Returning his son would be enough, I was thinking. I watched until the figure of Styrbjorn had vanished in the throng on the wooden walkways. Tall and lithe and still raw with youth, he had the look of greatness, yet something was lacking in him — I was thinking that he knew it, too, and it scorched him sullen. Still, I did not think it was his wyrd to be throat-cut.
The men spilled out of the boat and had no trouble stepping easily onto the planks of the wharf, which I noted; usually we had to scramble up half the height of a man to a planked pier such as this, but the river had risen.
‘Aye,’ grunted Trollaskegg, seeing me look at the rain-sodden sky. ‘I can smell storm, me. Over behind the mist are those mountains and I am betting sure Thor is stamping up and down and throwing Mjollnir for all he is worth.’
‘No matter,’ Crowbone broke in, bright with excitement, ‘for we will be snug and safe here, at least for one night.’
Those nearest agreed with hooms and heyas, looking forward to a chance to dry out cloaks and tunics and boots by a real fire, with milk-cooked food and ale enough to chase away the blood-cloud which had settled on all of us like a cloak of black flies.
I was more fretting than I showed; Pall’s oarmates had escaped and he had told us they were coming upriver to alert the Saxlanders.
I had been thinking that, if we proved empty-handed with weapons and full-fisted with silver, the Saxlanders would not care overly much — yet we were alone on that wharf, the men turning this way and that, wary as kitchen dogs hunting scraps, hunched under the stares of dark doorways and the sightless eyes of shuttered windholes. Beyond that, I saw big men in leather armour and spears, with a man in front holding a staff.
‘Should we prepare war gear, Orm?’ Alyosha asked and I shook my head; no-one had approached us at all, neither trader nor soldier and I had the notion matters were held, like an insect in amber.
I told them to unload and stack the furs and wadmal, so that the sight of such a mundane task — and the profit it promised — might allay some fears. For all that, the sweat was greasy on my face and slid a cold finger down between my shoulders.
For a little while we sat and shivered in the rain of that place, the men growing more and more restive, hunched and miserable and leashed by me, for I wanted some acknowledgement that we were welcome before I let these growlers loose to scatter through the settlement.
It did not help that they could smell the roasting ribs and boiling cauldron snakes and hear the fishermen inviting customers to choose an eel and have it sliced and cooked there and then. The gulls wheeled and screeched — better fed, muttered Bjaelfi, than the Oathsworn.
A man started down the walkway, not looking up until he saw us and realised he was alone, having crossed some invisible line which held everyone back; he was so startled that he took a step off the walkway into the muck and lost his shoe jerking his foot back. Cursing, he fished it out and half-hopped away.
A child ran out, laughing, hands out and mouth open; his mother raced after him, snatched him up and glared at us as if it was our fault. Even the dogs slunk, tails curled and growling.
We waited, driven mad by the smells of what we had not had in a long time, so thick we could taste them; cooking fish and hot ovens and brewing beer — and shite pits and middens. One or two grumbles went up and Murrough, in a loud voice, proclaimed that if he didn’t get some fish and bread and ale soon he would eat the next dog that presented itself, skin and all.
Then the man with the staff suddenly appeared, striding down to us; men burst out laughing, nudging Murrough and telling him his meal had arrived. The man, a grey-beard dressed in embroidered red, half-shrouded in a blue cloak fastened on one shoulder with a large pin, was bewildered and bristling, so that he paused and glared.
‘Welcome,’ he said eventually. Up close, I saw the staff was impressively carved and had a large yellow stone set in the bulbous end.
‘There will be no berthing fees for you,’ he added, chewing the Norse like a dog does a wasp.
‘Fees? What fees?’ demanded Trollaskegg, chin bristling.
‘Berthing fees,’ I told him and he spat, only just missing the staff, while the messenger stared down his long nose.
‘I do not pay berthing fees,’ Trollaskegg declared, folding his arms.
‘That is what he said,’ I answered wearily and Trollaskegg, uncertain now whether he had won something or not, grunted and nodded, deciding he had the victory.
The messenger inclined his head in a curt bow and swaggered off, almost knocked over in the rush of traders who arrived in a sudden, unleashed mob, hucksters all of them, crowding round and spreading their wares out on linen or felt, dark coloured for the gem and trinket sellers.
They had combs and pins and brooches of bone and ivory, some pieces of Serkland silver set with amber and flashing stones; the Oathsworn gathered round and fished out barter-stuff and even hacksilver, for these hard, tangle-haired growlers were magpies for glitter.
The traders were good, too, I noted, even if all their gems were glass, for they had stories for all the pieces and, if they forgot which story went with which from customer to customer, it did not matter much. If all the stories were true, though, each had some potent magic from somewhere which would create sure sons in the most barren womb and make men hard as keel-trees if their women wore it when they wore nothing else.
Men believe what they wish to believe, a weakness that can be used, like any other. The gods know this; Odin especially knows this.
The men milled and slowly scattered, looking for food and ale and women. I spent some time haggling a price for the wadmal and furs and knew I was robbed; it was too early to be this far upriver. Since we had raided all the goods, though, it hardly mattered and was all profit — anyway, I was glad to be quit of the bundles and what they made me remember.
I had just finished handseling a deal with a spit and slap when Abjorn forced his way through the throng, chewing meat on a wooden skewer. He jerked his head backwards as he spoke.
‘There is someone wants a word,’ he said, spraying food and I looked behind him; the grey-beard with the staff had returned. The trader I had been talking to took a sideways sidle to avoid him and clamped his lips on what he had been telling me. I had asked this trader, as I had asked others, about a Greek priest and a north boy and had nothing worth noting — they had been here, for sure, yet folk seemed reluctant to admit it.
‘The merchant Kasperick wishes words with you,’ the greybeard intoned.
‘Who is this Kasperick?’ I asked and the messenger raised one irritated eyebrow.
‘He is the one who wishes to see you,’ he replied smartly and Finn growled like a warning dog.
‘Then I must make myself worthy of visiting such an eminence,’ I replied, before Finn decided to pitch the messenger into the river. I turned to Trollaskegg.
‘Fetch my blue cloak from my sea-chest and the pin that goes with it,’ I told him loudly and watched the scowl thunder onto his brow as he did it, slow and stiff with annoyance. He thrust them truculently at me and, before he could also tell me to fuck off and die and that he was no thrall to me, I drew him closer.
‘Get everyone on board and stay there,’ I hissed. ‘Loosen off the lines. I will take Finn, Crowbone and Red Njal with me and if all is well, I will send Crowbone back. If not, Red Njal. If you see Red Njal, pole off to the river and row for it — upriver. Make sure the girl is safe and kept on board.’
Trollaskegg blinked a bit, then nodded. The water was up and it would be hard pull against the narrowed spate.
‘Can I go ashore?’ asked a voice and we all turned to where Dark Eye stood. She wore a tunic, one of Yan’s for he was smallest, yet it suited her for a dress down to her calves.