He slammed the box shut and scuttled toward her through the dimness. Close up his skin was gray with dirt; his breath stank. “And you must have some coins too, with a coat and boots of such nice soft leather.” He narrowed his eyes. “A wealthy lass, by the look of you.”
Icily Jessa glared at him. “The men I’m meeting are the Jarl’s men, I warn you. The Jarl’s poet himself. He and I are friends.”
She had thought that would make him pause, but to her surprise he grinned, thin-lipped. “Jarl Wulfgar himself! So we both have important friends. Just give me the money you’ve got, now.”
“Kari Ragnarsson is also my friend.” She said it at random, but just for a second caught a sudden wariness, even fear, in the thief ’s eyes.
“That one? The sorcerer? The Snow-walker?” He touched a greasy amulet quickly. “Well, it’s a pity he’s not here, then.”
“He can see things that happen far off. He may be watching us. Remembering you.”
Nervously the man’s eyes shifted. His tongue flickered over his lips. “I’ll have to take my chance.” He held out his hand. “The purse.”
The knife glittered in the firelight. Jessa clenched her fists hopelessly.
But before she could move, there was a rattle at the door. The latch jerked. “Anyone there?” a voice called.
She whirled around but the rat-faced thief had the knife to her throat in an instant. “Not a sound!” he hissed.
The door shuddered as Skapti thumped it again. “Jessa! Thorgard! Open the door!”
She could smell the man’s warm breath behind her ear, and see the filthy nails that clutched the knife. He was small, not much taller than she was, but scrawny and tough. She cursed him silently.
Outside, Skapti’s footsteps shuffled. Then they heard him walk away. Jessa almost despaired. She knew that her last chance was ebbing and that she had to do something now, at once. Recklessly she pulled away.
“All right. You can have the money.”
He watched as she pulled the pouch from under her coat, weighing it reluctantly. He grinned and stepped forward, and then she drew back her arm and flung the purse at him hard; as he grabbed for it she shoved the table against him and heaved it up and over so it fell on him with a crash, spilling salt and fish and plate and ale. She was halfway out of the window before the knife thudded into the frame beside her. With a scream of anger she jumped, picked herself up, and raced into the dark shouting, “Skapti! Skapti, wait!”
A lanky figure ahead of her turned. “Jessa? Is that you?”
“He’s armed! Quick!”
The skald caught her and put her behind him, then drew his sword, staring uneasily into the twilight. “Who is?”
Jessa gasped out her story.
“He’s alone then?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re all right?”
“Yes, yes, but the rat’s got my money!”
The skald grinned down at her. “Then we’d better try and get it back. Come on. Though he’s probably gone.” He rubbed his long nose. “Some dark unwarriorly corner of me hopes so, anyway.”
“Well I don’t. And I’m right behind you.”
He stalked back down the wharf; she followed, hearing the planks creak beneath them, and the tide slapping the wood.
The door was wide open. Skapti peered around it carefully, his lean face sharp in the dying firelight. Then he straightened. “Sorry, Jessa. Your rat has run.”
She stormed past him. The room was a mess. The table lay on its side, food scattered over the straw. She kicked a chair in frustration. “If only I hadn’t thrown the wretched purse! What a stupid, stupid thing to do! Some of it was Wulfgar’s money too!”
“You had no choice. He was armed and you weren’t.”
“That’s another thing. Carry two knives, my father always said.”
“He was wise.”
“If I ever see that rat again…”
“You won’t. We sail tonight, on the tide.” Skapti kneeled by the innkeeper, who was groaning softly, and turned him over. “Get some water for this fellow, will you … and some of his ale.”
“His own ale!” she muttered sourly. “That’ll finish him off for sure.”
Three
There was a handsome hall there.
And high within it sat a king of great courage.
Jessa pulled her coat around her and gazed out over the waves. The boat dipped, splashing spray high into the spring sky; eggshell blue, paler than snow shadows. She was cold, but the fresh smell of the morning fjord filled her like a second breakfast.
Skapti staggered down the boat, falling against oarsmen who handed him off good-humoredly. He sat by Jessa, hugging his long knees. “Soon be there. A good morning for voyaging, this.”
She nodded, watching the green banks slide by, bright with tender grass. Snow hung in the clefts of the hills, but here the day might be warm enough later to do without gloves.
The poet flexed his long fingers. “Talk to me, Jessa. Unlock your word-hoard. Spill your thoughts like pebbles into my silence.”
She took her gaze from the green land and gave him a wry smile. “Still spinning word chains.”
“It’s my job.”
“And Wulfgar’s is to rule the land. What’s he doing, to allow thieves and footpads in his markets?”
“There are always thieves and footpads.”
But he seemed uneasy, she thought.
Then he said, “Wulfgar has done a great deal of good since he became the Jarl—you’ll see that when we get to the hold. People aren’t afraid to speak out now—there are courts again—on wergild, on property. Justice is done. All the witch’s prisoners—and there were many—have been released. The farms and herds she took have been given back—those that have owners still alive, that is. The Jarlshold is no longer a place of terror, Jessa.”
“That’s as it should be. And Wulfgar. Has he changed?”
Skapti shrugged and looked out over the water. “All men change. Power’s a heavy robe. You need to be very strong to wear it. Wulfgar is as honest, and noble, and fierce of heart as ever he was.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“That’s what I want to know.” She stopped playing with the laces of her boots and glanced at him sideways. “Come on, Skapti. I know you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The skald pulled a strange face. “At least, only in my own overbright imaginings. Maybe power isn’t a robe but a honeypot, attracting wasps. Or maybe poets just like riddles. After all, after a witch like Gudrun anything is better. Now, what about you?”
She saw he wanted to change the subject and laughed. “Oh me! I’m fine. The farm is mine now, and Thorkil has his father’s land too, so we’re a wealthy family—or we were until yesterday.” Irritated by the memory she glared at the oarsmen’s straining backs.
Skapti nodded. “And have you heard nothing of Kari?”
She looked at him. “I… I think so.”
“Think so? Jessa, you say I talk in riddles!”
She grinned and leaned back against the wooden chests stacked in the bow. “Well, I know Kari and Brochael went back out to Thrasirshall to live, far off in the north. But a month ago, when I was in the fields at home, looking at some lambs, all of a sudden I … felt him. He was there. I was so sure that I turned around, but there was only the empty grass on the cliff top, and the sea. But he’d been watching me, Skapti. I knew it.”
Skapti shrugged. “No doubt he was. Kari’s powers are beyond guessing.”
“Has Wulfgar heard from them?”
“Twice. Brochael sent a messenger asking for men from his own hold to go and work at Thrasirshall with him. Why Kari wants to go back and live in that troll-haunted ruin I can’t think! A few men went north to them. Food was arranged—nothing grows up there, as you know.”
“And the second time?”
“Wulfgar sent a man last autumn. He wanted Kari to have his father’s land—not that it’s worth much. Kari told him to keep it.”