Snow-Walker (19 page)

Half sliding, half tumbling down the smooth slopes of snow, the spell-sending watched the moon with pale eyes. The silver ball bobbed high, out of reach. Angry, the creature tried to climb a tree, a tall pine, but the lowest branches snapped under its weight and it tore at the trunk with its claws in wrath, slashing the bark into deep parallel gashes. Again and again it struck, tingling with peculiar pleasure; not stopping until the tree bole was flayed bare, its fibrous clots of bark littering the snow.

After that it went on, lumbering through the dark, crashing through branches, dim thickets, the long blue shadows of the arctic night. It had eaten well in the last days. Hare, stoat, marten; the rich juices of the reindeer herd. It murmured at that memory, floundering through the steep empty slopes, through drifts as high as its chest, tearing a long scar through the dim ghostly snowfield. Above it the moon hung, a perfect silver hole in the sky.

When dawn came, the creature paused under a bush heavy with red berries. Shaking the snow off, it crammed them into its mouth, sharp bubbles of taste that burned and hurt and burst. Then it stopped, sniffing the air.

Something was coming.

Something so strange, so deliciously and muskily scented that the rune beast dribbled red berry juice and swallowed without thought.

Cautiously it drifted to the edge of the trees.

On the snowfield a thin, gangly thing was moving. It had long flat feet, and it slid them over the top of the snow. In its muffled paws long sticks splayed to each side. A scrawny, biped thing, heavily furred, laboring up the slope.

The creature watched with ice-pale eyes. Then it moved out of the trees and stood up.

The skier turned his head. His lips moved soundlessly.

“It's not that I don't believe you, Jessa,” Skapti said carefully. “Of course I believe you. But you may have been mistaken. Much as I dislike Vidar I can't imagine him as a thief 's benchmate.”

“So you do dislike him.” Jessa put her boots up on the rock in front of her. “I knew.”

“You would.” He leaned back against the mossy boulders and frowned down at the Jarlshold, the huddle of roofs and ships, the dragon heads of the hall. “It's just that he wasn't here, you see.”

“When Gudrun ruled?”

Skapti nodded, rubbing the side of his nose and the edge of his long hand. “In all the troubles, when Wulfgar and I were outlaws, when we were running from Gudrun's men like kicked dogs, when we were scavenging on snow and fish bones, where was Vidar then?”

“Out of it?”

“Well out. And safe. Living in Stavangerfjord with his wife's family. Keeping his head down. Obeying. He didn't lose any land. None of his family disappeared, or ended on her soldiers' swordpoints.”

Jessa looked at him. “And he came back when Wulfgar was made the Jarl.”

“Oh yes. When it was safe, when all the danger was over.” He glanced at her and laughed sourly. “Oh no, Jessa, I don't like the man, Freyrspriest or not. But there's no doubt his counsel is good. And Wulfgar trusts him. But theft! Unlikely.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I don't know about that. But I saw that rat's face, Skapti, and it was the same man. Vidar can't know he's a thief. In any case, I think we should tell Wulfgar.”

The skald nodded, his lank hair ruffled in the spring breeze. He stood up and hauled her after him. “Come on, then. Let's find our friend with the knife.”

As they walked back down the rock-strewn pasture, goats scattered before them, bleating. Voices rose from the fishing fleet drifting into shore; the foremost ship ground its keel into the shingle with a hoarse scrape.

Coming into the hold, they saw that preparations had begun for the Freyrscoming. Kindling was being unloaded from two wagons at the back of the hall; great logs, freshly cut, oozing with sap and the rich smell of forest damp. House thralls were carrying them in and stacking them in crisscrossed heaps, their shaven circles of timber ridged with age rings. Sawdust and splintered wood were trampled into the mud.

The hall was empty, its shutters thrown wide and the great roof tree standing stark in the dimness. They ran upstairs. Skapti thumped on the door of Wulfgar's chamber and they went in.

The Jarl was sitting in a chair with a selection of swords spread over his knees and at his feet. A plump, sleek merchant with black, oily hair perched nervously on the bench.

“Skapti!” Wulfgar sprang up, sending weapons everywhere. “Now which of these do you think is the best?”

He gathered up a long heavy blade with a leather-bound grip and held it against another, shorter weapon with fine engraving along the blade. Jessa wandered to the fire.

“This one handles better, but the other is more…”

“Showy,” Jessa put in.

He tugged her hair gently. “That's the word.”

Skapti took the swords and swung them one by one. “The plain one has better balance.”

“Ah, but the other,” the merchant said quickly, “is more fit for the Jarl. A fine sword, crafted in the south, beyond the Cold Sea. Hammered from finest twisted steel.”

“And a higher price.” Skapti grinned at Jessa.

“A little…”

“A lot, I'd say.”

The merchant frowned. “But the runes on the blade have the properties of protection. No enemy could touch the Jarl.”

Skapti tossed the swords onto the bed. “Well, buy that one then, Wulfgar. With your skill you might need it.”

Wulfgar glared at him. “Sometimes I think you forget who I am.”

“Not me,” the skald snapped. “I've watched your back in too many battles.”

For a long, amused moment Wulfgar gazed at him. Then he gave his lazy smile and leaned back in his chair, turning graciously to the merchant. “As my friend points out in his poetic way, a Jarl should be dependent on his war band, not on sorcery. I will buy the plainer sword, at the price you mentioned. Now if you go down to the hall, Guthlac will give you something to eat.”

Recognizing his dismissal, the merchant gathered up his swords, wrapping each in fine oiled cloth. Skapti opened the door and watched him stagger carefully down the steps.

“Smooth as his blades,” he muttered.

Wulfgar laughed and poured out a cup of wine.

Jessa sat opposite him. “Wulfgar, I want to tell you something. That thief who stole the silver. I've seen him. He's here at the hold.”

He stared at her in surprise, eyes dark. “Here? Jessa, you should have said.”

“I only found out last night.” She flicked a look at Skapti, who shrugged. “I saw Vidar go into one of the houses here. The thief opened the door to him.”

“Vidar!”

“I'm sure it was the same man.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully, fingering the fine gold neck ring at his throat. “There must be some mistake. Vidar can't know this.”

“Probably not. But we should ask him.”

Wulfgar turned to the window, then leaned out, his hands on the sill. He called below for someone to send Vidar Freyrspriest up and then wandered back to the fire.

“Well, if your thief is here we'll get our silver back at least.” He smiled at her. But she knew he was puzzled.

After a few moments there was a tap on the door and Vidar came in, frost melting on his coat. In daylight the scar on his face was grayer, drawn tight. “You wanted me?”

“Sit down,” Wulfgar said.

He sat, glancing quickly at their faces. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Wulfgar put one foot on the bench and leaned over him. For a moment Jessa sensed his authority, hidden behind that easy, lazy manner. Vidar looked tense, as if he felt it too. But Wulfgar spoke quietly.

“You went to a house last night.”

“A house?”

“Here in the hold.”

“I watched you,” Jessa put in. Impatiently she stood up. “Look, the man who opened the door to you was the one who stole money from me in Hollfara two days ago.”

Vidar stared at her. “Snorri? Impossible!”

Furious, she glared back. “I know what I saw!”

Vidar stroked his narrow gray beard. “I'm sure you think so, Jessa, but I can't believe this. Snorri used to be a bondsman of mine. He bought his freedom years ago. He lives here now, and part owns one of the fishing boats. He'd never thieve. For one thing, he hasn't the wits.”

“The only way to settle it,” Skapti remarked, “is to send for him.”

“Of course.” Vidar nodded and went to stand, but Wulfgar pushed him back and stalked to the door. They heard him shouting orders down the stairs.

“If this is true,” the priest murmured to Jessa, “I will personally see to it that every coin is paid back.”

She nodded, gave him a tight smile, but she knew quite well he thought she was mistaken. She glanced at Skapti but he seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she turned to the fire and watched Vidar from the corner of her eye. What if he did know? What if he and the thief were accomplices? She had to admit, it seemed unlikely. And yet she remembered the way he had crept between the houses, stepping back into shadow when that woman passed.

Wulfgar came back. “I've sent for him. Take some wine, Vidar. Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”

Vidar nodded. “The kindling is here, for the fires. The ritual meats for the feast are ready; a boar is being slaughtered tomorrow. The image of the god has reached the village of Krasc, just over the hill. He'll be brought here by boat. Everything for the ceremony is ready.” As he spoke he poured wine carefully into a cup. One red drop fell on his fingers and he sucked it away. “I intend to spend this afternoon alone in the hills, preparing myself, speaking to Freyr in my heart. The omens are good. He'll bring us a good crop and a good harvest this year.”

Wulfgar nodded, then turned as his steward, Guthlac, came in.

“The man Snorri is in the hall. He was found on the wharves.”

Wulfgar swept out and the others followed. They clattered down the stairs, through the tapestries and into the hall.

A man waited, a warrior discreetly behind him.

“That's not him,” Jessa said at once.

Behind her, Vidar said, “But it is, Jessa. This is Snorri, the man I went to see. His child suffers a small ailment, which I have medicines to ease.”

“It's not the man who opened the door,” she said icily.

The fisherman glanced nervously from face to face. He was small, yes, with straggly brown hair, but it wasn't the same man. She knew it! And that meant Vidar was lying.

Calming herself, she turned to him. He stood at Wulfgar's shoulder, his face slightly puzzled, watching her carefully, the scar dragging at the corner of his mouth. “I'm sorry, Jessa, but it is,” he murmured.

There was a tense silence. Then Wulfgar took her arm. “Anyone can make a mistake, Jessa,” he said gently. He jerked his head at the fisherman. “You can go.”

Relief lit the man's eyes. He scurried to the door.

“Wait!” Jessa took a few steps after him. “Vidar Paulsson came to see you last night?” she said quietly.

The man nodded hurriedly. “My son is ill. Vidar knows runes, has things that help....”

“No one else lives with you?”

“No one,” he muttered uneasily.

“Are you sure?”

He looked away, faint sweat on his lip. “No one.”

She was silent a moment. Then she said, “Thank you.”

As the man hurried out, Wulfgar said, “Don't worry about it, Jessa. After all, it was dark, and this whole thing was on your mind. We'll find the man, I promise you.”

She gripped her hands into fists and turned with a smile. “You're right. It was just a mistake.” She crossed to Vidar and gave him a bright glance. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted your word.”

“Not at all,” he said, rubbing his stubbly beard. “Not at all.”

As she left them talking she wondered if she had convinced him. It was important she did. Because if he was lying—and he was—she would have to find out why without him knowing, or even suspecting her. As she turned, before the tapestry fell behind her, she saw Vidar and Wulfgar talking about the feast—they seemed to have put it out of their minds already. But Skapti was gazing after her thoughtfully.

It was late that night, very late, when the uproar began.

Jessa was awake in an instant, hearing the doors crash open below, the shout and murmur of raised voices in the hall. She snatched the knife from her belt, tugged on coat and boots, and ran outside, straight into Skapti.

“What is it?”

“I don't know. Where's Wulfgar?”

“Here.” He was behind them, looking sleepy, some of his men clustered about him. “What's going on?” he snapped. “Are we being attacked?”

A thrall raced up the stairs. “There are men below, in the hall. Strangers. They've come a long way—they want to speak to you.”

“At this hour!” Wulfgar gave Skapti his sword and ran a hand through his tangle of hair. “Won't it keep?”

“They insist. They seem … terrified.”

For a moment Wulfgar stood still. Then he put the man aside gently and walked down the stairs, his bodyguard about him. Jessa followed, curious.

The hall was almost in darkness. A few torches still guttered at one end, and the only fire that had not gone out was being banked up with dry wood so that it spit and crackled and gave little light. Argument hummed in the great stone spaces; the war band who normally slept there were on their feet, surrounding a group of about five strangers.

Wulfgar pushed through to them. “All right,” he said wearily. “I'm the Jarl. Who are you?”

The men fell silent; they glanced at one another. Finally one of them spoke. “Farmers, lord, some of us; others are freedmen. We come from the Harvenir district, about two days' journey from here to the north.”