by Andre Norton
“Thank you for the advice,” Mikkel said.
Then the boys busied themselves with hauling the bucket up from the well and filling their pails. They would have to make a second foray for the firewood and that, Mikkel thought, would be agreeable. He liked the fresh air, cold though it was, after the stifling closeness of the busy kitchen.
“Where is your kitte?” Lucas asked as they made their way back down the hill.
“I left him asleep on my bed.”
“Will he hurt anyone? I heard you got him as a kitten and tamed him to your liking.”
“Well, I have known Talkin ever since he was a kitten,” Mikkel admitted truthfully, “but I have never seen him hurt anything or anyone except when I’ve taken him out hunting. Then conies had better run fast and hide. Mostly, he likes people, if he can see that I like them, too.”
Lucas laughed. “Well, show him that you like me and maybe he’ll come help keep me warm tonight. From the looks of that sky, we’re due for snow and there isn’t any firepot in our cubby. Too dangerous to leave unattended while we sleep.”
“Maybe, if there isn’t too much work to do some day, we can take him out hunting.”
“Likely chance,” the other boy said scornfully. “Old Askepott keeps us jumping morning till night.”
They reached the door to the kitchen and left the water pails inside, then brought in as much firewood as they could carry. Askepott acknowledged their efforts with a curt nod of her head.
“Go and wash your filthy hands and get ready to serve at supper,” she told them. “Look lively!”
And so the two boys made their way toward the sleeping area. The other four children were standing outside the door.
“There’s a—a krigpus inside!” one of the girls said fearfully. “We told Askepott and she just laughed at us. I don’t think she believed us.”
“Well, unless he’s moved there is a warkat inside—that’s what we call them—but he won’t hurt anybody. He’s my friend.” Mikkel opened the door.
Talkin looked up from where he had been asleep, blinked sleepily, shook his ears, and gave one paw a lick with his long red tongue.
“Here are new friends,” Mikkel said. He turned toward the others. “Come in, come in, it’s perfectly safe.”
One by one he encouraged the other children to approach Talkin and, if they were brave enough, to stroke his head.
“Will he—will he come to the Long House tonight?” Haldon, one of the girls, asked, still fearful.
“He will if he wants to,” Mikkel told her.
“Better not,” Tark said. “There are dogs. Many dogs.”
“I think I like him,” said the other girl, Petra. The silvery markings on her face showed even in the dim light. She sat down on Mikkel’s bed, stroked Talkin, and started to sing. As she sang, Talkin began to purr.
Bring to me my sea-green glass
Sea-green glass so fine, so fine.
Bring to me my sea-green glass
Glass so fine.
Bring to me my sea-green glass
I must have it ere you pass,
It is mine.
The melody was plaintive, haunting, and one Mikkel had never heard before.
“What is sea-green glass?” he asked the girl.
“Something my people crave and collect. That, and snow gems.”
“Where does it come from?”
But Petra only looked away and refused to say more.
“Holger wears a necklace with a green gem in it.”
Still silence.
“Leave her, her head is cracked,” Tark said. “If she doesn’t get washed up and back into the kitchen quickly, though, Askepott will see to it that it’s cracked even more and ours with it.”
Mikkel took his turn with the others at the basin of water, drying his face and hands on one of the rags provided. Reluctantly, Petra also washed, though by now the water didn’t look clean enough to do any good. Then the children all returned to the kitchen to begin serving food to those gathered in the Long House. Prudently, considering that dogs roamed the room where the men of the steading customarily ate, Mikkel closed the door, keeping Talkin inside. He would return with a bowl of water and whatever meat scraps he could beg from Askepott.
The Long House, the main building of the steading, was fully as large as the Great Hall back at Cyornas Castle. Torches in iron holders lit rows of weapons hung from the walls, along with many racks of antlers. This reminded Mikkel with a pang of home. But there the resemblance ended.
Missing was the big stone fireplace on the far wall topped with the mantel on or over which were displayed various trophies and awards—standing cups won by Father in tourneys, the hilt of the famous Dragon Blade, now cemented into its mother-of-pearl scabbard to hide the blade’s absence, the gem-encrusted box that had held a very odd bracelet and a document relating the history of the Ice Dragons, and other items of more sentimental than actual value. There, at the High Table, was where Father and Mother had their chairs.
Instead, the Long House had a huge central hearth rimmed almost knee-high with stone, in which blazed a truly impressive fire, too hot to sit near, designed to warm the large room almost to the walls. Most of the smoke rose to the ceiling where it could escape through a roofed vent, but enough remained in the room to make the air heavy. Four thick wood columns, carved with images of beasts out of legend, supported the roof around the hearth; more columns, also carved, were spaced along the length of the room.
The walls, which had doors leading from the room in all directions, were lined with trestle tables, with more stacked against the far back wall to be put to use when needed. Men were already gathering at the tables, finding their accustomed places, some arguing over who had the best vantage point for seeing all that might be happening in the room. Before each man a wooden platter had been placed on the table. The platter contained a flat rusk of stale bread to soak up the stew juices, and cups of various designs were now appearing as the men placed their own drinking vessels on the table.
Women entered from the kitchen in pairs, one woman holding a pot of stew and the other a large ladle. They passed along the tables, serving each man in turn, and returning to the kitchen to replenish as necessary. Other women carried pitchers and filled the men’s cups that were eagerly held up to them.
Mikkel and the other children were expected to carry trays of fresh flatbread and serve everyone. When all the men had been served, the women and the children would eat at tables at the back of the room. The good smells of food and bread were almost too much to bear and maintain any semblance of decorum. Mikkel hoped he could refrain from grabbing a round of bread and stuffing it into his mouth. The aroma wafting up from the tray was almost irresistible. No wonder the dogs seemed so intent on tripping him and the other servers. Now and then, one of the women snatched a piece of bread, tore it into pieces, and threw them at the dogs to gain a moment’s respite.
He noticed that one of the other tables, positioned in the center of the wall opposite the kitchen, was also set on a slightly raised dais and on it were chairs rather than benches. Behind the dais only one door had been cut into the wall. Nobody occupied the ornately carved center chair. The golden-haired woman, Gunnora, from the Marmel’s landing was seated in the chair to the right, only slightly less ornate than the central one. Tonight she wore a deep crimson dress, and her necklace and rings were set with blue and red stones.
That would be the Wykenig version of the High Table. The central chair, he realized, was Holger’s customary place and the woman, the only one in the main part of the room, must be his wife. The chair to her right was also empty, but the one to what would have been Holger’s left was occupied by Captain Shraig of the Marmel, the one who called himself “Ridder.” He recognized Blixt as well, and a few others from that vessel whose names he did not know. Off to one side, he saw another dais with chairs and musical instruments on it.
Behind Holger’s chair, several game boards hung on the wal
l; apparently the Wykenig chieftain was fond of some form of King’s Soldiers. Mikkel gazed in awe at the most ornate board, nineteen-by-nineteen squares. It had apparently seen less play than another that was thirteen-by-thirteen from which the gilt was missing in spots. He had never played on any other than an eleven-by-eleven, though he had heard that even smaller boards existed.
The back of his neck began to tingle.
“Get moving,” Petra whispered in his ear. “Gunnora is frowning at you.”
With a start, Mikkel took up his task, hoping to have avoided possible punishment for his lapse. His neck tingled more and he knew he was still the object of the woman’s scrutiny.
As he made his way through the room, doling out bread to the hungry inhabitants of the steading, the ill-mannered dogs crowded even harder against him, occasionally even leaping up, apparently hoping to make him drop the bread to them.
He was glad he had confined Talkin to the sleeping room. Warkats were, by and large, indifferent to dogs, except possibly as prey, but with some dogs, particularly of the hunting variety as these were, their aggressive canine natures could bring them to grief. If a dog started an altercation, a warkat would be sure to end it. Back home, many a torn ear or raked flank attested to a rash young dog’s lessons in the wisdom of keeping a good distance between itself and the castle’s resident warkats. An adult warkat stood taller than all but the largest dog; Talkin had yet to reach his full growth, however, and he might have been the one to come to some grief against such long odds.
At last, the diners seemed content with what they had been given and Mikkel and the others were left in peace to eat their suppers as well. They got up only when someone called for more bread, or another ladle of stew, or a cup of björr before the others had finished eating and the serious drinking had begun.
“Is it always like this?” Mikkel asked Petra, who happened to be sitting beside him.
Now she seemed inclined to talk. “Not always. This is a celebration, welcoming Ridder Shraig back safely, and with him a hostage that will bring more wealth to the steading. You.”
Mikkel thought about that in silence, as he chewed on the crust of the very tasty bread. “I think Holger—”
“You must always refer to him as Ridder. Or, sometimes, as King. Perhaps Knight-King.”
“What’s that mean, ‘Ridder’?”
“It’s a title of nobility. I think a Ridder might also be called a knight. Someone who is not as important as a Ridder is called an Adelig. Men of the steading are called jarls.”
“It is similar to my homeland. Very well, then, I think that Ridder Holger could have had as much wealth as he wanted, had he left me on his ship and bargained with my uncle who surely came after me.”
“How do you know your uncle did this?”
“Because if he had not, Ridder Holger would have been back here by now.”
It was Petra’s turn to consider Mikkel’s words. “That is very good, Mikkel,” she said finally. “You can think matters through.”
He didn’t tell her that Askepott had figured it out long before he had. “Who is missing at the High Table, besides Holger?”
“Ridder Gudbrand Grå. He is the commander of the Chieftain’s second-best ship. It is the Ice Rider.”
At that moment, four musicians mounted the platform, took up their instruments, and began to play. To Mikkel’s astonishment, the tune was very like “The Song,” only in a different rhythm and at a much livelier pace. Three musicians played long-necked stringed instruments and a fourth held a drum and coaxed a strong rhythm from it with a double-ended padded hammer. The entire company began to sing:
En bedre . . . byrde ingen mannbjørn
på måten enn hans morvidd;
og ingen verre foranstaltningsboks . . . han bœrer med ham
enn en dyp dyp dypgang av björr.
“What does that mean?” Mikkel asked.
Lucas translated: “ ‘A better burden . . . no man can bear on the way than his mother wit; and no worse provision . . . can he carry with him than a deep deep draught of björr.’ ”
“That means they’ll be drinking late into the night,” Haldon observed. “They don’t always do that.”
“It also means that we’ll be sent off to bed early,” Willin said. He looked tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“Gunnora is already leaving the hall,” Petra said.
Mikkel glanced toward the High Table, dreading the resumption of the tingling on his neck. But the Wykenig woman seemed to have forgotten him. She had, indeed, arisen from her chair and had opened the door on that side of the room.
“Can any of you play King’s Soldiers?” he asked.
“What’s that? A game?” Willin asked. “Not for me. I am tired.”
And indeed the boy looked as if he could fall asleep with his head in his empty platter.
“Yes, a game. You play it on a board like one of the ones behind Holger’s chair.”
“Then it’s not for you, either,” Tark told him. “Valuable hostage or no, if you touch one of the Ridder’s precious game boards you’ll be missing one or both hands when he hears of it.”
Mikkel made no reply. In days to come, he decided, he would try to make a board of his own and teach one or more of the others to play. It would ease the monotony of their lives.
Two days later, the horn atop the lookout mountain at the entrance to the sound gave voice again—one long note, followed by two shorter blasts.
“That’s Ridder Holger, returning, and Ridder Gudbrand Grå with him!” Lucas told Mikkel. “There’ll be a proper feast tonight, you can be sure!”
And indeed, Askepott already had the women in the kitchen running here and there, instructing one of the house jarls to bring out a side of snow-cow from the cold locker, already prepared and held back for this occasion. All other work was suspended, at least for the moment. Women left their looms and their mending, their brewing and their other regular tasks to help in preparing the feast.
Quickly, the men spitted the meat and put it on the rack to roast over the great kitchen fireplace. At first, Mikkel was assigned the task of turning the spit, but Talkin made such a nuisance of himself, as if this were a game that he would win by snagging bits of meat, that Askepott put Willin to the task instead.
“You go bring in more firewood,” she instructed Mikkel. “And take that kitte with you. Let him run off some of his excess energy.”
Everywhere the inhabitants of the steading seemed to have but one thought in mind—the great feast that would welcome Ridder Holger back from his last foray of the season. Snow had fallen the past two nights, and even now drifted lightly through the chilly air as Mikkel and Talkin went about obeying Askepott’s instructions.
Mikkel had laid aside his heavy shoes in favor of Wykenig soft leather footwear covered with heavy cloth or fur that was gaitored around the wearer’s legs to the knee and kept him warm and dry no matter how deep the snow. He was, of course, not allowed to wear a dagger from his belt, nor a purse. He didn’t have any coins or other treasures to put into a purse anyway. All he had that was truly his was his Ash amulet, and that he kept hidden around his neck under his shirt.
None of this mattered to Talkin. Like all warkats, his coat was dense, three layers thick, and he didn’t feel the cold even through his paws that were likewise heavily furred. He raced up the hill and back down again at full gallop, leaping high, twisting and turning, scrambling up fence posts and alarming the snow-cows in their pen. As content as he had been in Mikkel’s company and enjoying the attentions of the other younkers, he seemed enormously relieved and happy to be outside for a while.
Mikkel kicked at a weed in the cabbage patch. Soon the cabbages would all be gathered and put into a cold locker with onions and barrels of tubers, turnips, and peas to help get the steading through the coming winter. In another locker, cheese was stored along with casks of butter, salted meats, and dried fish. Yet another held seemingly endless casks a
nd barrels of the björr that the Wykenigs drank in such huge quantities. This, Mikkel had discovered, was fermented from the fruit of what looked very much like the snowberries of his homeland, only wild and uncultivated.
It was becoming ever more clear to Mikkel that the Wykenigs, hard as it was to believe, were, in fact, much the same peoples and kindred to the Nordorners, the Rendelians, and perhaps even the Aslaugors and Fridians and Lowlanders. At what time ages ago had tribes or clans or families gone their own way and then become, if not enemies, then not friends?
Mikkel tucked this insight away to ponder later and, perhaps, even to talk about with Willin. Now he had to persuade Talkin to come back inside. Left to his own devices, the warkat was fully capable of bringing down a snow-cow, hiding the carcass, and devouring it at his leisure.
“Come, Talkin,” he said. “I’ll find you meat broth to drink. Nice and warm. Mixed with milk, perhaps.”
Interested, Talkin trailed Mikkel back to the kitchen that had become his home. The boy took the load of firewood to the great hearth and put it in the niche let into the thick wall where it would be added, as necessary, to the roasting fire.
“Here, you, Mikkel, if you’re at loose ends, go into the common room and help lay the tables for the feast tonight,” Askepott said when she spotted him.
“I was hoping for a bowl of warm broth and milk for Talkin,” he said. “I promised him.” He didn’t add that it was a bribe to keep him from decreasing the steading’s herd by at least one.
“You do as you’re told. I’ll feed your kitte.”
The haunch of snow-cow on the spit was beginning to smell wonderful, as Haldon mopped it with a mixture of honey and björr mingled with spices. Mikkel lingered a moment and was relieved to see Talkin merely sniff and turn to his bowl of meat broth and milk, clearly disappointed that the humans were spoiling perfectly good meat by burning it in such a fashion.
