,” I said.
I held her forearms. Ivar Forkbeard quickly pulled the bracelets and rings from her wrists and fingers. He then threw from her neck the golden chains. I pulled her to her feet, holding her wrists. Ivar tore the golden string from her hair, loosening it. It fell behind her, blond, below the small of her back. He tore the collar of her gown back from her throat, opening it at her neck.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
He snapped fetters of black iron on her wrists. They, by the fetters and their single link, were held about three mches apart.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“A friend of your father,” said he. He tore away from his body, swiftly, the gown of the perfumers, that of white and yellow silk. I, too, cast aside the perfumer’s gown.
She saw that we wore the leather and fur of Torvaldsland.
“No!” she cried.
My hand was over her mouth. Ivar’s dagger was at her throat.
“While Thorgard roves at sea,” said the Forkbeard, “we rove in Scagnar.”
“Shall I hold again the via] beneath her nose?” I asked. Soaked in a rag and scarf and hel-l over the nose and mouth of a female it can render her unconscious in five Ihn. She squirrned wildly for an Ihn or two, and then sluggishly, and then fell limp. It is sometimes used by tarnsmen; it is often used by slavers. Anaesthetic darts, too, are sometimes used in the taking of females; these may be flungj or entered into her body by hand; they take effect in about forty Ihn; she awakens often, stripped, in a slave kennel.
“No,” said lvar. “It is important for my plan that she be conscious.
I melt the mouth of the daughter of Thorgard of Scagnar move beneath my hand.
The Forkbeard’s dagger’s point thrust slightly into her throat.
She winced.
“If you speak now above a whisper,” said he, “you die. Is that understood?”
· She nodded her head miserably. At a gesture from the Forkbeard, I released her mouth. I continued to hold her arm.
“You will never get me past the guards,” she hissed.
The Forkbeard was looking about the room. From a smoll chest, he took a thick, covering cloth, orange. From her chest he took a scarf.
“There are guards,” she hissed. “You are fools! You will never get me past the guards!”
“I have no intention of getting you past the guards,” said Ivar Forkbeard.
She looked at him, puzzled. He went to the high window of her room, high in the wooden fortress, on its cliff, overlooking the dark bay below. We could hear waves crashing on rocks.