The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  Twelve Kolkagga were heading out that night. Few enemies had ever faced so many shadows at once, but this was different. This was more than just an attack. One of the deadborn had been captured—at least according to the survivors in Reikavik.

  Svarteld and the others came out onto the platform. Kolkagga. In plain sight. Rime knew it was after closing time, and there was no one else in the teahouse, but just last winter it would have been unthinkable to meet there. The Council had denied the existence of Kolkagga for generations. But after the Seer had fallen, there had been no going back. The black shadows had swarmed Mannfalla, reining in a city out of control.

  The boats bobbed alongside the platform, having broken through a thin layer of ice to moor. Kolkagga split into two groups, six men in each boat. Then they started to row. The boats were built for speed, and in no time at all they put the lights of Mannfalla behind them. Rime reckoned they’d be there by dawn. Hopefully they wouldn’t start burning the dead before they arrived.

  The first thing they saw was the pyres. Five unlit structures that would carry the dead to Slokna. Some of them on logs so fresh that they wouldn’t burn. They were arranged in a row in front of similar structures laden with fish.

  One row for drying fish, one row for burning the dead.

  It was early, but Rime could see a woman out on the jetty. She stood immobile, almost as if asleep, dressed in clothes the same gray as the sky. Then she saw them coming and ran up toward the houses, shouting. A handful of other people appeared. Rime looked at Svarteld, who shook his head, exasperated. So much for taking any deadborn lurking in the nearby woods by surprise.

  They brought the boats ashore with a couple of powerful strokes and hopped out. The water had frozen between the rocks. The people quieted down again, as if only now realizing who had come. If their expressions were anything to go by, they were wondering whether dealing with the blind might be preferable.

  “Who speaks for you?” Svarteld asked. Rime and the others fanned out behind him. The people looked at each other. Tired and frightened faces peered out from under fur-lined hoods. The woman who had been waiting on the jetty stepped forward.

  “My name is Melda, fadri. Ordinarily my brother speaks for us, but he’s dead.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed at one of the houses. Her hands were tinged blue from the cold.

  “Where is the blindling?”

  “Fadri, we’ve—”

  “I’m no councillor,” Svarteld said.

  Melda bowed. “I-I don’t know what to call you.”

  “Nothing. We’re nameless. Where is the blindling?”

  “In the cellar, fa—in the cellar. The dead are in the room above. He’s below. We’ve weighed the cellar doors down with rocks. At first we thought he’d break out, but—”

  Svarteld turned on his heel and went up toward the house. Kolkagga followed him. The woman put a hand on Rime’s arm. “We wanted to burn the dead, so they wouldn’t rise, but no one dared go in and get them.”

  “Rise?” Rime looked down at her. She had fair hair and dark circles under her eyes. He suspected he did, too. She didn’t reply. Just looked back at the crowd of people. Rime tensed his jaw. “Dead is dead, and you can tell them that! No one escapes Slokna, whether blindling or ymling.”

  He drew his sword and followed the others up toward the houses. Svarteld signaled for one group to go around the back and for the others to spread out to the neighboring houses. Rime found the cellar doors. It couldn’t be that deep. This was rocky terrain. Near the river.

  He leaned forward. He couldn’t hear anything. He heaved a couple of the rocks aside. Then he heard something. Scratching. Just for a moment.

  “I’ll bet my tail it’s a dog,” one of the others whispered. Rime raised a hand to silence him. They were nervous, and he couldn’t blame them. Rime had fought the blind before, but these men had never even seen them.

  Rime ran around the corner of the house and found Svarteld at the front door. He opened it and they went in. The dead lay on the floor, and in the only bed in the room. Five of them. A family. Rime stepped over their waxen bodies. Some of them had gaping wounds in their chests and stomachs. Shreds of clothing were plastered to them with blood. Brown trails on the floor showed where one of them had tried to get away. Rime cloaked himself in the cold he needed to survive.

  All death is senseless. Not just these.

  “Rime.”

  Svarteld was pointing at one of the bodies. One so small that he hadn’t noticed it when they’d come in. A boy. No more than two winters. He was sitting against the wall with his head resting on a washtub. His lifeless eyes stared into thin air from under copper-colored hair. His shirt was bloodied around a stab wound in his chest. No heavy blows or open wounds, like the others. Just that stab wound, from a knife. Had the deadborn ever been known to use knives? Not as far as Rime knew. Something wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right.

  Rime crouched down and closed the boy’s eyes. Eyelashes tickled his palm. A certainty bored its way into Rime’s chest. Sharp as steel. His icy shield cracked. He got up. “This wasn’t them.”

  “Clearly,” Svarteld replied.

  Rime opened the door and went out. He heard Svarteld shout behind him but didn’t stop. The villagers had come closer now, emboldened by the protection the black-clad men offered. Rime swept over to them, sword in hand. They gasped in unison, recoiling like a multi-headed serpent.

  “The boy,” he shouted. “Who killed the boy?”

  They said nothing. Stood motionless. Only their breath in the cold air indicated they were alive at all.

  “ANSWER ME!” He tightened his grip on his sword.

  “He was one of them!” a voice shouted from the crowd. “They swap our children for their own,” another said. “The boy was the only one they didn’t kill. And he had that red hair. We all know what that means.”

  Rime raised his sword. The Might engulfed him. What remained of his icy shield melted away. He had nothing to hide behind. No distance. Only fury. “Tell me who killed the boy or die!”

  Svarteld was suddenly right next to him. “You’re the Ravenbearer, boy!” Rime stared into his dark eyes. Ravenbearer. What did that even mean? What raven? There was no raven to bear. And who would they have him bear it for? These ymlings who killed their own children?

  Svarteld gripped his arm. “Calm yourself!”

  Rime heard himself laugh, a macabre imitation of what laughter was supposed to be. He tore free of Svarteld’s grasp and yelled at the mindless puppets before him. “Why should we fear them when we are the ones doing the killing? Well?! You are responsible for the most heinous of these deaths. Not even that blindling would have killed a child. But you did!”

  He lowered his voice along with his sword. “You did …”

  He turned his back on them, pushing past the other Kolkagga and heading back up to the house. He lifted the rocks from the cellar doors and drew the bolt. Kolkagga fanned out behind him, ready to face whatever might emerge. The doors opened with a screech of the hinges. He stared into the darkness. Into nothing.

  Someone called for a lamp, but Rime was already on his way down the steps. Something snarled. Something big. He felt it coming, felt the force of a blow before it landed. Early enough to duck. He swept his sword around him. It met with resistance. There was a roar. Saliva spattered his face. Something crashed to the ground in front of him. Something so big that it seemed to take up the entire room. The other Kolkagga arrived, carrying swords and lamps. They ran past on either side. Light flooded the cellar, revealing rough stone walls. Broken bottles and jam jars. A sack that had been torn to pieces. Root vegetables strewn across the floor. And a dead brown bear.

  “A bear …” he heard behind him. “Blackest Blindból, it’s a bear!”

  “In the middle of winter?” Svarteld’s voice. The others started to examine the dead animal. There was blood on its claws. One of them pulled something out of its body and held it up
. A broken arrow.

  Rime closed his eyes. A starving bear driven mad by pain. Someone had killed the boy because of a bear. No blindlings. No deadborn. Just fear.

  The walls were closing in. He needed to get out. His body felt numb. He sheathed his sword and forced himself up the steps. He emerged through the doors and drew air into his lungs. “It’s a bear,” he said, voice cracking. The villagers came closer. Wide-eyed. Gaping. There were maybe fifty of them.

  “Is he dead, the blindling?” asked the woman they’d spoken to first.

  “It’s a bear!” he shouted. “A bear! A wounded, starving bear!” The echo fled down toward the riverbank, as if it were running away with the horrifying truth. Downriver toward the sea. Away, so no one would ever have to hear it again.

  A woman started to cry. She tried to hide it with a hand over her mouth. Rime surveyed their faces, leveling a hard stare at anyone carrying a knife.

  There. Him. He could see the death in his eyes. The man twitched but stayed where he was. Rime stalked toward him.

  “You killed the boy.”

  The man lowered his eyes. Quivered. Rime drew his sword again. “You have a choice. You can languish in the pits in Mannfalla until the assembly sends you to Askeberg to be burned or beheaded. Or you can die here. Now. For murdering a child.”

  The man looked up at him. His gaze was empty. No anger. No grief. A woman took a couple of steps toward them. “He thought he was doing what had to be done! You’ve no right!”

  Rime tore his hood off to reveal his face. “I am Rime An-Elderin, Ravenbearer of Ym. If anyone has that right, I do.”

  The man’s knees gave out on him, dropping him in the hoarfrost. “Now,” he croaked.

  Rime nodded. “Then in the name of the Seer, in the name of the Council, and for a crime that will hound you into Slokna, prepare to die.”

  Rime raised his sword. The blood surged through his veins. The Might hungered for more. For something to destroy. For someone to pay for everything that was wrong with the world. He prepared to strike. To avenge the red-haired boy. Red hair. Hirka …

  The murderer looked up at him. Black hair. Flushed skin. A grimace of fear. Rime could feel the weight of the sword in his hand, but it wouldn’t fall. He’d killed for the Seer before. Who was he killing for now? The boy? Himself?

  You’ve made yourself the beginning and the end.

  The man suddenly jerked as a sword was plunged through him. He let out a strangled noise and keeled over. Svarteld pulled the sword out again with a squelch. He wiped the blade on the man’s cloak and looked at Rime. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he said, sheathing his sword again. “You can’t sentence a man and not follow through, An-Elderin. Haven’t I taught you to do what’s necessary?”

  Svarteld walked past him and down toward the boats. Rime turned. The other Kolkagga were still standing there. Ten silent, black-clad figures waiting for him.

  He’d hesitated. Failed. And it was going to cost him.

  The Might whispered to him. Burrowed into his thoughts and uncovered another truth. He’d have failed no matter what he’d done. Whether he’d killed or not.

  Rime shut out the sound of crying and followed his master down toward the boats. The ice between the stones crunched under his feet, and he remembered what he’d said when they’d found the bodies on the banks of Lake Stilla.

  Fear doesn’t kill anyone.

  He’d never been more wrong.

  INTERCONNECTED

  The boat glided along the canal. Hirka stood at the front, watching the prow slice through the water. It was nighttime in Venice. Quiet. There were only two other people on board, two girls who’d had a little too much to drink. They were speaking a language she didn’t understand and trying to fold a map.

  The boat pulled up alongside the jetty and the girls stumbled ashore. Stefan pushed Hirka after them. “Hurry up, before I come to my senses.”

  “Why are we getting off already?” Hirka watched the boat glide away.

  Stefan lit a cigarette. “Oh, real sneaky,” he replied sarcastically. “Take the boat right up to the house you want to snoop around, with us as the only passengers. Maybe we could even get the boat to wait until you’re done.”

  Hirka didn’t respond. Stray snowflakes danced around the streetlamps, melting as soon as they hit the ground. Stefan took a drag of the cigarette and tossed it in the canal. “I don’t know why I listen to you. If we get caught, best-case scenario is I have to find a new job. And I’m too old to be flipping burgers. You know what I’m saying, girl? Worst case, I get a bullet in the back of the head.”

  Hirka started walking, but Stefan kept grumbling. “And what are you going to do if your friend wakes up? Something tells me he’s not exactly housetrained. Not well enough to be left home alone, that’s for sure.”

  “He’ll cope. Naiell’s used to being alone. Or are you starting to miss him?” Hirka smiled, but he didn’t smile back.

  They followed the row of houses along the canal, toward Allegra’s. Stefan looked over his shoulder. “We’re not going in. Do you understand? You can look in through the window, but don’t—”

  A young couple came walking toward them. Stefan kept his head down until they’d passed. Hirka looked at him. “If you stop talking every time someone walks past, you’ll only draw more attention to us.”

  Stefan stopped. “Do you know what your problem is? You act like you always have a way out. As if the rules here don’t apply to you. But let me tell you something: you have nowhere to go! You’re stuck here, same as the rest of us, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be locked up until your hair falls out. Either that or you’ll be found face-down in the canal. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. Do you think anyone gets that rich by being a good person?”

  “Go back, then!” she answered. “Why are you here if you’re so afraid?” Hirka kept walking. No matter who Allegra was, breaking into Eisvaldr—into the Seer’s tower, no less—had been far more dangerous. If she’d managed that, she could manage this. Though that time she’d had Rime. Now she only had Stefan, and he was a chicken.

  Hirka heard him follow. He sidled up next to her. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be afraid,” he muttered. She smiled to herself. When all was said and done, Stefan was as curious as she was. Allegra had been trying to hide something from her, that much was obvious. They just had to find out what.

  They stopped outside Allegra’s house. Or houses, actually. Two buildings side by side. Both painted the same sandy color, with white moldings. Unless she was mistaken, Silvio’s study was in the closest of the two. Hirka looked up at the second-floor window. Getting up would be simple enough. She climbed onto a ledge that ran the length of the wall.

  “What are you doing?” Stefan grabbed her foot. “You won’t get in. Not without smashing a window, and you can forget about that.”

  “We won’t have to smash anything. Follow me.”

  “Follow you?! Dammit, girl.”

  Hirka found a drainpipe to hold on to so she could pull herself up. “I asked her for a glass of water,” she whispered over her shoulder. “And while she was out of the room, I opened the window a crack.” Hirka pulled herself up onto the balcony. From there, she could reach across to the second-floor window. It was in two parts, one sticking out a little farther than the other. Open. Exactly as she’d left it.

  She grinned down at Stefan. “Don’t worry about getting caught. We can always buy our freedom with Naiell’s blood.” She didn’t wait for a reply, mostly because she was worried it would make her change her mind.

  She pried the window open and climbed in. She gave a start when she saw the outline of a person in the dark. The armor. It was just the suit of armor. She breathed out and waited for Stefan. He climbed in the window, out of breath. Hirka motioned for him to follow her over to the door that Allegra had closed. Then she opened it and stepped into Silvio Sanuto’s study.

  The room was in such a state of chaos that they
could have charged people to see it. Hirka had never seen anything like it. It spanned two floors. A floorboard intersecting the room marked where there used to be a wall, as if several rooms had been combined.

  Hirka went down a spiral staircase to the floor below. Quietly, so as not to wake anyone. Books. Books from floor to ceiling. Stacked on windowsills, and in towers that propped each other up. Precarious piles of binders and papers. In the few places there were no books, the walls were covered in pictures, words, and drawings. People and symbols overlapping. The room smelled like a casket that had just been opened after centuries.

  There were tiny scraps of paper everywhere, some of them spread across a blackboard with circles and arrows drawn in chalk. A figure had been erased and redrawn multiple times. At the bottom of the board, bits of chalk rested on a shelf that was too narrow to protect the floor, so it looked like it had snowed on the cardboard boxes below.

  But the most remarkable thing was the white threads stretching across the room in every direction. They crisscrossed at various heights. Hirka stared up at them as she walked around. They looked like some kind of stringed instrument. Or a broken web. A few of the threads were red and had bits of paper attached to them.

  Stefan used his phone to light up the walls as he looked around. “Wow,” he whispered. “The man must be obsessed with how things interconnect.”

  “Interconnect? What kind of word is that?” Hirka followed one of the threads with her hand. At one end it was attached to a picture of a golden cup. At the other, a newspaper clipping.

  “When things link together,” Stefan answered. “Networks, you know? Looks like the overindulgence has finally caught up with someone, if you ask me. This is mad.”

  Hirka looked at the chaos of papers and pictures and suddenly realized what all this was. “No,” she answered. “He has to do this, because he’s started to forget.” She touched a large ball with a map painted on it. She jumped back when it started to spin. Stefan smiled. “Careful. Globes can be sneaky like that.”