That day we rode hard, passing an inn just before noon. The inns were spaced to be an easy day’s ride apart, and I thought we’d be sleeping rough again because of our late start the day before, but by some miracle, we made it to the next inn right after night fell.
I groaned as I swung my leg over Slaypnir’s rump and dismounted. Slaypnir turned his head as if to ask what the big deal was, after all, I rode him, not the other way around.
As I turned, Sif caught my eye. She patted her medicine bag, and I nodded. No use arguing about that again. Not yet, anyway.
“Greetings, lords and ladies,” said the rotund innkeeper. “I’m happy you’ve graced my humble establishment. Will you need rooms for the night or supper, perhaps?”
“Seven rooms, if you please,” said Meuhlnir, jingling his pouch, which seemed never to run low of silver.
“Very well, Lord,” said the innkeeper. “I’ll have to put out three karls, but they can sleep in the stables. I—”
“We can’t do that,” I said to Meuhlnir. “They got here first.”
“You disapprove?” Meuhlnir asked with a shrug. “It is the way of things. If we don’t take the rooms, this fine gentleman will kick them out anyway for costing him the trade.”
The innkeeper made a little half-bow at me. “Yes, Lord. Please stay, the karls will insist, even if I do not.”
The rigid caste structure of Osgarthr still seemed so strange to me. That men would believe it their duty to give up their room for me was beyond the pale. I nodded, trying to conceal my discomfort.
“It’s settled,” said the innkeeper. He glanced down at Kunknir and Krati on my hips. “Yarl Tyeldnir,” he added with another half-bow.
“How do these things get started?” I asked, glaring at Mothi.
He held up his hands in protest. “I have no idea, Aylootr.”
I shook my head and sighed. “When do you serve supper?” I asked the innkeeper.
“It’s being prepared as we speak,” he said, but his eyes were glued to Meuhlnir’s hands as the Isir shifted pieces of silver from his purse to his palm. The innkeeper snapped his fingers, and a boy about Sig’s age stepped out of the small office.
“Yes, Father?” the boy asked.
“Tell the three karls they need to move to the stables.”
“Yes, Father,” said the boy, and he trotted up the stairs.
“In the meantime, we’ll take any room that’s private,” said Sif, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“Yes, Lady,” said the tavern master. “Take your pick of any room past the first three at the top of the stairs.”
My gaze drifted to the narrow stairs, and a sigh escaped my lips.
“Do you have a room on the ground floor? Tyeldnir will only want to climb those stairs once.”
“Of course. Take my office for as long as you need.” He stepped to the side and swept his arm at the door behind him. “There’s no bed, but…”
Sif laughed as she steered me into the little room—it wasn’t much larger than a coat closet—and pushed me into the hard wooden chair next to the writing desk. She swung the door closed. “Off with your pants,” she said in a brusque tone of voice. She applied her mystery balm in silence, lips pursed at the cherry-red color of my ankles and knees. “Will we need to stay over tomorrow?” she asked.
“No, I can—”
“Hank,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. “Quit being a man for a moment and tell me what you will need tomorrow.”
I twitched my lips. “What will serve me best is getting to that market in Suelhaym, so you can make the gunk you promised me back in town.”
“Yes,” she said and left the room, and when I’d corrected my state of dishabille, I followed her, in time to witness the exodus of the karls.
It surprised me that they seemed to be in high spirits, joshing Mothi (though deferentially). The playful banter stopped when they saw the pistols on my hips, and they bowed to me.
Bowed to me, for Chrissake.
I stood there trying to decide what to do in response. Should I say something? Bow back? Tell them to stop? In the end, I nodded at them, pretending people bowed to me all the time. Jane sniggered, and Mothi’s face was cracked by a huge, toothy smile.
“Lords and ladies, your table awaits,” said the innkeeper.
“These fine karls will be joining us,” I said, and enjoyed the surprised yet delighted uncertainty in their faces.
“Why not?” boomed Meuhlnir, with barely suppressed mirth.
We followed the tavern master into the cramped common room. The décor was dark, with wood stained to the extent it was almost black, either on purpose or by smoke from the immense fire pit in the center of the room. Drag marks on the wooden floor showed that the tables were usually set for four and separated by five or six feet. The tables had been shoved together into one long table with benches along both sides. At the head of the table sat an upholstered chair—from the tavern master’s apartments by the look of it.
He rested his hand on the padded backrest. “My best chair,” he said. “I’d be honored, Yarl Tyeldnir, if it suits you.”
“I’d be honored if you called me Hank,” I said.
“That’s kind of you, Aylootr,” said Mothi with a mischievous grin.
“You, sir, may call me Mr. Jensen.” I painted a severe, stern expression on my face, which only made Mothi’s grin wider. I turned back to the tavern master. “The chair looks comfortable, but Meuhlnir or Veethar will sit at the head of the table.”
“If they do, I’ll be cracking skulls before dinner,” growled Sif.
“And they don’t call her the Harvester of Blood because she makes idle threats,” said Yowrnsaxa in a tone to match.
Frikka put her arm through Veethar’s and led him to the end of the table. “Don’t tempt fate, husband. You’ve seen her fight.”
Veethar smiled at Sif and bowed his head once in her direction. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Sit in the damn chair, Hank,” said Meuhlnir. “I’m not going up against both my wives. Might as well ask the wind to stop the sun in the sky.” He moved to the head of the table and sat in the first spot to the right of the chair. He threw a glance down the table at Veethar. “See? I do learn.”
“Hold me, Sif, I might faint,” said Yowrnsaxa with laughter in her eyes.
“Mothi, come steady your mothers before we both lose consciousness.”
The three karls stood—somewhat bashfully—in the corner, looking lost. “Don’t mind them,” I said. “They do this all day and all night. Consider it dinner theater.” That earned timid smiles, but they still didn’t move, so I sat in the chair at the head of the table and waved my hands to my right and left. “Come sit with us,” I invited.
The karls were large men, though not as large as the Isir, but they looked at Sif and didn’t move an inch.
“Sif, please tell these fine men that you won’t eat their livers with a side of fava beans,” I said.
She looked at me for a drawn-out moment, bewildered. “Of course, they should sit,” she said, a blush creeping up her neck like a wild rose.
I turned my gaze back to the karls and smiled. “Come on.” They ducked their heads and came over. One sat on the other side of Meuhlnir, and the other two sat on my left. I glanced at the innkeeper. “You were about to tell me your name.”
The man blushed and ducked his head. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. I am Tholfr.”
“Nice to meet you, Tholfr. And you three?” I asked turning back to the karls.
“My companions are Uhkmuntr and Neerowthr,” said the one to my immediate left. “And I am Lottfowpnir, Lord.”
I held up my index finger. “None of that, Lottfowpnir. My name is Hank. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, Lo—uh, Hank. If you’ll forgive me, that’s a strange name.”
I chuckled. “It’s the diminutive name for Henry. It was my grandfather’s name.”
“Ah, a name worthy of respect and remembrance,” said Neerowthr.
“Yes,” I said glaring at Mothi, who stood next to my son. “That is my son, Sigurd, or Sig, as he prefers to be called.” The three karls glanced down the table and inclined their heads. Sig blushed and threw the men a little wave, then glanced at Mothi, who tousled his hair and shoved him toward the table.
Tholfr cleared his throat. “He looks of an age with my boy, Retyinarr, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”
“I thought the same thing,” I said.
“Well,” said Tholfr, “I’ll see to the food.”
“With our thanks, Innkeeper,” said Meuhlnir. “And bring us mead in large quantities.”
Althyof scoffed and sat next to Frikka. “Ale for me, if you please.”
The rest of the party sat, and though the assembled tables had seemed too large for our party, shoulders rubbed, and elbows jostled. I was glad for the chair, and not only because of its padding.
“Tell me, what brings you three to be traveling?” asked Meuhlnir with a casualness that must have seemed genuine to the karls, but which made Sif’s head come around as if pulled by her braids.
“We travel together,” said Uhkmuntr. “Lottfowpnir’s father is attached to a mercantile concern in Suelhaym and sent us to straighten out a supplier near Trankastrantir.”
“Is that so?” asked Veethar.
“Yes, Lord,” said Uhkmuntr. “There is a spinner, and he is—”
“Come, Uhkmuntr! These lords have no interest in the details of our business.” Lottfowpnir’s elbow connected with his friend’s ribs—a gesture meant to be hidden from everyone at the table.
“No,” said Frikka in dulcet tones. “We are interested in the trades.”
Lottfowpnir looked as if he couldn’t tell if Frikka was mocking him or not. “It’s nothing, a matter between karls.”
“Speak,” commanded Veethar.
Lottfowpnir glanced at the faces around the table. It was clear he’d rather be somewhere else, but he had no choice now. “There is a spinner in Trankastrantir, with whom my father trades. In the past, his yarns have been of the highest quality, but lately, they have been stiff, scratchy, and…well, they have an odor, and it does not wash out. We are weavers of fine cloth, sold to only the best clothiers in Suelhaym, and as such, we rely on quality yarn.”
“And you go to collect your payments for the bad merchandise, I’ll wager. The spinner’s name?” asked Frikka.
“Tofri, Lady.”
Frikka nodded, her expression solemn. “Did news of the attack on Trankastrantir reach Suelhaym?”
Lottfowpnir looked at the table in front of him.
“Answer,” growled Veethar.
“Speak up, Lottfowpnir,” I said. “It is rare, in life, to find friends to whom you can speak your whole mind, the whole truth without fear of reprisal. Veethar and Frikka are two such people. Speak your mind.”
“Frikka and Veethar,” he murmured. He glanced at me and then away, his eyes roaming the walls opposite him. After a moment of silence, Lottfowpnir gazed down the table at Frikka and Veethar. “We heard, but, with respect, that was seven months ago. We made allowances in the beginning. We paid full price for half-price yarn, and we did it without complaint because Tofri has always dealt squarely with us. But this is business, and everyone has troubles to deal with.”
Frikka’s eyes were distant, empty. “Tofri is known to me.” She grasped Veethar’s hand. “To us. You recognized our names, so you know why.”
“Yes, Lady,” said the karl.
“And yes, seven months ago Trankastrantir was attacked by a band of Svartalfar and demons. There was also a dragon, a white dragon that Hank and Althyof killed when it attacked our estate.”
Uhkmuntr and Neerowthr stared at one another, eyes wide. Lottfowpnir glanced at Mothi, and then at me. “Aylootr,” he whispered. “Of course.”
“What you haven’t heard, obviously, is that there was tremendous damage, both to the town proper and to outlying farms. You did not hear about the high loss of life.”
“No,” said Lottfowpnir, eyes back on the table in front of him.
“You’ve done business for years, but I’ll wager you that Tofri never told you that he lost five of his children that day, and one of his wives.”
“No.”
“Nor did he tell you that the sheep he relies—relied—on to make your high-quality yarn were destroyed, that his farm was razed.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Where do you suppose he’s getting the wool now?”
“I…I hadn’t thought of that, Lady.”
“No,” said Veethar in a harsh tone. “You had your silver to consider.”
Lottfowpnir grimaced.
“I’ll tell you where he’s getting his wool. He’s buying it from Suelhaym, from the market. He’s shipping it to Trankastrantir, spinning it, and shipping it back. How expensive must that be?”
Lottfowpnir shook his head. “He didn’t tell us any of this.”
“Now you know,” said Veethar.
“The question becomes: ‘What will you do with this knowledge?’” asked Frikka. “Do you proceed and claim your silver?”
Lottfowpnir shook his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“You’ve said this spinner has been a loyal supplier, yes?” asked Yowtgayrr.
Lottfowpnir glanced at him as if he hadn’t been aware the Alf was at the table. “You’re…”
“An Alf. Yes.”
The karl nodded as if he encountered Alfar every day. “Tofri has been a good supplier, an honest tradesman.”
“An evil man might lie to you, take advantage of your good nature, but a good man, as you describe him to be, would not.”
“Yes,” said Lottfowpnir.
“If you have a friend—a true friend, mind—where’s the profit in breaking with him? Wouldn’t it be better to speak up, to reason things out?”
“Yes,” said Lottfowpnir again, and I thought he’d grown a tad sullen.
“Let’s leave it there,” I said. “Lottfowpnir has a lot to mull over, and no doubt he will have to speak with his father before any decisions can be made.”
“Yes, this is true,” said Frikka with a nod toward me.
I cleared my throat as Tholfr set mugs and pitchers of mead on the table. With a glance at Althyof, he broke the seal on a clay jar and poured a dark brown liquid into one of the cups. “Your ale, Master Tverkr.”
Althyof grunted and took a sip, his eyes lighting up as the liquid splashed across his palette. He swallowed and took another mouthful, smiling all the while.
“I spoke with Meuhlnir, Yowtgayrr, Skowvithr, and Veethar earlier today about meeting a Tisir. Kuhntul was her name.”
Sif and Yowrnsaxa exchanged a look of surprise, but Frikka didn’t bat an eyelash. Frikka, the seeress who never speaks her prophecies, I thought with irritation. She probably knows what it all means, whether there is a real traitor in the party or not. I glanced at Meuhlnir, and he nodded as if he knew what I was thinking. As much as he complained about the same, maybe he did.
“Who’s this Kuhntul?” asked Jane.
“A Tisir—a filkya—who is known to us,” said Frikka.
“And that’s good or bad?”
Frikka shrugged.
“Tell us about her,” I suggested, hoping to draw Frikka out a little.
“She fought in the war. She fought against the Dragon Queen.”
“Then she’s on our side, right?” asked Sig.
Frikka favored him with a stunning smile, and I could almost hear his insides melting. “We mustn’t assume that, Sig.”
“Why not, Auntie Flicka?”
“Sig!” said Jane. “Show some respect.”
“Sorry,” he said, but Frikka only laughed.
“In the war, Kuhntul didn’t so much fight on our side as fight against the queen’s forces,” said Yowrnsaxa.
“Isn’t that the same thing, Auntie Yarns?”
“No, Siggy-pig,” said Mothi.
“I don’t get it,” Sig said.
“Kuhntul came to Nitavetlir right before the war here broke out,” said Althyof around his mug of ale. “In a way, she tricked the Tverkar into joining the war and siding with the dissidents against the Dark Queen.”
“Is that so? I have never heard of this,” said Meuhlnir.
“It is. She came during a time of crisis on Nitavetlir. Two kingdoms, Serklant and Yutlant, were…uh, engaged in diplomacy—”
“Exchanging insults, then?” asked Mothi with a grin.
Althyof returned his grin and nodded. “As I was saying, the two nations had been engaged in a discussion about which kingdom’s craftsmen were in more demand. King Hetidn of Serklant grew incensed—that one never could have a conversation without taking offense. He decided to settle the matter following the ancient Tverkar traditions—by combat. He led his men on a long march, and somewhere in the middle of the Mikitl Skowkur, he—”
“The what?” asked Jane.
“The Mikitl Skowkur,” said Sif. “It’s a huge ‘forest’ of stalagmites on Nitavetlir.”
“Which ones are stalagmites again?”
“Stalagmites are the ones on the ground,” said Sig. “Geesh, Mom, do you even Earth Science?”
“You’re in so much trouble,” said Jane with her best mock glare.
“As I was saying,” said Althyof. “King Hetidn got separated—he’s famous not only for taking offense at every little thing but also for his propensity to get lost in his own bedroom. King Hetidn wandered around, calling for his men. I was the first to find him, of course, by chanting a lausaveesa—”
“A what?” asked Sig.
Althyof sighed. “Am I ever to finish this telling?” he muttered into his beard. “A lausaveesa is the short chant of a runeskowld.”
“A magic spell?”
Althyof scoffed. “Nothing so pedestrian, but given your lack of education, young man, it’s close enough. To avoid further interruption, there are two other forms I will define now. A trowba is a series of stanzas with a refrain, that is sung by a runeskowld, often accompanied by a sort of dance. A triblinkr is shorter and has no refrain. It is usually chanted rather than sung.”
“Cool,” said Sig. “Will you teach me to do it?”
Althyof gazed at my son with a stern expression for the space of ten heartbeats. “We shall see how you fare with Meuhlnir. I will say that no Isir has ever mastered the art.”
“I’ll be the first.”
“As I said, we shall see.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, does anyone else have questions or comments that can’t be held until the end of the telling?” He gazed around the table, one eyelid twitching. Despite the twitch, he seemed secretly pleased by Sig’s request, but the twitch was a nice touch. “Then I will continue the telling.
“I found King Hetidn, by chanting a lausaveesa. His mind was blurry, and I could smell the strenkir af krafti all over him.” Althyof paused for a quick glare around the table as if challenging someone to interrupt. “He said he had met a woman…”