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boys who stay at home to tote up the profits and losses take the losses out of
my pocket and put the profits in theirs."
"Oho! This's a speculative venture, then."
The stranger nodded, a quiet little smile crossing his lips.
"Gentlemen adventurers, perhaps? With the Bedelian League providing office
space and letters of introduction, and you putting up the money and men?"
"Half right. I'm a League man. Sent to lead. I was supposed to get a
percentage. Still can. If I find the right people, and make it back to
Itaskia."
"You southerners. Hurry, hurry."
The stranger drew a coin from inside his cloak, then returned it. He searched
by touch, found one which told no tales. It was an Itaskian half-crown,
support for his story. "I don't know how long I'll stay. This should keep me a
week."
"Six pence Itaskian, per day."
"What? Thief...."
The stranger smiled to himself. He had the better of the man for the moment.
Bors' wife brought ale and roast pork as they agreed on four pence daily.
Pork! It was a difficult moment. But the stranger was accustomed to alien
ways. He stifled his reaction.
"While you're making your rounds, could you ask that Ander to stop over?"
"His shop is just up the street."
"I'm not going out till I have to. I've had a couple months of snow and wind."
"It's a warm spring day."
"Well, all right then. But warm is a matter of opinion."
"I'll walk you up after you're settled."
"I'll need some other things, too. I'll be a boon to Hammerfest's economy."
"Uhm." The thought had occurred to Bors, apparently.
In the tailor's shop the stranger asked a few cautious questions. He had
guessed right. No one would tell him a thing. This would take cunning.
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Returning to the inn, alone because Bors was making his rounds, he had another
sled encounter. He didn't see this one.
Its rider was a boy of six, scared silly that he had hurt the stranger. The
dark man calmed him just enough to suit his purpose.
Then he asked, "Where is the other stranger? The one who stayed the winter."
"The man with black eyes? The man who can't talk?" The
Trolledyngjan idiom meant a man who couldn't speak the language. "In the
tower." He pointed.
The dark man stared uphill. The castle was primitive. It had a low curtain
wall and what looked like a shell keep piled on granite bedrock. One step
better than the moat and bailey. "Thank you, son." "You won't tell?" "I won't
if you won't."
He continued staring uphill. A man who walked like Bors was coming down. He
smiled his little smile.
He was in the common room, drinking hot wine, when the constable returned.
"All peaceful?" he asked.
"Nothing changes," Bors replied. "Last trouble we had was two years ago.
Itaskian got into it with a fellow from Dvar. Over a girl. Settled it before
it came to blows." "Good. Good. I'll feel safe in my bed, then." "Peace is
what we sell here, sir. Don't you know? Every man in Hammerfest is pledged to
die fighting if trouble comes from outside. We need peace. Where else, in this
land, can you find shops like ours? The outback people won't even plant crops,
let alone work with their hands. Except to make trinkets they bury with their
dead, to placate the Old Gods. Silly. If the New Gods can't get a man's shade
safely to the heroes' hall, then they can't be much."
"I don't know much about religion." "Most folks here don't. They give to the
priests mainly so they'll stay away. By the way. I talked to a couple
fur-dealers. They're interested. In talking. They'll be round tomorrow."
The stranger moved to the fire. "Good. Then I shouldn't have to stay long."
"Oh, I think your stay will be short. They're eager, I'd say." There was
something in his tone.... The stranger turned.
His cloak was back. Bors hadn't seen him open it. But he saw the worn, plain
black sword hilt and the cold dark eyes and cruel nose. That wicked little
smile played across the man's lips. '"Thank you. You're most kind, going out
of your way. I'll retire now. My first chance at a warm bed for weeks." "I
understand. I understand."
As the stranger climbed the stairs he caught the flicker of uncertainty
crossing the big man's face.
He arranged a spell for his door, then went to bed.
They came earlier than he expected, though he hadn't been sure they would come
at all. The ward spell warned him. He rose sinuously, hefted his weapon,
concealed himself.
There were three of them. He recognized Bors' hulking shape immediately. One
of the others was shorter and thinner than the man he sought.
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He took Bors with a vicious throat swing, then gutted the short man, shoving a
rag into his mouth before he could scream.
The third man didn't react in time to do anything. A sword tip rested at his
adam's apple the instant it took the stranger to decide he wasn't the man.
Then he died.
The stranger shrugged. He would have to visit the castle after all.
But first he lighted his lamp and studied the dead men.
He found nothing unusual.
Why would they commit murder for no more excuse than he had given? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]