"No one knows." Gaelinar spoke with casual indifference as they traced Taziar's path through the densely-clustered branches. "No one has gotten into Geirmagnus' estate."
"And I suppose you can't tell me why."
An impatient frown formed on Gaelinar's lips. "I could. For Silme's sake, though, I've chosen not to."
Wonderful. Larson folded his arms across his chest. "You know, Gaelinar. If there's some sort of monster guarding this place, I believe I have a right to know."
The crow's feet at the corners of Gaelinar's eyes deepened with cynical amusement. "Trust me, Allerum."
Larson pictured the Hel hound howling and slavering at the entrance to Midgard and found the Kensei's reassurance less than comforting.
Ignoring Larson's worry, Gaelinar cleared his throat and returned the conversation to the matter which concerned him. "Now tell me, Allerum. Why would Vidarr suggest we drag along an arrogant, little thief?"
Gaelinar's question was still unresolved when evening descended upon the pine forest. The world dulled to silver haze, broken by the towering, skeletal forms of the trees. Aggravated by Gaelinar's and Taziar's exchanged slurs and plagued by events beyond his control, Larson felt restless. "I'll take first watch."
To Larson's relief, neither of his companions argued. After a supper of jerked meat and tasteless bread, each chose a piece of cleared ground, some distance apart, and dropped into sleep.
Surrounded by the soft rhythms of his companions' breathing, Larson brooded. I'm a goddamned pawn. As far as the gods are concerned, they saved my life and now they own it. He leaped to his feet.
Gaelinar and Taziar stirred briefly at the movement, then returned to their dreams.
Carefully, Larson paced between them. What's going to happen if I do retrieve Geirmagnus' rod? I'll get Silme back… maybe. Then Vidarr or Freyr or Odin will find some new form of blackmail. He slammed his fist into his palm. Well, forget it. I've paid my dues. From now on, if Vidarr wants a favor, he can ask like anyone else.
Larson retook his seat on the needle-blanketed woodland floor. Frustration settled over him, suffocatingly heavy in the silence. I've got to stop thinking like this. The gods can read my every treasonous thought as if I shouted it from the highest mountaintop. The realization further fueled his ire. And that, too, makes damn little sense. Vidarr claimed Freyr chose me for the initial quest because I have no "mind barriers. " Silme believed this defect was very rare, perhaps unique. Whatever these ' 'mind barriers'' are, having none seems to mean certain beings-dream-readers, sorcerers, gods, and giant wolves-have access to my thoughts and memories. AND I DON'T LIKE IT!
Larson scowled, allowing his mind to run freely with the topic until fatigue grew strong enough to overpower anger. By the position of the moon and the color of the night sky, he could tell several hours had passed. Yawning, he scrutinized his companions and chose Taziar as the least comfortable of the pair. Larson approached the climber, caught a thin forearm, and shook.
Taziar opened his eyes.
"Your turn on watch." Feeling spiteful, Larson added, "Though I can't say I'll sleep all that well with a thief guarding me."
Taziar sat up, suddenly fully alert. "I'd appreciate it if the two of you would stop calling me a thief.''
Larson stretched out on his side and leaned on one elbow, prepared to vent this irritation on his newest companion. "Why?" he asked gruffly.
"Why?" Taziar's voice rose with incredulity, then went gruff with annoyance. From a larger man, his tone might have sounded menacing. "First, it's insulting. Second, it makes me and anyone who hears you uneasy. And third, it's not true."
Larson blinked twice in succession. "But you steal. You take other people's things. Where I come from, that makes you a thief.''
"Allerum. Have you ever killed?"
"Yes," Larson confessed.
Taziar hugged his knees to his chest. "Then you won't mind if I call you 'murderer.' "
Taziar's words infuriated Larson. Guilt slammed against his conscience, and the old, Vietnamese woman near the fire base filled his memory. "Don't you dare! There's a difference between killing and murder, you know."
Taziar quirked one eyebrow. "Taking things and stealing aren't the same either."
"Taking things against a person's will after he earned them is stealing."
"Oh." Taziar rocked from his heels to his buttocks. "You mean like taxes."
"No!" Larson heaved an exasperated sigh. "You're playing games with me, and I don't like it."
"I'm just defending myself from undeserved abuse. Mardain knows, I've taken my share today."
Larson rolled to his stomach and propped his chin in his hands. "Give it up, Shadow. I may learn to tolerate you, but I'm not going to approve of pickpocketing. I don't think much of people who steal from working men because they're too lazy to get jobs of their own."
Taziar scooted toward Larson and thrust a palm near the elf's face. The fingers appeared badly scarred and yellow-gray with calluses. "Does this look the hand of an idle man?"
"No," Larson admitted.
"Then quit judging me on a single incident and Gae-linar's prejudice."
"Look." Larson swept to a sitting position, legs crossed before him. "I wish Gaelinar would ease up on you, too. But he does have a point. I don't like traveling with men I don't trust any more than he does. Dishonesty is not an admirable trait in a companion."
Taziar laid a hand on the sheathed sword by his knee, but his maneuver seemed more of a gesture than a threat. "Dishonesty? You had best be speaking of Gaelinar. I assure you, my integrity is genuine and intact."
"A man who would steal wouldn't hesitate to lie."
Taziar leaned forward. "That's nonsense, Allerum. The one has nothing to do with the other. And when have I ever taken anything from you?"
"Never." Larson yawned. "At least, I don't believe you have. But you stole from Gaelinar."
"Aga'arin's fat, metallic ass, Allerum. I gave everything back to him. Does that sound like stealing to you?"
"No. But you robbed Gaelinar too easily for me to believe you haven't had practice. A lot of practice."
"Sure, I've taken things before."
"Ah ha!" Larson crowed his triumph. "So you do lie. And you are a thief.''
"No." Taziar clamped a hand to his face in disgust. "I never said I didn't take things. I said I wasn't a thief."
It seemed to Larson the conversation had returned to its original premise without moving an inch nearer to resolution. "What's the difference between taking and stealing?"
"The same as that between killing and murder. Intent. Have you ever lived in a big city, Allerum?"
Larson smiled. "You could say that."
"How large?"
"When I left it, New York City had a population of about eight million people."
Taziar snorted. "That's not funny. I'm serious."
"So am I."
"Eight million of the two million people in the world live in this city 'New York'. And I've never even heard of it?" Taziar hesitated. "Is this an elven city?"
Larson sighed, wishing he had not answered Taziar's population question truthfully. "Not exactly. It's too hard to explain. Just go on with your point."
"Fine." Taziar rose to his knees, raked his sword to his hand, and fastened it to his belt. "Then you must have noticed beggars and street orphans and lunatics living in the roadways."
"Sure."
"How do you think they eat?"
Larson smiled. "Food stamps?"
Taziar crinkled his face, perplexed. "I've only recently learned your language. I've never heard those words used that way. Explain."
Larson shrugged off Taziar's confusion. "It's an inside joke and not a very good one. I imagine they beg or find jobs."