"I'm not going out till I have to. I've had a couple months of snow and wind."
"It's a warm spring day."
"Well, all right then. But warm is a matter of opinion."
"I'll walk you up after you're settled."
"I'll need some other things, too. I'll be a boon to Hammerfest's economy."
"Uhm." The thought had occurred to Bors, apparently.
In the tailor's shop the stranger asked a few cautious questions. He had guessed right. No one would tell him a thing. This would take cunning.
Returning to the inn, alone because Bors was making his rounds, he had another sled encounter. He didn't see this one.
Its rider was a boy of six, scared silly that he had hurt the stranger. The dark man calmed him just enough to suit his purpose.
Then he asked, "Where is the other stranger? The one who stayed the winter."
"The man with black eyes? The man who can't talk?" The
Trolledyngjan idiom meant a man who couldn't speak the language. "In the tower." He pointed.
The dark man stared uphill. The castle was primitive. It had a low curtain wall and what looked like a shell keep piled on granite bedrock. One step better than the moat and bailey. "Thank you, son." "You won't tell?" "I won't if you won't."
He continued staring uphill. A man who walked like Bors was coming down. He smiled his little smile.
He was in the common room, drinking hot wine, when the constable returned. "All peaceful?" he asked.
"Nothing changes," Bors replied. "Last trouble we had was two years ago. Itaskian got into it with a fellow from Dvar. Over a girl. Settled it before it came to blows." "Good. Good. I'll feel safe in my bed, then." "Peace is what we sell here, sir. Don't you know? Every man in Hammerfest is pledged to die fighting if trouble comes from outside. We need peace. Where else, in this land, can you find shops like ours? The outback people won't even plant crops, let alone work with their hands. Except to make trinkets they bury with their dead, to placate the Old Gods. Silly. If the New Gods can't get a man's shade safely to the heroes' hall, then they can't be much."
"I don't know much about religion." "Most folks here don't. They give to the priests mainly so they'll stay away. By the way. I talked to a couple fur-dealers. They're interested. In talking. They'll be round tomorrow."
The stranger moved to the fire. "Good. Then I shouldn't have to stay long."
"Oh, I think your stay will be short. They're eager, I'd say." There was something in his tone.... The stranger turned.
His cloak was back. Bors hadn't seen him open it. But he saw the worn, plain black sword hilt and the cold dark eyes and cruel nose. That wicked little smile played across the man's lips. '"Thank you. You're most kind, going out of your way. I'll retire now. My first chance at a warm bed for weeks." "I understand. I understand."
As the stranger climbed the stairs he caught the flicker of uncertainty crossing the big man's face.
He arranged a spell for his door, then went to bed.
They came earlier than he expected, though he hadn't been sure they would come at all. The ward spell warned him. He rose sinuously, hefted his weapon, concealed himself.
There were three of them. He recognized Bors' hulking shape immediately. One of the others was shorter and thinner than the man he sought.
He took Bors with a vicious throat swing, then gutted the short man, shoving a rag into his mouth before he could scream.
The third man didn't react in time to do anything. A sword tip rested at his adam's apple the instant it took the stranger to decide he wasn't the man. Then he died.
The stranger shrugged. He would have to visit the castle after all.
But first he lighted his lamp and studied the dead men.
He found nothing unusual.
Why would they commit murder for no more excuse than he had given?
He dressed in his new winter boots and coat, donned his greatcloak, sheathed his freshly cleaned sword.
Bors' wife waited in the common room.
The stranger's dark eyes met hers. There was no pity in his. "I'll be leaving early. I have a refund coming."
Terror restructured her face. She counted coins with fingers too shaky to keep hold.
The stranger pushed back two. "Too much." His voice was without emotion. But he couldn't resist a dramatic touch. He fished a coin from his purse. "To cover the costs of damage done," he said with a hint of sarcasm.
The woman stared at the coin as he slipped out the door. On one side a crown had been struck. On the reverse there were words in writing she didn't recognize.
Once the door slammed she flew upstairs, tears streaming.
They had been laid out neatly, side by side. On each forehead, still smoking, was a tiny crown-brand.
She didn't know what it meant, but there were others in Hammerfest who had paid attention to news from the south. She would learn soon enough.
She and Bors had entertained a royal guest.
THIRTEEN: Regency
Colonel Oryon had no idea what had happened at Karak Strabger. He did know he rode with a man possessed. His hard-faced, grim companion, closed of mouth, perpetually angry, wasn't the Ragnarson he had accompanied eastward. This Ragnarson was an avenger, a death-Messiah. There was the feel of doom, of destiny, about him.
Oryon watched him punish his mount, and was afraid.
If this man didn't mellow he could set a continent aflame.
He knew no pain, needed no comforts, wanted no rest. He plunged on till Oryon, who prided himself on his toughness, could no longer stand the pace. And still he rode, leaving his companions at an inn ten miles from Vorgreberg.
"Derel!" he roared through the Palace, as he stalked toward his office. "Prataxis! You south coast faggot! Where the hell are you? Get your useless ass up here on the double."
Prataxis materialized, partially dressed. "Sir?"
"The Thing. I want it assembled. Now."
"Sir? It's the middle of the night."
"I don't give a damn! Get those sons of bitches down there in two hours. Or they'll find out what it was like in the old days. We never threw out the hardware from the dungeons. And if you don't get it done yesterday, you'll be first in line."
"What's happened, sir?"
Ragnarson mellowed a little. "Yes, something happened. And I've got to do something about it before the whole damned house of cards falls in on us. Go on. Go, go, go." He waved a hand like a baker sending his boy into the streets, all rage gone. "I'll explain later."
He had arrived ahead of the news. And would stay ahead unless Oryon learned something, or Ragnar shot his mouth off. Ragnar had promised to say nothing, even to the ghost of hismother. Gjerdrum and Wachtel would keep everyone else locked up in Karak Strabger.
"Before I leave," Prataxis said, "there's a woman in town looking for you. She showed up the day after you left."
"A woman? Who?"
"She wouldn't say. She gave the impression she was very friendly with bin Yousif."
"Haroun? About time we heard from that.... No. I won't say that. I think I understand him now. Go on. I'll see her after I talk to the Thing. H ow many of those bastards are in town, anyway?"
"Most of them. It's getting close to Victory Day and time to debate the Guild appropriations. They don't want to miss that."
"That won't be a problem anymore. I told Oryon to pack his bags. We'll pay them off. Thanks to you, Derel. You'll be rewarded."
"Service is my reward, Marshall."
"Bullshit. About two hundred Rebsamen dons fawning at your feet after you publish your thesis is what you're thinking about. You get the look a thief does when he sees loose gold whenever you talk about it."
"As you say, Lord."