He asked the shopkeeper, a plump woman old enough to be his mother and who was probably the butcher’s wife, to tell him what kind of meat she sold.
“What kind do you want?”
“I want something that tastes of the wild.”
“Tastes of the wild?” She scrunched her face at him. “What do you mean? All our meat was raised in the meadows surrounding Thornbeck. We don’t sell wild meat here.”
“Do you know anyone who does? I would pay a lot of money for some deer meat.” He watched her for her reaction.
“I know not where you can get such meat.” She huffed and turned on her heel and went into the back room. When she returned, she laid a large goose, all plucked and ready to be cooked, across the counter. “That’s as wild as we sell here, and it was raised at the old Schindler farm north of town. They clip their wings when they’re young, so their meat is as tender and tasty as any you will find.” She fixed him with a narrowed stare. “If you find deer meat, that’ll be poached from the margrave’s own land, and we would never sell poached meat here. The margrave would have our heads. Unless you are daft, you should know that.”
“I see you are an honest woman. That is admirable. Perhaps I will come back for the goose on my way home.”
Jorgen left the shop, joined the crowd on their way to the market, and looked around. Sellers of every description had their booths set up and their wares on display, and Jorgen saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one looked as if he was selling venison. No one even looked suspicious.
He would not find the black-market seller in the open market. He must look elsewhere or find someone who knew where this seller was located. The seller could be anywhere, but it seemed advantageous for him to be near the market.
Who should Jorgen ask? He had already raised the suspicions of the woman at the butcher shop.
Glancing around him, he saw women with large baskets on their arms as they did their shopping. Some were servants, and others were middle-aged or older women shopping for their families. Most of the sellers were busy and did not have time for a private chat. But as he drew closer to the side of the marketplace that was flanked by the massive town hall building, he saw a young man. He was lounging against the side of the Rathous, watching passersby. He looked fully grown but younger than twenty. Would he know anything?
Jorgen approached him. “Do you know where I might buy some deer meat?”
“Why do you want to know?” He looked lazily back at Jorgen from half-closed eyes.
“I want to buy some venison. Is that so strange?”
“Not strange at all.” The young man pushed himself away from the stone wall and turned to go around the corner.
Jorgen waited a few moments, then followed him down a narrow alley between two buildings facing the marketplace. Could he have found a person who could lead him to the black market? Or was Jorgen about to get a rude greeting from brigands?
The doorways on either side of him along the alley were too shadowy for him to see if they were open or closed. Hardly any sunlight came through the narrow alley, and a large tree at the end further shaded the street. Jorgen made sure he could reach his knife, letting his hand rest on it in its sheath underneath his surcoat.
The young man reached the end of the narrow alley and glanced back at Jorgen. He then turned to the left and disappeared.
Jorgen followed, looking first to the right and then the left. No one was lurking behind the buildings, and the residents were obviously using this back side to dump their chamber pots. The smell made it difficult to breathe, mingling with the summer heat like a stifling fog.
The young man was several feet ahead of him and motioned for him to catch up. Jorgen proceeded, alert for any motion in the dark back street. His boots squished through filth. They turned right when they came to another back alleyway that led behind a row of houses. A woman stood in the first doorway. Her hair was red and wiry, somehow managing to stick out in all directions even though it was braided down her back. A couple of her teeth were missing in front.
“What do we have here?” She let her gaze linger on Jorgen’s face.
“I want to buy some venison.”
“Why did you come here? You don’t think we have that here, do you?” She kept one hand on her hip, and she used her other hand to wave around when she talked, as though she were spreading out the words. She gave him a provocative half smile. “You do look like a man who knows what he wants, I admit.”
He suspected he was standing behind the house of prostitution called The Red House, which faced Waschefrau Strasse.