Snow-Walker (17 page)

The knife glittered in the firelight. Jessa clenched her fists hopelessly.

But before she could move, there was a rattle at the door. The latch jerked. “Anyone there?” a voice called.

She whirled around but the rat-faced thief had the knife to her throat in an instant. “Not a sound!” he hissed.

The door shuddered as Skapti thumped it again. “Jessa! Thorgard! Open the door!”

She could smell the man's warm breath behind her ear, and see the filthy nails that clutched the knife. He was small, not much taller than she was, but scrawny and tough. She cursed him silently.

Outside, Skapti's footsteps shuffled. Then they heard him walk away. Jessa almost despaired. She knew that her last chance was ebbing and that she had to do something now, at once. Recklessly she pulled away.

“All right. You can have the money.”

He watched as she pulled the pouch from under her coat, weighing it reluctantly. He grinned and stepped forward, and then she drew back her arm and flung the purse at him hard; as he grabbed for it she shoved the table against him and heaved it up and over so it fell on him with a crash, spilling salt and fish and plate and ale. She was halfway out of the window before the knife thudded into the frame beside her. With a scream of anger she jumped, picked herself up, and raced into the dark shouting, “Skapti! Skapti, wait!”

A lanky figure ahead of her turned. “Jessa? Is that you?”

“He's armed! Quick!”

The skald caught her and put her behind him, then drew his sword, staring uneasily into the twilight. “Who is?”

Jessa gasped out her story.

“He's alone then?”

“Yes.”

“And you're all right?”

“Yes, yes, but the rat's got my money!”

The skald grinned down at her. “Then we'd better try and get it back. Come on. Though he's probably gone.” He rubbed his long nose. “Some dark unwarriorly corner of me hopes so, anyway.”

“Well I don't. And I'm right behind you.”

He stalked back down the wharf; she followed, hearing the planks creak beneath them, and the tide slapping the wood.

The door was wide open. Skapti peered around it carefully, his lean face sharp in the dying firelight. Then he straightened. “Sorry, Jessa. Your rat has run.”

She stormed past him. The room was a mess. The table lay on its side, food scattered over the straw. She kicked a chair in frustration. “If only I hadn't thrown the wretched purse! What a stupid, stupid thing to do! Some of it was Wulfgar's money too!”

“You had no choice. He was armed and you weren't.”

“That's another thing. Carry two knives, my father always said.”

“He was wise.”

“If I ever see that rat again…”

“You won't. We sail tonight, on the tide.” Skapti kneeled by the innkeeper, who was groaning softly, and turned him over. “Get some water for this fellow, will you … and some of his ale.”

“His own ale!” she muttered sourly. “That'll finish him off for sure.”

Jessa pulled her coat around her and gazed out over the waves. The boat dipped, splashing spray high into the spring sky; eggshell blue, paler than snow shadows. She was cold, but the fresh smell of the morning fjord filled her like a second breakfast.

Skapti staggered down the boat, falling against oarsmen who handed him off good-humoredly. He sat by Jessa, hugging his long knees. “Soon be there. A good morning for voyaging, this.”

She nodded, watching the green banks slide by, bright with tender grass. Snow hung in the clefts of the hills, but here the day might be warm enough later to do without gloves.

The poet flexed his long fingers. “Talk to me, Jessa. Unlock your word-hoard. Spill your thoughts like pebbles into my silence.”

She took her gaze from the green land and gave him a wry smile. “Still spinning word chains.”

“It's my job.”

“And Wulfgar's is to rule the land. What's he doing, to allow thieves and footpads in his markets?”

“There are always thieves and footpads.”

But he seemed uneasy, she thought.

Then he said, “Wulfgar has done a great deal of good since he became the Jarl—you'll see that when we get to the hold. People aren't afraid to speak out now—there are courts again—on wergild, on property. Justice is done. All the witch's prisoners—and there were many—have been released. The farms and herds she took have been given back—those that have owners still alive, that is. The Jarlshold is no longer a place of terror, Jessa.”

“That's as it should be. And Wulfgar. Has he changed?”

Skapti shrugged and looked out over the water. “All men change. Power's a heavy robe. You need to be very strong to wear it. Wulfgar is as honest, and noble, and fierce of heart as ever he was.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“That's what I want to know.” She stopped playing with the laces of her boots and glanced at him sideways. “Come on, Skapti. I know you. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” The skald pulled a strange face. “At least, only in my own overbright imaginings. Maybe power isn't a robe but a honeypot, attracting wasps. Or maybe poets just like riddles. After all, after a witch like Gudrun anything is better. Now, what about you?”

She saw he wanted to change the subject and laughed. “Oh me! I'm fine. The farm is mine now, and Thorkil has his father's land too, so we're a wealthy family—or we were until yesterday.” Irritated by the memory she glared at the oarsmen's straining backs.

Skapti nodded. “And have you heard nothing of Kari?”

She looked at him. “I… I think so.”

“
Think
so? Jessa, you say
I
talk in riddles!”

She grinned and leaned back against the wooden chests stacked in the bow. “Well, I know Kari and Brochael went back out to Thrasirshall to live, far off in the north. But a month ago, when I was in the fields at home, looking at some lambs, all of a sudden I … felt him. He was there. I was so sure that I turned around, but there was only the empty grass on the cliff top, and the sea. But he'd been watching me, Skapti. I knew it.”

Skapti shrugged. “No doubt he was. Kari's powers are beyond guessing.”

“Has Wulfgar heard from them?”

“Twice. Brochael sent a messenger asking for men from his own hold to go and work at Thrasirshall with him. Why Kari wants to go back and live in that troll-haunted ruin I can't think! A few men went north to them. Food was arranged—nothing grows up there, as you know.”

“And the second time?”

“Wulfgar sent a man last autumn. He wanted Kari to have his father's land—not that it's worth much. Kari told him to keep it.”

Jessa laughed. “Well, he's no farmer.”

“No. The messenger said they were living their old strange life up there, Brochael rebuilding parts of the hall, and Kari in that peculiar tower room of his most of the time. There were odd sounds at night, the man said; flickers of light from the windows. He was scared, glad to get away.”

They were silent. Jessa thought of the witch, Gudrun, Kari's mother, who had locked her son away in Thrasirshall for years because she feared that his powers were the same as hers; the strange sorcery of the White People, the Snow-walkers who lived beyond the edge of the world. Gudrun had used her own power for evil, to kill and enslave and torment. She had hoped her son would do the same. But Kari had refused, and now Gudrun had gone, no one knew where.

“What do you think he's doing?”

“I don't know,” Skapti said. “I'm no runemaster.”

“I miss them both.” She thought of Brochael's great hug as he had left, and the way the boat had dipped under his weight as he climbed in. “Will you travel up to see them?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to keep an eye on the Jarlshold.”

There it was again, that glimmer of worry. But it lifted from his face as he looked up. “And here we are, anyway.”

The low wharves and the turf-covered houses of the Jarlshold were rising from the fjord shore, smoke from their hearths wreathing high into the clear sky. Among them, high and gray, was the Jarlshall, the only stone building, its roof carved with writhing gargoyles and wide-snarling dragons. Beyond the marshland the mountains gleamed white.

As the oarsmen slid the ship smoothly across the gray waters, Jessa hugged her knees and smiled to herself, remembering how she had come here first, as a prisoner, cold and angry. Things were different now. The witch was gone.

She had meant to stay with Mord Signi, her kinsman, but Skapti wouldn't hear of it. Helping her out of the boat, he told her she was the Jarl's honored guest and would stay in the hall itself.

He took her baggage from one of the oarsmen. “Is this all?”

She nodded, and he slung it over his shoulder.

“Traveling light, Jessa.”

“Lighter than I'd expected,” she said sourly. “And what do you think Wulfgar will say? We can't pay him back now—some of that money was a loan of his.”

Skapti jumped from the wooden landing stage. “He'll put a price on your thief, for a start.”

She followed his tall, spindly figure through the cluster of houses. Someone called and he waved to them. Jessa felt the sun warm her; she slipped off her gloves and let her fingers feel the cool spring air. Looking around, she could see the Jarlshold was thriving. There seemed to be more people than before; new houses had been built and there were at least five longships on the fjord, not to mention a whole fleet of fishing craft bobbing and bumping against the shingle. Children screeched and giggled, their high voices hanging in the air. Hens ran clucking from Skapti's feet.

The Jarlshall looked just the same, tall, grim, and strong. But the door was wide open, and when she followed the skald inside, the spring sunshine streamed down on her through the high windows, softening the edges of the great space, filling it with light.

“Jessa!”

Wulfgar was before her in an instant, both hands on her shoulders. “You've grown!”

“A bit.” So have you, she thought. He looked as if power suited him. Still dark, elegant, with a lazy authority, but better dressed, richly even, his coat trimmed with thick dark fur, a gold collar glinting at his neck.

“Come to the fire. You must be cold.” He led her over the stone floor to the central hearth. Skapti dropped the pack lightly onto a bench.

“She's had some trouble.”

“Trouble?”

A thrall brought enameled cups, the steam rising from them. Jessa sipped at hers and let the warmed wine slide down her throat. Then she said, “I was robbed, Wulfgar, by a noisome little wretch in an inn at Hollfara. A purse of silver—I'm afraid most of it was yours.”

A hardness came into his eyes. “You weren't hurt?”

“She didn't give him the chance.” Skapti sprawled on the bench and drank thirstily while Jessa told her tale, kicking mud from her boots.

When she had finished, Wulfgar turned angrily. “Do you hear this, Vidar?”

The man who came forward from the group listening by the fire was a stranger to Jessa. He was older than Wulfgar; a small, graying man, his beard clipped to a point. He had a thin, clever face, and as he looked at Jessa she saw that an old scar drew down one side of his mouth slightly. His heavy coat was sealskin, dyed blue, and hung with amulets and luckstones and the boars of Freyr. He took her hand. “I've heard of you, Jessa Horolfsdaughter. I'm sorry such a thing should have happened.”

“Jessa, this is Vidar Paulsson—Vidar Freyrspriest, they call him. He'll be leading the Freyrscoming in a few days.”

She smiled at him briefly, then turned back. “I want this man caught, Wulfgar.”

“He will be. I promise you.”

The gray man glanced past her. “Did you see him?”

“No.” Skapti gave Jessa a lopsided grin.

“Pity. Still, we should send word to the holders at Karvir and all the ports along the coast. Someone will know him.”

Wulfgar nodded. “And don't worry about the silver, Jessa. I owe you a lot more than that. Now, Vidar will show you where you're sleeping.”

She took her bag from the bench. “It's good to be back, Lord Jarl.”

He smiled at her lazily. “It's good to have you, Lady Jessa.”

Vidar led her between the tapestries and up some stone steps that led to the private rooms, rooms that had once been Gudrun's. His heavy blue coat dragged on the stair in front of her.

“Wulfgar often talks of you,” he said. “The strange way you met, when he was an outlaw, without friends.”

“Does he?”

“Indeed. And of your other friend, the witch's son.”

She looked up. “Kari?”

“The same. This is your room.” He opened the door to a tiny chamber warmed by a brazier of coals. The walls were hung with thick tapestries. One small unshuttered window spilt sunlight on the floor.

She went in. “Thank you.”

“If there's anything you want, the house thralls have orders to bring it. Wulfgar will hold a feast tonight to honor your coming.” He smiled at her, turning the scar away. “I confess I'm curious. I would have liked to have seen this Kari Ragnarsson. They say he's a sorcerer of enormous power, that he can reach into minds and twist them, change shape—”

“He's not a sorcerer.” She snapped it out before she thought.

Vidar stared.

“I'm sorry. But just because Gudrun was, don't think Kari is. He's not like her.”

“I had heard,” the priest said slowly, “that they were very alike.”

“Only to look at.”

He opened the door. “I'm glad you think so.” Then he smiled pleasantly. “Welcome back to the Jarlshold, Jessa.”

When he was gone, she sat on the wooden chest by the window and looked around the room. It was very fine. Her room at home was nothing like it. And suddenly she felt quite lonely, and that surprised her.