Snow-Walker

Two

… Caught sleeping by the cunning of the thief.

Oh, the fish was fresh all right. She wondered if it was even dead, it glared up at her so balefully from the wooden plate.

And the ale was worse. Grimly she swallowed one mouthful and turned on the man mending nets on the step.

“You’d better get me something else. Water, even.”

“Water! Lady, you’ll poison yourself!”

“I think I already have.” Jessa poured the thin pale liquid deliberately onto the straw. “I wouldn’t give this muck to my worst enemy.”

Unruffled, the man stood up, gathering the torn net in his arms. “There’s another cask. It’ll cost you, though.”

“I thought it might.” She pushed the platter across the table. “And while you’re there, you can do something to this. Cook it, preferably. If I’d wanted it raw, I could have speared my own.”

The innkeeper nodded sourly. “With your tongue. It’s sharp enough.”

He gathered up the plate in disgust and disappeared behind a woven blue curtain.

Grinning, Jessa leaned her elbows on the table and folded her fingers together. It had been a good day. The market had been the best for a long time—they’d sold all the livestock, and the men had gone back to the farm with spices and yarn and leather and new swords. Under her coat hung a full pouch of silver. And Skapti was coming to meet her, the Jarl’s tall, thin, sarcastic poet. In fact he should have been here by now. They were sailing to the Jarlshold on the next tide, and she was looking forward to it.

Someone came in, and she glanced up, but it wasn’t the skald. A small, scrawny man. He sat in a corner and called for ale.

The room was warm; it smelled of food and dogs and smoke. All day it had been thronged with traders and peddlers and market women, but now she was the last of them. She gazed idly out over the wharf. The sun still hung above the horizon; a cold red globe, steaming over the sea. The nights were already getting shorter. Through the uncurtained doorway she could see the keels of upturned boats in the lurid light; gulls screamed and fought over the drying nets. As she listened, the clang of metal on metal from the smithy stopped, leaving a sudden stillness of sea wash and birds.

The innkeeper came back and dropped the platter on the table without ceremony. “It’s well cooked now.”

Jessa flicked the fish over with her knife. “Charred, I’d say.”

“You would.”

He put the cup of ale next to it and turned, straight into the blunt end of a knife that cracked viciously down. He crumpled and crashed among the tables.

Halfway to her feet in astonishment, Jessa froze.

Then, slowly, she sat down.

“Wise. Very wise.”

The scrawny man watched her for a moment. He had very small eyes, dark and beady, and his face was thin and stubbly around the chin. A rat’s face.

He reversed the weapon easily and let the point flicker toward her in the red light. “Over there. Against the wall. Don’t scream.”

She got up and moved in front of the table, her hands sliding smoothly behind her for the knife.

“Leave that!” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Over there.”

Furious, Jessa shook him off. She walked to the wall and stood there, arms folded, icy with rage. But she had to be calm. She had to watch for her chance. There would probably only be one.

The man backed quickly, slammed the door, and dropped the bar of wood across it. The room went dim, with only the window now to give light, but he left that unshuttered and kneeled by the innkeeper, his free hand rummaging deftly among the man’s clothes.

“Have you killed him?” she snapped.

“Not yet.” He dragged out a handful of coins, thrust them into a leather sack that hung around his neck, and heaved the heavy body over.

“Well flattened, like all his kind.” He gave her a swift, evil look. “Why didn’t you go when everyone else did?”

“I’m waiting for someone.” She said it firmly, taking quick glances around the dark room, but always meeting his eyes when he looked up. “They’ll be here soon.”

“They will, will they?”

“Why else would I stay?”

He wasn’t listening. He got up and stepped over the still shape. “Where’s his money? He did good trade today. Where does he keep it?”

“I’ve no idea,” she said coldly.

Suddenly he turned, ran to the hearth, and rummaged there, clearing it of cooking pots with one sweep. Grabbing the lid of a nearby chest, he wrenched it open and threw out clothing and belts and fishhooks into a great heap by the smoldering fire.

Jessa took one step toward the window.

“Keep still!”

He was upright, with a small metal box in his hands. Jamming the point of the knife into the lid he forced it back with a crash. Then he grinned, showing broken teeth.

Jessa edged another step. Skapti must be here soon! And yet maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. He wouldn’t be expecting anything, and this scum looked murderous. She glanced at him thoughtfully as he poured a rain of small silver coins through his dirty fingers.

“You’d better go now you’ve got what you want. My friends will be here.”

He slammed the box shut and scuttled toward her through the dimness. Close up his skin was gray with dirt; his breath stank. “And you must have some coins too, with a coat and boots of such nice soft leather.” He narrowed his eyes. “A wealthy lass, by the look of you.”

Icily Jessa glared at him. “The men I’m meeting are the Jarl’s men, I warn you. The Jarl’s poet himself. He and I are friends.”

She had thought that would make him pause, but to her surprise he grinned, thin-lipped. “Jarl Wulfgar himself! So we both have important friends. Just give me the money you’ve got, now.”

“Kari Ragnarsson is also my friend.” She said it at random, but just for a second caught a sudden wariness, even fear, in the thief ’s eyes.

“That one? The sorcerer? The Snow-walker?” He touched a greasy amulet quickly. “Well, it’s a pity he’s not here, then.”

“He can see things that happen far off. He may be watching us. Remembering you.”

Nervously the man’s eyes shifted. His tongue flickered over his lips. “I’ll have to take my chance.” He held out his hand. “The purse.”

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.”