Chapter 15: Dominos Fall
Scritch scritch, crack.
The sound of an egg hatching faintly emanated from the shelf. "Is this window two-way?" Brom hissed urgently.
Harry scratched his head from where he peered into the room, looking through a disillusioned square of wall. "I didn't intend it to, but the spell I use is primarily for rendering people invisible, so, maybe?"
The crotchety old man yanked him away. "End the spell!" he whispered. "Unless you fancy explaining why an elf, a rider, and a strange magician are watching him sleep?"
Harry looked taken aback. "You're a rider?" he gawped.
Brom cursed. "No time for that, boy. We need to leave."
The wizard shrugged and finite'd the disillusioned square of wood, causing the faded planks to shimmer back into existence. Arya watched the window close with a pang of regret, reluctantly turning away from the house.
The rider (!?) steered them carefully across the fields of unharvested food and behind the barn for cover. From there, they jogged back to Carvahall. Nearly immediately, Harry found he was completely outclassed, both by the elf and the decrepit old man.
Brom did not appear to be sprinting hard yet each jogging stride seemed to propel him forwards with inhuman speed. He did not look strained in the slightest, despite looking nigh seventy.
Back at Brom's house, the odd group settled back into armchairs. The man massaged his temples. "This just got a whole lot more complicated. As much as I'm proud of him, Eragon becoming a rider was not in the plans."
Plans seemed to fly through his head, a look on his face which reminded Harry of Ron studying a chessboard intently, calculating odds and outcomes in his head.
"We have several months to prepare," Brom said finally. "Dragons do not grow so fast that Eragon will not be able to hide his for several months. Despite Islanzadi withdrawing support from the Varden, the dwarves and Surdans will keep them afloat for the time being." Arya briefly looked embarrassed. Brom continued, "Once the dragon is grown enough to ride, I shall follow Eragon out of Carvahall. I know the foolish boy. He will leave the village rather than leave the king to descend on it and enslave him or torch the townsfolk."
Harry smiled internally. My kind of guy, he thought.
The wizened man pointed at Harry and Arya. "You two say you have preparations to make and supplies to run? Your deadline is next spring. Once our new rider can no longer hide his dragon, I shall guide him to Teirm. Should my contacts confirm my suspicions, we'll go to the Varden and ferret out the spy. I expect you two to be ready and packed to move out when the snow melts and we can safely travel." He gave a harsh look to Harry. "I don't know you and I don't trust you. Arya's vouching for you will get you a spot on our travels, but I'm watching. I'm a lot older than I look, and if I see a hint of betrayal, you'll go the way of Morzan, Kialandi, and Formora."
Harry's head swum. This was the man who killed Morzan? And apparently two other Forsworn. Brom's words made him cautious. This world was filled with people faster, stronger, and quicker than him, and they used magic his own brand was useless in blocking. If push came to shove, Harry knew Arya and Brom both could put him in the dirt. The only reason he had managed to send Durza packing was because the shade didn't know about the basilisk venom on his spear.
"I will not betray you." Harry swore solemnly. Brom relaxed a bit. Apparently oaths sworn in English were unbreakable. He had no intention of finding out either way.
Brom convinced Harry and Arya to wait to buy seed until the traders arrived. He'd estimated they'd arrive within a fortnight, so the three of them waited the time out impatiently in Brom's house. Harry had taken over a spare room for his own; a tiny thing whose space he expanded until it could fit the whole house inside four times over. He spent his time constructing the wizarding tent he wished to make from the Urzhad pelt. Arya had taken to sleeping in 'Harry's wing' along with Brom, simply for the amenities. Brom's jaw had nearly fallen out when he saw the wizarding space Harry created in his home.
The wizard had bartered some old tanning tools from the village tanner Gedric Ostvensson in exchange for his spear. With the frankly ridiculous smithing practice Harry got in over the summer, he felt he could do better than his first project. He warned the tanner that an incredibly lethal poison with no antidote was slathered on the tip and could not be removed. Gedric looked at him distastefully, but accepted it nonetheless.
Arya often implored Harry to apparate her back to exchange books from the library. He obliged and only instructed her to grab a lot at a time; her reading appetite was voracious and the wizard did not wish to devolve into a glorified taxi service.
When she was not chewing through the textbooks of Potters past, she and Brom both watched Harry in his process of enchanting the tent. Since he intended the thing to be a masterpiece, he was trying to squeeze every single advantage he could from the creation process. He had located a surface tin vein and quarried out enough to remake the support poles. The whole process from smelting, refinement, and casting, Harry finished entirely the mundane way, carefully lathing, sanding, measuring, and cutting each piece to miniature tolerances. He had located a spell in an old carpenter's journal the craftsman had invented to measure standard deviation, an enchantment which Harry gleefully used whenever possible.
It was immensely convenient, and when Harry wanted to practice his precise transfiguration, he used the spell to challenge himself, pushing the standard deviation he could achieve lower and lower.
Brom and Arya often asked to be taken along back to the workshop in the Spine simply to watch the craftsmanship happen. Brom had many tips and bits of advice to put in. It seemed riders were the closest thing to higher education Alagaesia had, and the things Brom knew often surprised Harry who often perused his mother's textbooks for answers from modern science.
The old man inspected Harry's many appliances, devices, and tools with a shrewd eye. He was definitely learning just as much as him, if not more. By the time the traders arrived, Harry had learned an apprentice level of leatherworking, tannery, and metalworking, both through his ancestors' books and Brom's ever helpful advice. The old man deemed it an equivalent exchange as he often could be found cruising through thick and dusty tomes from the library with a studious expression.
The tent was nearly ready for the magic. It consisted of the same rough skeleton as Harry planned before, but everything was of the highest quality and most intricate decorations he could possibly cram on every surface. The support poles were made of flawless hollow tin rods ramrod straight and silky smooth. In winding script all along the pole (in English as Harry's only language) described the magic he planned to enchant the camping implement with. Comfort, temperature control, sound cancellation, stability, durability, unbreakability, automatic pitching and packing, and space expansion.
Harry wanted to expand the space as far as his magical strength and the strongest wand in existence would allow. He might cordon off all but a small house-sized corner of it to live in, but extra space was never a bad thing. Inspiration came from Newt Scamander's legendary suitcase, containing habitats for countless massive magical creatures.
The wizard took Blinky's advice to heart and added as many personal and magical touches as possible, adorning the poles with hand-forged golden rings and leaf-inlaid carved patterns. The bear pelt he had earned through conquest by slaying its wearer in combat was breathtaking. For the piece he took inspiration from Nar Garzhvog's village, the Namnas hanging above the longhouses and caves especially. Embroidered in gold thread, the tale of Harry's life was immortalized on the perfectly tanned leather.
It was the effort that counted, Harry thought. He had gone through the tanning process, learning another craft, interviewing an expert, and trying his hand before transfiguring out the imperfections. The leather came out acceptable, but acceptable was not acceptable to Harry. It needed to be perfect.
He used a similar tactic with the embroidery. Having never sewn a thing in his life (Petunia would never allow her family out of Number 4 Privet Drive in something as low-class as patched clothes,) Harry's first attempts at embroidering were downright awful. The incomprehensible scribbles and distorted pictures on the top left section where he started slowly gained cohesion and comprehensibility the longer he had been at it. By the bottom right, the embroidery was looking skillful and intricate. After all, the pelt was enormous and cut to nearly two hundred square feet all told.
When transfigured into shape, the tent resembled a mural describing the trials and challenges Harry overcame. Gold thread accented with silver depicted magically animated scenes bordered by elegant fleurs-de-lis on a matte black leather background. He felt justifiable pride in his greatest creation yet.
The interior side of the leather showed the scene inverted of course, but cleverly hidden along the fleurs-de-lis was the tiny looping script laying out the enchantments. Brom and even Arya grudgingly admitted it was impressive, worthy of even elvish craftsmen's lofty standards.
The final result was breathtaking. A cylindrical black bag with a shoulder strap to be slung over a shoulder, the packed tent was sleek, understated, and convenient. When it was tossed out and the activation word called, ("Eructo!") the tube would billow out into a cloud of glittering gold, silver, and black which settled on hidden tin posts. The entry flap led into a wide open space whose edges could not be seen. The space literally stretched for miles. Rather than be bothered with lighting, Harry enchanted the place to look like what he remembered from limbo; formless white sky, floor, and- if there were any- walls. Once erected, the interior would be unaffected by the exterior. Even collapsing the tent would leave the inside stable and intact. Harry had set up an extensive control panel a few meters down the wall from the entryway which controlled the tent's enchantments. Currently he had external invisibility to camouflage the tent, climate control, lockdown mode, and ceiling and wall illusion mode dials. The illusion dial switched between backgrounds such as London, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, various kinds of weather, the night sky, and even an outer space panorama which left Brom and Arya both gaping in dumbstruck awe.
The interior was barren, but Harry had a plan for it which would both stretch him to his very limits, lofty though they were, and also prove him the most awesome magic user ever. Unfortunately while ruminating on how cool Brom would have to concede Harry was, sounds emanated from outside his door in the old man's house.
The wizard emerged blinking from the manse, squinting in the brilliant daylight. It had snowed? Thick white glimmering carpets of the stuff covered everything in sight, giving off that christmas vibe. Cheering, yelling, and laughing rang out among the townsfolk in Carvahall. "The traders are here!" a young girl shouted in elation. Brom had taught him enough of the common tongue to be passable while they waited for the nomadic traders to arrive in Carvahall, bringing with them all varieties of seeds and plants, both exotic and common.
Harry, Arya, and Brom crunched snow beneath their feet as they made their way down the thoroughfare. They had been spotted together for long enough that the villagers quietly made the assumption they were all somehow related, a perception they did not correct. Since Brom was a known and established villager in the town, Carvahall's inhabitants (sometimes grudgingly *cough* Sloan *cough*) accepted them as part of the village.
The similarities to Hogsmeade were striking. Wooden buildings with stone chimneys piped smoke into the winter air, an atmosphere of levity and joy pervaded the village as gullible customers did brisk business with merchants. The traders who arrived set up just down the road from the village center in an open flat area. Rows of canvas and hide tents formed a popup tent city. Along the road the traders set up displays for their wares. Harry grinned and elbowed Brom, rather subtly (or so he thought, as Brom corrected him rather painfully,) pointing out Eragon and his family Roran and Garrow leading their horses and wagons down the road from their farm into town.
The farmboy wore a satchel on his hip and teased and pushed his cousin playfully while Garrow hid a smile. The older man wore his years much worse than Brom, looking nearly gaunt. He had leathery wrinkled skin and a semi-feral sort of look in his eyes. The man looked like he knew exactly how much danger he was in, despite being clueless about the dragon which lived in his backyard. Roran looked a much stockier version of his cousin, with lighter brown hair and eyes. They both wore similar leather peasant clothing and bundled furs, grinning eagerly. Roran tried to hide his excitement, but in the end he was only a couple years older than his cousin and neither quite managed to conceal their eagerness to talk with traders and buy themselves trinkets with whatever money Garrow had distributed for frivolities.
Eragon's face took on a focused cast for a moment before clearing. His grin grew wider and he practically ran the rest of the way to the village. Roran walked behind, affecting nonchalance, but practically vibrated with nervous tension. He halfheartedly perused a few merchants' stalls before all but dashing over to the butcher's shop. Someone has a crush, Harry thought in amusement. The butcher's daughter Katrina, a gorgeous woman, he admitted, whirled around and laughed when she saw Roran walking up, cool as a cucumber.
"Eragon!" Brom called out jovially. "How have you been lately?" The farmboy grinned happily.
"Wonderful!" he responded, his voice carrying over the din of haggling merchants. Garrow waved his nephew off with a subtle twitch of his mouth and took over the reins for the horses, leading him to a merchant in a stall down the row. Eragon had started running over to Brom and Harry when a young girl clutching a doll walked obliviously into his path. He tried to dodge and wound up faceplanting in a powdery drift, emerging with rosy cheeks and a sheepish expression. The girl fled quickly as Eragon made his way the remaining few dozen feet.
"How are you, Brom, and you, Harry?" he asked politely, snow melting down his red cheeks.
"Great, thanks." Harry responded. "I'm looking to buy seeds for crops, I've been eagerly awaiting the traders for nearly as long as I've been in Carvahall!"
Brom rolled his eyes. "Same as I've been, fine enough." he answered Eragon gruffly, though with a pleased gleam in his eye. "What've you got for sale this year?"
The boy looked nervous for a moment, before squaring his shoulders. "Garrow's selling the harvest right now, but later we're going to look for a buyer for this." He stretched his satchel out and opened it discreetly, tilting it so Brom could see the inside. It contained a pile of large blue gem shards, gleaming with the promise of wealth.
Harry could tell Brom was nearly facepalming at this newest development. The instant Eragon sold dragon egg shards, the king was sure to know exactly what happened and relentlessly hunt him down. Even Harry could admit that was a rather poor course of action. Right up there with flying-car commuting.
"...all the way from Belatona!" a flamboyant merchant was bragging. "I bring only the finest wares, priced for the common man or woman!" With a flourish, he stowed a silver brooch in the shape of a rose in a thick locking chest and withdrew. "Ladies and gentlemen, It's time I partake in your excellent bread and wine, but I shall return with more exquisite pieces in an hour. If you are interested in any of my pieces, flag me down and we can barter and haggle for a good old fashioned compromise: leaving no one happy!" he grinned roguishly before stepping away from the semicircle of people watching in fascination.
Arya had been one of them, watching curiously while the merchant revealed intricate jewelry and other precious baubles. Eragon had only caught the tail end of the showing, but was enraptured nonetheless. He looked like he was about to approach the man, whose name Harry had gathered was Merlock, when Brom interjected. "I'd pay good gold for an oddity like those stones, boy. How much are you asking?"
Eragon frowned minutely. "As much as we could get. What are you offering?"
Brom nearly growled. "Fifty crowns sound alright?" He tried to hide his frustration as he counted out the obscene price in an effort to keep the damned fool from practically killing himself.
The farmboy's eyes shone when he beheld the large pile of gold growing in front of him. Brom slid the stacks into a small pouch and pushed it over to Eragon, nearly yanking the egg shards from him. "Why did you want them anyways?" he asked curiously. Harry grinned while Brom exercised whatever small bit of self control he retained to prevent smoke from shooting out his ears. "A storyteller can always use interesting artifacts to bring life to their tales," he responded in a strained voice.
Arya looked bemused at the byplay, but kept silent. Brom hooked the bag of egg shards to his belt and asked gruffly, "Where's Garrow at, boy?"
Eragon directed him over to a merchant's stall, two men arguing fiercely. It appeared as though Garrow had been able to get a suitable price for his harvest, for the merchant was offering large burlap bags of seed. Harry immediately made for the stall. When he made it over he caught the tail end of the negotiations.
"Very well, I accept. May your harvest be good." The merchant shook hands and helped Garrow load up several cloth bags, grinning ruefully as Garrow set off.
"Stay out of trouble, Eragon! I expect to see you home by sunset tomorrow," the man called to his nephew, urging the horses gently forwards and clambering up the wagon with the reins clutched in a wrinkled hand. "Keep him out of trouble, Brom."
Eragon's uncle grew smaller, retreating down the long worn dirt path back to the farm. Harry sidled up to the merchant and withdrew a bag of gold. He'd transfigured their shapes to match one of Brom's crowns to allay suspicion. "Hello good sir, I'm Harry and I'd like to make a deal."
The nomadic trader shook Harry's proffered hand. "I'm Haertung. What are you looking to buy?"
The wizard smiled. "I'd like to buy whatever stock you have left once the day ends. I'll pay as much as whoever pays the most per bag. And if you have any more exotic seed, I'll take it too. Anything you've got that will grow."
Haertung's eyes shone with happiness. "Thank'ee very much, sir. I'll close up shop an hour before sundown. I look forward to doing business later."
The rest of the day passed by quickly. Harry followed Eragon around, making small talk and buying what caught his fancy. The boy had snuck a crown from Brom's payment and sent the rest along to his uncle, and so had plenty of cash to buy whatever treats and trinkets had caught his eye. Harry was of course loaded beyond belief, and indulged whenever Eragon did.
Brom had beggared off, claiming he needed to prepare for storytelling tonight. Arya had disappeared, likely back to the old man's house to finish the ninth year physics primer Harry's mother left him. She said little, especially around humans, and neither of them noticed her slip away amongst the positively charged atmosphere the traders brought.
They enjoyed pies, maple candy, and Eragon bought a new knife along with a sturdy quiver with thirty-six professionally crafted arrows. The quiver was rather heavy when full, so Eragon would probably continue using his old one, and simply supplement the sparse handmade arrows with the ones his new one came with.
Harry eventually split off towards the evening to catch Horst, the village smith, in conversation. The burly black bearded man was nearly swarmed by traders asking about all sorts of metal wares like horseshoes, arrowheads, and tools. The man's sooty apron verily jingled with coins by the time he escaped the demanding merchants.
The wizard flagged him down on his way back to the forge. "Horst, is it?"
"Aye, that's me," he confirmed with a smile. "Harry, no? Strange name around here. Though I suppose it's no surprise if Brom's brought you." He strode back to the forge, sweeping space off a table and hanging up hooks. "Baldur and Albriech ought to learn how to clean up after themselves," he grumbled.
He seized a straw broom and began sweeping soot and filings off the stone floor. "What brings you down to my forge?"
"I'd like to be your apprentice during the winter. I must leave come spring, but I promise I'll make it worth your while to take me on until then." Harry proposed.
Horst ran an appraising eye over the slight wizard. "You sure you've got what it takes? Smithing is a demanding trade. You're not exactly the strongest man I've seen, no offense."
"I do," Harry nodded. "I can bring my own ore and more besides, and I brought the few pieces I made before."
The smith gestured. "Lets see 'em then."
Harry laid out a pair of icepicks, a rough edged sword which he had attempted to make the traditional way, and a selection of brush knives. Horst whistled. "Not bad, son." He hefted the sword, bobbling it in his calloused hands. "Perfectly balanced. How'd you manage it?"
Harry led the smith to unscrew the pommel. "I put threading on the cap so it stays secure. Inside are several lead discs to add weight. Whoever picks this sword up can choose how they wish to balance it."
Horst popped out a pair of stout lead cylinders, hefting the blade again curiously. "Ingenious," he whispered. The smith continued to examine his work, flexing, slicing, and poking with each piece. "I've yet to see your technique in action, but I can tell that academically you're likely better than me. You wish to hone your skill, yes?" he queried.
The wizard nodded. "I learned as much as I could from books and scrolls, but in the end there's no substitute for a master."
"Very well then, I will take you on until the snowmelt. Welcome aboard, Harry."
The wizard made his way over to Morn's tavern. There were a couple hours of daylight left, and Brom claimed his set was best performed when the embers burned low. More gravitas, he'd said.
"Close the door!" someone barked the instant Harry entered. Ah. That's what the guy had hollered last time he came in, before he even knew the language. The place was the merriest Harry had ever seen. He did not frequent the place, but it often hosted a variety of interesting characters who were more inclined to talk about themselves after a few drinks.
He waved to Morn who dipped his head in acknowledgement. It seemed as though an argument was breaking out. He sidled up to Eragon, the boy looking angrier and more incensed as the man spoke. "Who're they?" Harry asked the boy.
"Grain buyers," he practically spat. "They would have crippled next year's harvest had some strange merchant claimed someone was paying exorbitant prices for any seed unsold by sundown." Harry smiled inwardly.
Morn wandered over with a platter of food and drink, deftly transferring the victuals onto the rough wooden table between Eragon and Harry. The wizard nodded and tossed him a silver piece. Apparently tipping with crowns was unheard of, and Harry had to stop doing it or else the villagers' heads were liable to explode. "They say the Varden have formed a pact with the Urgals and are massing an army to attack us. Supposedly, it's only through the grace of our king that we've been protected for so long– as if Galbatorix would care if we burned to the ground… Go listen to them. I have enough on my hands without explaining their lies," Morn verily growled.
Harry was curious. "What have the Empire done to earn Carvahall's ire so?" he asked. "I can't imagine they have invested too much in oppressing a tiny remote village like this one."
Morn and Eragon scowled. "Their tax collectors are heartless and corrupt, they've never assisted us when we nearly starved. They simply swan in here, collect whatever gold they feel like, and leave us to the harsh moods of mother nature," the barman groused.
"-only through the king's unceasing efforts on your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety. If he, in all his wisdom, were to withdraw his support, woe unto you!" An obese trader with a baby face spotted by a disgusting amount of hardened fat. So large was this man that the chair he sat atop groaned in tortured protest. Harry imagined if it could speak the chair would be screaming Please! No more!
A heckler hollered back. "Right, why don't you also tell us the Riders have returned and you've each killed a hundred elves. Do you think we're children to believe in your tales? We can take care of ourselves." The group laughed.
Chunky's friend, a thin and sickly looking man wearing many pounds of ridiculously gaudy jewlery spoke up. "You misunderstand. We know the Empire cannot care for each of us personally, as you may want, but it can keep Urgals from overrunning this," he searched for a term before distastefully saying, "place."
The trader continued, "You are angry with the Empire for treating people unfairly, a legitimate concern, but a government cannot please everyone. There will inevitably be arguments and conflicts. However, the majority of us have nothing to complain about. Every country has some small group of malcontents who aren't satisfied with the balance of power."
"Yeah," a woman called, "if you're willing to call the Varden small!"
Chunky sighed. "We've been over this, the Varden have no interest in helping you. That's only a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside–not outside– our borders. All they want is to overthrow the king and take possession of our land. They have spies everywhere as they prepare to invade. You never know who might be working for them."
Harry saw the honeyed words of Dumb and Dumber winning over the tavern as villagers nodded. He was surveying the patrons and so missed it when Eragon stood annoyed. "How do you know this? I can say that clouds are green, but that doesnt mean it's true. Prove you aren't lying." The two men glared at him while the villagers waited silently for an answer.
Twiggy spoke first. He avoided Eragon's eyes. "Aren't your children taught respect? Or do you let boys challenge men whenever they want to?"
Harry stayed seated, but interjected dryly nonetheless. "I'd hope so. How else are they expected to become men?"
Chunky seethed. "It's only common sense," he evaded lamely.
The wizard snorted. "This Galbatorix fellow seems like a shit ruler. I've heard he can't keep his tax collectors in line, they screw over townsfolk to line their gross tax-collector-y pockets with ill gotten gains. There are no Empire soldiers posted here in Carvahall to defend this village should Urgals attack. Apparently he never sends aid to the village during harsh years." Harry rolled his eyes. "That's the whole damn point of taxes. Everyone pays a little bit for membership in a nation, who is then responsible for using that tax money to better the lives of their subjects. It seems like Carvahall is receiving very little return on investment insofar as taxes are concerned. It's only common sense," Harry mocked.
Both traders purpled in rage. Before they could verbally retaliate, the wizard made a rude gesture at them and scooped up his food, making for the room he and Arya had continued paying for despite living in Brom's house. Eragon followed at his beckoning gesture. Turning the corner to the back hall with the rooms, he could hear arguing break out behind him.
Pushing open a creaky door, he slid their food down on the rough hewn table. He wanted another perspective besides Brom's and Arya's both were heavily biased. "What do you know about the Varden, anyways? I hear them mentioned often in passing," Harry asked.
"They're a rebel group," Eragon started. "It's a mystery who founded them or who leads them, they constantly raid and attack the Empire. Despite that, they garner a lot of sympathy. The rumor is, if you're a fugitive, need to hide, or just plain hate the Empire, they'll take you." He pushed his food back to Harry. "I'm sorry but I have to leave for an hour or so. Garrow, Roran, and I are due at Horst's tonight for dinner. Thanks for defending me, though," he said brightly.
The boy trotted out of the room, down the hallway, and turned the corner.
Arya faded from invisibility in the corner. "Did he answer your questions to your satisfaction?" she asked lightly.
Harry frowned. "Almost. He mentioned constant attacks. Are you attacking civilians and infrastructure?" He did not want to throw his support behind terrorists.
"You would think so little of us?" she accused, though without any heat. "The attacks are assassinations," she revealed. "Galbatorix has two more eggs to hatch. Every time the Varden get wind of a particularly promising candidate, they make sure to keep him out of the king's reach the best way possible."
Harry sighed. "I don't like this innocent-killing business. But from what I understand, being Galbatorix's rider would likely be worse than death." The elf nodded solemnly. "Very well. I will support them." And since he spoke in the tongue of truth, Arya knew she could count on Harry.
When evening rolled around, Harry made his way back to the seed merchant. "Have you closed up yet?" he asked.
Haertung sighed sadly. "Never before have I hoped to sell as little as possible in a day. I hope for your sake you have a lot of coin, for I have much stock to offload before we move on." He hesitated. "An old man who introduced himself as Brom paid three crown for a single bag of wheat seed. I would not ask such prices from you, but it was the deal and I'll honor it."
Harry groaned. "It's exactly like him to do something like that," he reassured the merchant. "How many bags and varieties do you have left?"
Haertung led Harry behind his stall to a tall wagon. It was two-thirds empty, but the vehicle was still full enough to cover the floor several times over. "Quite a bit," he said wryly.
Harry left Haertung a wagonload heavier, yet three-hundred-eighty-seven crowns lighter. The merchant's eyes nearly popped out of his head when the wizard plopped a bursting trio of full money pouches down in front of him. The merchant offered to help him offload, but Harry waved it off. Unfortunately, on the way back to Brom's house to stash the stuff, he found himself face to face with a whole line of seed sellers, all with hopeful expressions. He wheeled the cart around with a put upon sigh, and asked. "How much do you all have to sell?"
"Nearly everything, lad," one answered back. "Chunky and Twiggy, as I believe you said when you thought no one heard," he grinned, "are attempting to buy everyone's seed at pauper prices. Haertung here," he patted the man's shoulder, "told us about a strange buyer willing to pay exorbitant prices." They all looked so eager Harry couldn't find it in his heart to refuse, especially with a vault of overflowing gold.
An hour later the wizard and the merchants parted amicably and Harry privately marveled at what he got his hands on.
Nearly every staple crop of the medieval times- wheat, rye, oats, lentils, beans, potatoes, squash, onions, garlic, and fennel, along with more exotic or non-traditional seeds such as banana, cocoa, watermelon, pineapple, and orange. The other berries and fruits more local it looked like Harry would have to forage for. He briefly wondered if he could phrase a request in such a way that Arya would do it for him. She was a very outdoorsy person, he mused.
Before retiring for the night, Harry managed to part another trader with a breeding pair of cows, chickens, and pigs. He had paid generously for the convenience, and because the man likely did not know Harry would grow literal fields of food from the fertilizer they produced.
The sky darkened and a bonfire was set up in the town square. A low platform somewhat similar to the Urgal stage had been dragged out from somewhere, and Brom was settling atop a chair there. Townsfolk laid out furs to sit atop, hushing when the old man began his story.
Harry was treated to a second rendition of the Riders' Fall. He could not help but contrast it with the Urgal version. By the way he spoke and how Brom had let slip he was a rider, Harry deduced he was present for the whole thing. There was real sadness in his eyes. The names of fallen riders he listed were clearly personal friends. He obviously did not mention his own dragon, but given it was nowhere to be found, it must have died.
Harry could not begin to comprehend what that must have been like. The loss of Hedwig over a year ago had crushed him. In some ways it was worse than Moody's death during the battle of the seven Potters. Moody was a person who chose to take the risk of being a decoy, and though he died through treachery, Hedwig was an innocent victim, trapped in a cage in the face of certain oncoming death.
By the time the fire burned low and Brom described Galbatorix's victory over the Riders' leader Vrael through underhanded tactics, few eyes were dry in the audience. The grizzled old man played his audience's heartstrings like a violin, drawing out sympathy for the fallen riders and their dragons and stoking righteous rage towards the evil king for genocide against the fierce and magnificent dragons.
Two rather unpopular men wearing the Empire's standard on their tunics whispered to each other. Brom's unharried life in Carvahall was coming to an end. Clearly he intended to be gone come spring when soldiers could be mustered to arrest him. Harry respected the geezer for giving the dominos a good kick before leaving.
The story concluded with a harrowing tone. "He rules from afar now." Brom addressed the crowd. "They say Galbatorix stays holed up in his citadel, his lack of oversight the reason for so-called 'heartless tax collectors' and bandits and brigands. "I say, let us pray to whatever gods may exist that he stays far away from Palancar valley. Better to deal with corrupt mortal men than maddened living gods."
Brom made his way from the stage to whispers and quiet discussion. He smacked Harry with his walking stick and gestured at the two guards "I may not like 'Chunky' and 'Twiggy' over there, but they're right about one thing; If Galbatorix decided to ride out directly to destroy his enemies, they would fall like dead leaves before autumn wind."