herself curtseying, and managed to turn it into a bob of a bow. Yellowtail! The boats could be gone a week, with smacks ferrying the catches in as the men worked, hauling bright spoons of polished white-metal for the big fish. Still, what else could she do but to go and look?
The fishing harbor was indeed mostly deserted. Across on the other side of the bay most of the berths were full, with lines of porters carrying cargoes onto bigger vessels. Here on this side there was just one boat, hauled up on the slip, with the three men working on replacing some planking on the bow, looking as sour as green fruit. She walked over to them.
"What do you want here, boy?" asked a fellow with a tar-bucket and line-scars on his hands. "Come to prig stuff, eh?"
"No, please Sir, I'm looking for my brothers. Mikka and Hrolf Gundarson. From Cliff Cove," said Meb, humbly.
The fisherman shrugged. "They'll be at sea. Every fisherman and every man Jack and the gutter-sweepings of the town are out after the yellowtail. The fish have come in strong after the easterly. That's where we'd be, if it wasn't for these stove-in planks."
Meb's heart fell. What was she going to do now? The apples of this morning seemed a very long time back. "Please Sir, do you have any work for me, then?" she asked. Maybe at least they'd feed her. And they were fishermen. More familiar than the townspeople.
The fisherman pointed with a tar-brush at a grey haired man with an adze, a plank and a look of extreme irritation on his face. "Ask the old man. But now's not a good time."
And, indeed, the man shook his head. "You're too small. We're not some cargo-lugger that likes pretty boys on board. Try over on the cargo quay."
The one with the tar-brush grinned. "You want a spot of my tar to seal your butt first, boy? You'll need it with that lot."
Blushing furiously, Meb beat a retreat. She didn't have much in the way of breasts. Hallgerd had said that they'd come with children, if not before. But with her small build, short hair and breeches, she obviously passed for a boy—with the jokes aimed at boys. So . . . what did she do now?
In the short term, the answer was: she didn't know. She settled on mooching around the town, hoping to spot some of the village people—besides Wulfstan. She looked for possible places to find work. She even tried the baker and a fruit stall.
Neither had any need for a ragged little boy in fisherman's breeches. There were quite enough around town, as they made plain with hard words and, in the case of the fruit-stall owner, a hard blow on the ear for a ragged boy that was not quick enough to dodge. The market, with barrows of everything from bolts of bright cloth, that she longed to touch, to mountains of late fruit, to stalls hung with dried squid, and others loaded with ewe's-milk cheeses, was a wonderful place indeed—except that it made her even hungrier. The stall-owners also made it very plain that they didn't think that she looked like a customer. So she left and wandered back toward the docks, walking along the canal, watching the horses pull the heavy barges loaded with everything from coal to fleeces.
For quite a while she watched a couple of women—who didn't look much older than herself, but were dressed in what Hallgerd would have described as a "wanton" fashion. Their faces were very painted, and their hair was loose—a shocking thing too. But then maybe the same standards didn't apply in the big city. They didn't seem to be selling any goods. It was only when a sailor came up, talked briefly to the women and walked off with one of them that Meb realized that they were displaying their wares, all right. And Hallgerd's assessment would have been right. Women working in the market stalls or carrying their shopping home all had their hair done up, mostly in braids or twisted and pinned to the tops of their heads.
Ruefully, Meb felt her own head, looked at her
The fishing harbor was indeed mostly deserted. Across on the other side of the bay most of the berths were full, with lines of porters carrying cargoes onto bigger vessels. Here on this side there was just one boat, hauled up on the slip, with the three men working on replacing some planking on the bow, looking as sour as green fruit. She walked over to them.
"What do you want here, boy?" asked a fellow with a tar-bucket and line-scars on his hands. "Come to prig stuff, eh?"
"No, please Sir, I'm looking for my brothers. Mikka and Hrolf Gundarson. From Cliff Cove," said Meb, humbly.
The fisherman shrugged. "They'll be at sea. Every fisherman and every man Jack and the gutter-sweepings of the town are out after the yellowtail. The fish have come in strong after the easterly. That's where we'd be, if it wasn't for these stove-in planks."
Meb's heart fell. What was she going to do now? The apples of this morning seemed a very long time back. "Please Sir, do you have any work for me, then?" she asked. Maybe at least they'd feed her. And they were fishermen. More familiar than the townspeople.
The fisherman pointed with a tar-brush at a grey haired man with an adze, a plank and a look of extreme irritation on his face. "Ask the old man. But now's not a good time."
And, indeed, the man shook his head. "You're too small. We're not some cargo-lugger that likes pretty boys on board. Try over on the cargo quay."
The one with the tar-brush grinned. "You want a spot of my tar to seal your butt first, boy? You'll need it with that lot."
Blushing furiously, Meb beat a retreat. She didn't have much in the way of breasts. Hallgerd had said that they'd come with children, if not before. But with her small build, short hair and breeches, she obviously passed for a boy—with the jokes aimed at boys. So . . . what did she do now?
In the short term, the answer was: she didn't know. She settled on mooching around the town, hoping to spot some of the village people—besides Wulfstan. She looked for possible places to find work. She even tried the baker and a fruit stall.
Neither had any need for a ragged little boy in fisherman's breeches. There were quite enough around town, as they made plain with hard words and, in the case of the fruit-stall owner, a hard blow on the ear for a ragged boy that was not quick enough to dodge. The market, with barrows of everything from bolts of bright cloth, that she longed to touch, to mountains of late fruit, to stalls hung with dried squid, and others loaded with ewe's-milk cheeses, was a wonderful place indeed—except that it made her even hungrier. The stall-owners also made it very plain that they didn't think that she looked like a customer. So she left and wandered back toward the docks, walking along the canal, watching the horses pull the heavy barges loaded with everything from coal to fleeces.
For quite a while she watched a couple of women—who didn't look much older than herself, but were dressed in what Hallgerd would have described as a "wanton" fashion. Their faces were very painted, and their hair was loose—a shocking thing too. But then maybe the same standards didn't apply in the big city. They didn't seem to be selling any goods. It was only when a sailor came up, talked briefly to the women and walked off with one of them that Meb realized that they were displaying their wares, all right. And Hallgerd's assessment would have been right. Women working in the market stalls or carrying their shopping home all had their hair done up, mostly in braids or twisted and pinned to the tops of their heads.
Ruefully, Meb felt her own head, looked at her
Similar Books
