It's one thing to say he'll buy and sell whatever's needed, but it doesn't take Farkas long to realize he doesn't know what that is. As far as he's concerned, all you need is sturdy weapons and armor and, once in a while, a good roasted ox leg and a tankard of mead. But when he walks around the market, he sees things that don't fall into those categories, so he asks around the Bannered Mare one night. The answers he gets surprise him. People talk about clothing and boots, jewelry, ales and wines from across Skyrim, books, toys for their children, ingredients for cooking and enchanting. Even horker tusks.
To be fair, he's mostly sure Torvar was screwing with him on the last one.
"So how will this shop of yours be any different from Belethor's, then?" Vilkas wants to know when Farkas explains all this to him in between sword blows in the training yard.
"It's going to be better," Farkas answers immediately.
"And how's that?" Vilkas catches him with a hard thwack in the arm. It'll bruise but it's not broken—took them both a lot of years to learn to hit that balance right with the heavy wooden practice swords they're using. "Belethor may be a sleazy little man, but he has good stock."
Farkas takes a swing. His brother ducks back. "I'll stock rarer items. Good weapons and armor—"
"You can't make better steel than Eorlund."
"I know that. Something different." Farkas tries to think how he can explain what he means by that. It's clear in his head. Like he did with the shield he just finished restoring: distinctive carvings, a better strap that'll be stronger and easier to fit. Well-made to hold up to heavy use, but good-looking too. The items he sells will be special. Different. When someone sees that shield in battle, they'll know who carries it, but they'll also recognize it as his. "People will pass them down to their children," he finally says, swinging again. Low this time. The strike connects and Vilkas stumbles. That's the trick, Farkas knows from long years of experience; he can't beat Vilkas's faster bladework head-on, but stay on his feet until the weighted armor and too-heavy blade start to wear him out and he can win.
Vilkas catches himself, turns and stabs upward at the joints on the sides of Farkas's chestplate. He's a little off. Even a swordpoint would've grazed metal, not pierced the gap. "What else?" he grunts.
Farkas sees his opening and takes it. He pivots and brings his sword down a hair's breadth above the top of Vilkas's skull, then turns it aside and lets it rest on the ground. "Same with the rest of it," he says. Wipes his forehead. "Good pieces. Things that will last."
His brother laughs. "Glad you can fight for what you want, at least. I don't know how you're going to do it, but it's a start."
He's walking back from Jorrvaskr when something strange happens. He passes the Grey-Mane girl, Eorlund's niece, walking with a girl he doesn't know. "Who's that?" the stranger whispers to Olfina.
That isn't the strange part. Walk around with a giant sword and a faceful of war paint and you come to expect a few stares. The strange part is that instead of answering "One of the Companions," the way people always do when strangers ask that question, Olfina says, "The Dragonborn's husband."
"Oh," the other girl says. And that's it. They all walk on.
He doesn't think much about it first, except Huh. But his mind keeps coming back to it, the same way you catch your tongue prodding a sore tooth on its own.
He starts with the armor and weapons, because that's what he knows best. Whenever he travels, he looks for the right kind of pieces—well made, but worn, the kind someone with enough coin might just replace instead of repairing. He carries a pickaxe when he goes out and mines for ore. When he has enough of a stock built up, he tucks a stack of swords and axes under his arm and goes next door to Warmaiden's.
Adrianne Avenicci is outside as usual, standing at her workbench. She puts her tools down when he gets close. "The Dragonborn's husband. Looking to sell?"
That again. He doesn't know her well, but by the gods, they've drunk in the same tavern once a week since he was big enough for Hulda to sell to him. About age twelve. He shakes his head. "Can I use your equipment?"
"Why not take your gear to Eorlund?"
"He's the only one who works the Skyforge. I want to do this myself."
She wipes sweat from her forehead and looks for the first time at the small arsenal he's carrying. "Are you outfitting an army? Even the Companions don't need that many blades."
"I'm opening a shop."
Adrianne looks at him in silence for a minute, then lets out a short laugh. "Let me make sure I understand this. You want to use my equipment to make pieces that will compete with what I sell. Which you plan to sell next door to my shop. That about the size of it?"
Put that way, he can see her point. "The shop will travel with me. I'm not competing with you in Solitude," he argues.
"Fair enough. But I'm talking about when you're here."
She hasn't said no, Farkas notices. Maybe he can make this work, if he can find the right angle. "A septim for every piece I sell in Whiterun Hold that's made on your equipment," he suggests.
Adrianne folds her arms. "A septim? I need a percentage. Twenty percent on everything."
He almost snorts. She must be expecting a counteroffer, unless she really does think he's that stupid. If Matilda were here, she'd put on her most charming smile and haggle like it was a blood sport. But he gives himself time to answer, and in those seconds, he thinks about it. He has other ways of making money; Adrianne Avenicci and her husband don't. And he is horning in on their territory. Bad enough they have to complete with Eorlund. So he swallows his first instinct and says, "Fifteen percent."
Adrianne's face breaks into a smile. "You know," she says, "I think we're going to be friends."
He doesn't know where to start with the rest of it. He can't make most of the other things he wants himself, and just buying up Belethor's stock won't work. Farkas chews on the problem for a few days before a solution hits him—those caravans outside town people talk about. Supposed to have things you can't get in regular shops in Skyrim. He's seen them in passing, but never traded with them. Matilda would know, but she and Lydia are in Windhelm for a few days, so he goes to Jorrvaskr and asks, "Any of you ever trade with the Khajiit caravans?"
Most of the Companions shrug. Torvar is mid-chug, but he waves his free arm to keep anyone else from talking until he finishes drinking. "No, but there's a girl down at the market who does. Always hear her talkin' about it on my way to the Mare."
"What's her name?" Farkas asks.
"How should I know? Pretty little thing, though."
"What does she look like?"
Torvar cups his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate what seems to be the only trait he remembers about the caravan trader.
"Hair color? Age? Height?" he tries. Torvar just shrugs and goes back to drinking.
The next day, Farkas finds himself standing awkwardly around the market stalls, pretending to be fascinated by necklaces and heads of lettuce while he listens for anyone talking about caravans and tries not to be obvious about checking the women for chest sizes. If word about this gets back to Matilda, the only thing he could do to demonstrate his innocence would be punch Torvar's nose through the back of his skull.
After a few minutes of failing to get results with this method, Farkas gives up and just starts asking. He gets lucky. Carlotta Valentia has an answer at the first stall he tries. "That'll be Ysolda. In the blue dress over there."
Blue dress: that's the kind of distinguishing feature you can look for without getting kicked in the berries. Even better, he knows Ysolda, at least well enough to nod to in the street—they both grew up in the city and they're around the same age. Happily, Farkas weaves his way through the stalls and taps her on the shoulder. She jumps.
"Sorry," he says. "You all right?"
"That depends. Do I owe someone money that you're about to try to get back from me?" she asks. Looks serious about it, too.
"No. I have a question for you."
Ysolda relaxes. "Then I'm all right. I thought—well, never mind. What can I answer for you?"
"I want to start trading with the Khajiit caravans. People say you deal with them."
"Yes, I do. But anyone can buy things from the caravans; you don't need me to put in a word for you unless you also intend to follow the merchant's trade."
Farkas nods, hoping he isn't going to have to give her a cut of his sales too. She doesn't even have a shop. "We'll be traveling—"
Ysolda smiles. "Don't worry, I'm willing to help out a fellow aspirant. What I really want is to buy the Mare, and you're no threat to that. One of the caravans will be here in a few days; I'll talk to one of my contacts and tell them you'll be coming. You'll still need to be sharp to get a good deal from them, but it might save you a few coins." He starts to thank her, but she's not done talking. "And a word of advice. Don't be afraid to haggle a little. I heard what happened at Warmaiden's."
That was more than he expected. "I appreciate it," he says sincerely.
"Oh, anything for the Dragonborn. Or her husband. You know—" Her smile broadens. "—this is the second most in love I've ever seen her."
"What's the most in love you've ever been?" he asks Matilda late that night.
"Ten minutes ago, when you did that thing with your tongue. By the gods, Farkas, where did you learn that?"
"Made it up," he says. Then, "And that's not an answer."
"You're a genius, and I will pummel anyone who ever implies otherwise." She yawns and wraps a strand of his hair idly around one fingertip. "The answer is right now. But why the question?"
He doesn't know. He's just been wondering. Maybe because he sleeps beside her every night and fights beside her almost every day, and there's still a lot he doesn't understand about her. Or maybe because he's never thought much about love before. About putting words to what he feels. They didn't have a long courtship. He doesn't know.
"Ysolda said something in the market today. It isn't important."
"Ysolda—" Matilda stops for a second or two, then snorts. "Oh. I should tell you the truth. I was engaged once before, a few months ago."
"You were?"
"To a hagraven. It didn't last." And she tells him the story of how she crossed paths with the Daedric prince of debauchery. He starts thumping his fist on the pillow somewhere around the third sentence and doesn't stop until she finishes and protests, "I'll swear by any god you name, Farkas, every word of it is true."
"That's…that's…wow," is all he can say.
"Mmm, the tragic tale of my lost love. The only one, really. This is the first time since I was a pup that I've stayed in one place long enough to get attached." She rolls up on her elbows to look at him. "You?"
"There was one girl. Two, three years back. New blood."
"What happened to her?"
"Killed during her trial. Draugr. She was the first whelp Aela took out after she joined the Circle. Maybe why she takes a while to warm up to new ones now."
He hasn't thought of Sevyni in a long time. For a while he'd wondered how she'd be if she'd lived, what might've happened. But Jorrvaskr filled up with new whelps and new work, the way it always does, and in time he didn't wonder so much anymore. Matilda's hand brushes his.
"I'm fine," he says. "It was long ago." In one of the smartest moves he's ever made, he thinks to add, "Don't ask. Aela wouldn't be happy I told you."
"Is that why you do the trials now?"
"No, we all do. Aela had better luck with Njada. Torvar was one of mine. Vilkas had Ria, and Skjor had Athis. Vilkas says Kodlak probably chose me for your trial so you'd want to stay."
"If that's so, it worked even better than he intended." Her teeth flash in the dark. A smile. "So, then, what's the most in love you've ever been?"
He touches her cheek with one fingertip. Weather-reddened, chapped from wind and cold, thin scar you wouldn't notice unless you were feeling for it. "Right now," he says. And then he ventures further. "…dear."
She curves in closer to him, and he knows he said the right thing.
He's at the workbench at Warmaiden's a few days later sharpening a sword when Ysolda finds him. "One of the caravans just set up outside the city," she says. "Ask for Ri'saad; he's the leader of all the caravans that come through Whiterun. He'll be expecting you."
Farkas doesn't know anything about haggling with Khajiit, and as soon as the tents come into view, he starts to feel like a milk drinker and wish he'd brought Matilda. She could probably talk them into paying her to take their goods. But he said he's do this himself, so he squares his shoulders and approaches the caravan, determined to get a good price.
The caravan smells like spices and something sweet he can't place. As he comes around the side of the largest tent, he sees there's a large round carpet set on the ground at the front of it, and a Khajiit sitting on it, positioned so he's just at the edge of the sunlight. Three other Khajiit are milling around the camp; Farkas takes two of them for assistants and the heavily-armed one for a guard.
"Ri'saad?" Farkas asks the seated one. He looks like the leader, both because of his position and because he has the most fur. You can pick out a lot of Nord leaders by their beards, Farkas reasons.
"Ah. You are the one Ysolda spoke of. The Dra—" Wisely, the merchant cuts himself off. "Welcome. I will be pleased to serve you however I can. Please, sit."
He sets himself down awkwardly at the other end of the carpet. The Khajiit's assistants step forward and spread samples of their wares on the carpet between them. Farkas looks them over. The normal armor and weapons he doesn't need—his own pieces are better—but he can tell that a few of their items are enchanted, and he can't do that himself. Even people who don't trust magic (Farkas himself being one of them) will wear armor enchanted to resist it. He picks up a shield, inspecting the workmanship. Not bad. "What's the enchantment on this one?" he asks.
"It resists fire," Ri'saad answers. "As does this necklace."
Farkas likes any armor that's easy to fit: shields and helms work for a much bigger range of sizes than a cuirass. Jewelry is the best, though; even someone who doesn't know which end of a sword to hold can get use out of a necklace that lets them carry more. He takes the necklace the merchant is holding out and inspects it. The chains on all of these are too thin, but thicker links are easy to make. Farkas lays the necklace down carefully, adding items to his mental shopping list.
They're carrying a lot of clothing, but Farkas leaves it alone, not sure how to determine a fair price. He selects wool and linen and leather to make armor padding, ores for improving metal goods, a few of the rarer potions Arcadia doesn't carry, and half a handful of little gems. One of Ri'saad's assistants brings forward a chest of household goods, and he looks through those as well: yes to the better-made tablewear that can be polished or carved and a lute he can easily restring, no to the ordinary pots and tools. A less polite no to the poisons and skooma. Ri'saad gestures sharply at the reddish one, who immediately shuts the casket it's in and takes it away. Farkas has a feeling they won't show him that one next time.
When he's seen everything, he taps the items he wants and the stone-colored assistant gathers them together on the blanket, moving the rest of it out of the way. "How much?" Farkas asks.
Ri'saad names a price. After his negotiation with Adrianne Avenicci, Farkas thinks he has the pattern of it: the first offer will be too high, he should respond with one that's too low, and they'll meet in the middle. So he answers with a lower number.
"Why?" Ri'saad asks simply.
Farkas didn't have any particular basis for it. He just thought it sounded reasonably lower than their starting point. "It's a fair offer."
Ri'saad shakes his head, as if to say, you poor ice brain. "I'm afraid it is not, my worthy friend. And if you cannot give me a better reason, then I must insist on my original price."
Farkas tries to feel for his coin purse without being noticed. He can cover it. He pours the septims out into the merchant's paws, takes the bundle the assistants wrap for him, and starts toward the city. Can't win 'em all.
Reasoning that he can't afford any negotiations for a while, he decides to work on what he already has. One of the pieces he has sitting around is an iron helm, slightly dented on one side. He takes it to Warmaiden's and works all day on it, hammering the dent out and smelting new iron to reinforce the sides. He replaces the chipped left horn and two missing rivets near the crown. He finds a padded helmet cap that fits. When he's done all that, he polishes the whole thing as best he can. A lot of fighters will go right out and dull their armor anyway—make themselves harder to spot or look more experienced than they actually are, either way—but everyone likes the shine of new armor. It's not perfectly even, not the way it would be if Eorlund or Adrianne had done it. But it's comfortable enough to wear all day and it'll keep an arrow from penetrating your skull, and that's what matters.
He looks up only when the sky is gold and orange and Matilda passes him coming back from the hunt. Matilda's no archer, so her quarry's usually big game, something she can take down at close range when it attacks. He goes to help her get it in and finds he was right: bear meat, already field-dressed. They'll have drying and salting ahead of them, and cleaning the hide. It'll make a rug or a wall hanging, if she didn't slash the beast up too much. Another thing to add to his stock.
He's tired as he sets the helmet down on the shelf by the fire and starts carving three portions of meat for dinner, his mind and his muscles both. Feels good, though. Like a day spent training or a successful job or a fruitful hunt, but with this he ends up with something solid he can hold in his hands. He likes the logic of turning a piece over in his hands and thinking about what it needs. What would make it something he'd want to use, or hand to Matilda or his shield-siblings or his own children, someday, and say, "I made this. Now it's yours." He sees how Eorlund could make the forge his life.
It's been an expensive week. But watching the dull glow of the firelight on the iron helm, he decides with satisfaction that it's been a good one, too.