“What kind of stupid sport is that?” Tahpenes asked.
“Two men stand face-to-face. They take turns hitting each other till one of them can’t stand up and swing any more. He knocked Parsh cold. When Parsh woke up—it took a while—he cut his own throat.” Count Hamnet grimaced. He didn’t like that memory.
“He would. The disgrace of losing to someone not of the Rulers . . .” Tahpenes nodded to herself. What Parsh did made sense to her, even if it didn’t to Hamnet. The woman from Parsh’s folk went on in thoughtful tones: “Bizogot stand-down, you say? No, that does not seem docile.”
“Trasamund uses his hands to tell the weather these days. He broke both of them punching Parsh, and they pain him when a storm is coming,” Hamnet said.
“My brother broke his arm when he was a boy. He can do that,” Tahpenes said.
“You have a brother?” Hamnet didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of her as coming from a family. Maybe because the Rulers seemed too perfectly military for such mundane things as families. They might have been stamped from molds.
They might have been, but they weren’t. Tahpenes nodded. “I have two brothers, and also a sister,” she said. “They will wonder what has happened to me.”
“Plenty of Bizogots and Raumsdalians wonder what’s happened to their kin, too,” Hamnet Thyssen said.
Tahpenes only gaped at him. He’d looked for sympathy from her—he’d looked, but he hadn’t found it. She didn’t care. The Rulers didn’t care. To them, other people weren’t human beings. It was as simple as that. Count Hamnet didn’t know what anybody could do about it. The only thing that occurred to him was getting rid of all the Rulers.
Which sounded easy enough, till you set about doing it.
Dejectedly, Tahpenes turned away from him. “I will go back to the encampment now,” she said.
“I’d better come with you,” Hamnet said. “Just in case you might happen to wander in some other direction instead. By accident, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, as demurely as she could. She recognized a joke, even if a man from the herd made it.
She limped only a little. “Your wounds are healing well,” Hamnet said.
“Well enough,” Tahpenes agreed. “The worst wound now is in my spirit because I am a captive.”
Count Hamnet almost told her about the wounds the Rulers had given the Bizogots and the Empire. Then he decided he might as well save his breath. She wouldn’t understand what he was talking about. As far as she was concerned, the folk on this side of the Glacier deserved what happened to them because they presumed to stand against the Rulers.
Audun Gilli took charge of Tahpenes when she got back to the almost-town the Leaping Lynxes had built. The Raumsdalian wizard spoke much less of the Bizogots’ tongue than he should have; Tahpenes was probably more fluent. But Hamnet didn’t think she could get away from him . . . unless he let her, that is.
“Did you have fun with the little charmer we caught?” Ulric asked.
“She isn’t little, and she isn’t charming. Other than that, well, no.” Hamnet paused, then added, “She has a low opinion of you.”
“Only proves she’s a keen judge of character,” Ulric said blithely, which left Hamnet nowhere to go. Then the adventurer gave him somewhere, because he asked, “And how did she express her distaste?”
Hamnet told him.
Ulric Skakki threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, I’ve heard that from her. She’d be right, too, if my taste in women were bad enough to include her. By God, Thyssen, even your taste in women isn’t that bad.”
“Leave my taste in women out of this,” Hamnet growled.
“Oh, I see.” Ulric favored him with a mocking bow. “You get to insult me however you choose, but I don’t have the right to return the disfavor. Yes, that’s a fair bargain all the way around.”
“You asked me what Tahpenes told me about you,” Hamnet said. “I only repeated it. If I want to know what you think about me, I promise I’ll ask. Till then, I’m not interested.”
“You only repeated it.” Ulric Skakki did some repeating himself. He also did some more laughing. “You didn’t enjoy repeating it or anything? Oh, no. Not you. You’re too good and pure and righ teous for that.”
Count Hamnet’s ears heated. “You make a sport of twisting other people’s words, don’t you?”
“Why not? It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on,” Ulric answered. “But I don’t need to do any twisting here. Don’t worry, though—I love you, too.” He gave Hamnet a noisy, smacking kiss on the cheek.
Hamnet shoved him away. “You’ve done that before. I didn’t like it then, and I cursed well still don’t.”
“I see. And you think I did enjoy it when you twitted me. You have an odd way of looking at the world sometimes, Your Grace.” Ulric Skakki followed up the mocking title with a mocking bow.
“I ought to—” Count Hamnet cocked his fist, but he didn’t swing. Unfortunate, surprising, and painful things happened to people who swung at Ulric. And, still more unfortunately, surprisingly, and painfully, the outlander had a point. The fist opened. “I ought to apologize, I suppose. And so I do: your pardon, I beg.” Hamnet bowed stiffly.
Ulric stared. “Be careful, Your Grace. If you don’t watch yourself, you’ll take all the fun out of life.”
V
HAMNET THYSSEN HAD begun to wonder if he would ever see another Raumsdalian besides Ulric Skakki. The man who rode into the Leaping Lynxes’ village looked hungry and weary and scared almost to death. The Bizogots gave him a roast duck and a skin of smetyn, after which he perked up remarkably.
He nodded to Hamnet. “You’re Thyssen?”
“I am Count Hamnet Thyssen, yes,” Hamnet said. Ulric snickered off to one side. Hamnet didn’t care. In dealing with the Empire, his dignity was about all he had to fall back on.
“Sorry . . . Your Grace,” the Raumsdalian said. “I am Gunnlaug Kvaran, a messenger from His Majesty, Sigvat II. I am the fourth man he sent out. Did any of the others reach you?”
“Not a one,” Count Hamnet replied. Gunnlaug muttered something his beard muffled. Hamnet asked the question he was no doubt intended to: “And how are things in the Empire these days? They must be pretty bad if Sigvat wants to talk to the likes of me.”
Gunnlaug Kvaran nodded grimly. “Things couldn’t be much worse. Those cursed Rulers are demons in human shape. They—” Instead of snickering, Ulric Skakki burst into loud, raucous laughter. Gunnlaug sent him a reproachful look. “You scorn our troubles? You must be Skakki.”
“I not only must be, I am,” Ulric answered. “And I don’t scorn your troubles. I scorn God-cursed Sigvat, and I scorn Count Hamnet and me, too. We tried to tell you what kind of trouble was heading your way, and the thanks he got was . . . an inside view of the dungeons under the imperial palace. Hamnet loves Raumsdalia in spite of everything, but Hamnet owns a castle and he’s a sentimental fool besides. Me, I was just glad to get away.”
A sentimental fool? Hamnet Thyssen had thought of himself as a lot of different things, but that was a new one. Gunnlaug said, “Well, you were right, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Not much,” Ulric said. Hamnet nodded—he felt the same way. Ulric went on, “If Sigvat told us the same thing—”
“It still wouldn’t make much difference, not any more,” Count Hamnet broke in. Ulric looked surprised, but now he nodded.
“Then what are you people doing up here?” Gunnlaug Kvaran asked.
“Fighting the Rulers, by God!” Trasamund boomed. “What else is there that’s even half as much worth doing?”
“I don’t understand,” Gunnlaug said.
“You’re Sigvat’s man, all right,” Ulric said. “He doesn’t understand, either.”
“We’re fighting them because we want to,” Count Hamnet added, “not because the Raumsdalian Emperor wants us to.”
Ulric shook his head. “No. That’s not strong enough. We’re fighting
them even though Sigvat wants us to.”
“True,” Hamnet said, which made Gunnlaug Kvaran looked unhappier yet. Count Hamnet hadn’t thought he could.
Trasamund didn’t loathe Sigvat quite so much as Hamnet and Ulric did—but then, the Bizogot jarl hadn’t passed any time in the Emperor’s dungeons. Rough sympathy in his voice, he said, “Well, you managed to get here, Kvaran, where none of the other poor sorry southern bastards did. So tell us what’s going on down there.”
“Nothing good,” Gunnlaug answered. “We still hold Nidaros, or we did when I set out, anyway. But the Rulers are plundering just about everything north of there. Their soldiers fight as if they don’t fear death—”
“They mostly don’t,” Hamnet said. “They fear losing more. Death happens. Losing is a disgrace.”
“If you say so,” Sigvat’s messenger said bleakly. “I wasn’t finished, though. They have wizards the likes of which we’ve never seen the likes of.”
Ulric snickered again. Hamnet Thyssen forgave Gunnlaug his fractured syntax. “We tried to tell you,” he said once more.
“Well, you were right. There. I said it again. Does it make you happy? His Majesty does say the same thing. Does that make you happy?”
“Kicking Sigvat in his iron arse might make me happy—or not so unhappy, anyway,” Count Hamnet replied.
“You’d only give him a concussion of the brain.” Ulric Skakki sounded bright and pleasant, eager to be useful.
“Will you help us? Can you help us? I’m supposed to take your answer back to Nidaros,” Gunnlaug said.
“So you get to run the gauntlet twice? God help you,” Hamnet said. “And I might have known Sigvat would want us to help him. He doesn’t care a fart’s worth what happens up here.”
“It’s not Raumsdalia,” Ulric said. “Why should he?”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said the messenger from the Empire. “Can you help us? Will you? What word do I take back to His Majesty?”
“He has the whole Empire,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “We have one wizard from Raumsdalia, a few shamans, and some Bizogots.” One of the shamans was Marcovefa, but he didn’t mention that. He went on, “What are we supposed to be able to do that Sigvat can’t? Why are we supposed to be able to do it?”
“You are supposed to be able to beat the Rulers, Your Grace,” Gunnlaug told him. “I don’t know why, and His Majesty doesn’t know why, either. But for whatever reason, you worry them. They want you. They want you enough to put a fat price on your head, alive or not.”
Count Hamnet had heard that before. He’d heard it often enough by now that he had to believe it—which was not to say it made any sense to him. “Even the Rulers can be stupid sometimes,” he growled.
“And so can Sigvat, God knows,” Ulric Skakki added. “We have our worries, and he has his. Some of them are the same—some, yes, but not all.”
“You want to beat the Rulers, too, don’t you?” Gunnlaug Kvaran sounded anxious. And well he might, for he continued, “You wouldn’t . . . go in with them . . . would you?”
Trasamund answered that before either Hamnet or Ulric could: “No! We aim to boot them off the Bizogot plain! We aim to beat them back beyond the Gap! We aim to kill them all, if we can! You can tell your precious Sigvat that. You can tell him he cursed well should have listened to Count Hamnet here, too. In fact, you’d better tell him that—you hear me, Kvaran?”
“I hear you, Your Ferocity,” Gunnlaug said, without promising he would take the jarl’s words back to the Raumsdalian Emperor. Hamnet wondered how much it would matter. Even if Sigvat still held Nidaros, could his messenger get through the Rulers again? What were the odds? Bad, Hamnet was sure.
“Sigvat has heard me, too, by God,” Trasamund said. “If not for me, Count Hamnet and Ulric never would have fared north. They never would have gone beyond the Gap. They never would have seen the marvels on the far side.”
“We never would have bumped into the Rulers, either,” Ulric said. “We have a lot to blame you for, Trasamund.”
Trasamund bared his teeth in what might have been a friendly smile or might have been something else altogether. Gunnlaug Kvaran wore the expression of an outsider at a family squabble. Hamnet suspected Ulric Skakki was shading the truth. Even had Sigvat sent other Raumsdalians beyond the Gap, the Rulers would still have broken in. In that case, the noble and the adventurer would have been fighting them down in the Empire instead of up here. Would that have been better, worse, or just different? No way to know.
Gunnlaug Kvaran bowed to him and to Trasamund. “I go to take your reply to His Majesty,” he said.
“Not right this minute, you bloody idiot!” Ulric burst out. “Stay a while. Rest. Eat some more. Let your horse rest, too. You still have to make it back across the plains before you even try sneaking through to Nidaros.”
That was such obvious good sense, not even Gunnlaug argued against it very hard. Plainly a duteous man, the messenger had to see that duty also involved keeping himself and his horse fit. A couple of Bizogots carrying fat geese back from the marshes at the edge of Sudertorp Lake didn’t hurt in changing his mind, either.
He was gnawing on a roasted duck leg when he saw Tahpenes and recognized her for what she was. He almost dropped the leg in his lap. “What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
“The laundry, a little cooking . . . she sweeps the floors of our huts, too,” Ulric answered. “If you want your horse curried, I daresay she could attend to that.”
Gunnlaug scowled. “You are not a serious man, Skakki. His Majesty warned me about you, and I see he was right.”
“Thank you,” Ulric replied, which left the messenger without much of a reply. The adventurer often had that effect on people, as Count Hamnet had found to his own discomfiture.
Tahpenes also eyed Gunnlaug with a certain amount of surprise. What was going through her mind? How much did she care that one set of her folk’s enemies had managed to link up with the other? Did she wonder if the Raumsdalian newcomer was an avenue to escape?
One thing she didn’t seem to realize was that her captors wanted her to get away. They couldn’t make that obvious without making her wonder why. One day soon, though, she probably would contrive to escape. Count Hamnet hoped so, anyhow. Then everyone here could relax.
Hamnet spoke to Trasamund about that. The jarl heard him out, then grinned and laid a finger by the side of his nose. “It might work,” he said. “Has a halfway decent chance, anyhow, which is more than I can say for some other notions that have come up.”
They feted Gunnlaug Kvaran. They gave him a fresh horse. Hamnet and Ulric and Trasamund and even Audun Gilli gave him encouraging messages to take back to Sigvat II. Why not? Count Hamnet thought cynically. Talk is cheap.
Gunnlaug proved less eager to leave after tasting Bizogot hospitality. Hamnet Thyssen didn’t know if one of the big blond women with the band took him into a hut and gave him something to remember her by, but he wouldn’t have been surprised. The mammoth-herders were an earthy folk, and took—and gave—their pleasures as they saw the chance.
Almost all of them turned out to say farewell to Gunnlaug when he finally did ride off to the south once more. Men clasped his hand and clapped him on the back. Women hugged him and kissed him and wished him well. A little wistfully, Ulric Skakki said, “The only times I ever got fancy sendoffs were when lots of nasty people were chasing me. Gunnlaug doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
“He’s getting a fancy sendoff for a reason, too,” Hamnet replied. “If we’re all here telling him what a fine fellow he is—”
“Yes, I know,” Ulric broke in. “If we’re all making much of Kvaran, we’ve got an excuse for not paying attention to Tahpenes. Now we see if she’s smart enough to figure that out, too.”
Gunnlaug Kvaran rode away. Some of the Bizogots trotted after him for as far as half a mile. As far as Count Hamnet was concerned, if they wanted to work that hard, it was up to them. He just watched the Rau
msdalian messenger get smaller and smaller in the distance.
When he went to look for Tahpenes after the farewells, she was nowhere to be found. He went and told Trasamund. The jarl told the Bizogots. The mammoth-herders made a great show of beating the bushes for their escaped captive. Everyone was so disappointed when they didn’t catch her.
“MAY I TALK to you, Your Grace?” Audun Gilli asked.
“You’re doing it,” Count Hamnet answered gruffly. “Go ahead.”
“Er—right.” The wizard was hangdog and slapdash at the best of times. Since Liv had gone to him from Hamnet Thyssen, this wasn’t the best of times. But he forged ahead: “I don’t want you to be my enemy.”
“I’m not,” Hamnet said, which was . . . partly true, anyhow. He went on, “If you expect me to be your friend, you ask for too much, though.”
“I suppose so,” Audun said. “But I would like to be able to put my head together with yours without worry about its getting bitten off.”
“Would you?” Hamnet Thyssen said. Audun Gilli gave back an eager nod. Hamnet shrugged. “People want all kinds of things they aren’t likely to get.”
“Do you, uh, still want Liv back?” the Raumsdalian wizard asked.
That question was more interesting than Hamnet wished it were. He was contented enough with Marcovefa. She had her quirks, but she was bound to think he had quirks of his own. And even if he was contented with her, that didn’t mean he didn’t want Liv back. It didn’t mean he didn’t want Gudrid back, either, and she was hundreds of miles away, married to Eyvind Torfinn, and despised him to boot. Losing a woman meant something was wrong with you. So it seemed to Count Hamnet, at any rate.
He knew his answer was evasive: “If she doesn’t want me back—and she doesn’t—what difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference.” Audun spoke with doleful conviction. “I didn’t expect this to happen, you know.”
The Golden Shrine Page 8
