"And you came alone? Without so much as a pack?" "No. I survived. The Kratchnodians and rest of Trolledyngja aren't as friendly as Hammerfest."
"Indeed. Though it was worse before the Old House was restored. Here we are." He shoved a tall, heavy door. "Guro. A big stein for a new guest. The kids just knocked him into a snowbank." He grinned. "Yeah. Those were my brats."
I I I
The stranger surveyed the tavern. It was all warm browns, as homey and friendly within as the Hammerfesters were outside. He sidled to the fire.
Bors brought steins. "Well, Rasher, I admire you. I do. You're one of the survivors. Weren't always a merchant, were you?"
The questions were becoming irksome. "My home is Hellin Daimiel. I saw the El Murid wars. And I'm no countinghouse clerk. I'm a caravaneer."
"Thought so. Man of action. I miss it sometimes, till I remember drifting in a rammed dragonship with my guts hanging out on the oar bench...."
The stranger tried shifting the subject. "I was told Hammerfest was a critical fur town. That I might find men here who would be interested in making a better deal than the Iwa Skolovdans offer."
"Possibly. Those people are a gang of misers. I don't like it when they stay here. They fill the rooms and don't spend a groschen."
"When do they arrive?"
"You're ahead, if that's your idea. They're too soft to try the passes before summer. They'll be a month or two yet. But, you see, they'll bring trade goods. You've apparently lost yours."
"No real problem. A fast rider could correct that-if I find somebody interested. I'm the only foreigner in town now, then?"
The man's eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened. He wasn't much for hiding his thoughts. "Yes."
The stranger wondered why he lied. Was his man here? The trick would be to find him without bringing the town down on his head.
The best course would be to pursue his cover implacably, ignoring his urgency.
It had waited a year. It could wait a day or two more.
"Who should I see? If I can arrange something, I could get the goods through ahead of the Iwa Skolovdans. We've headquar-tered our operation at our warehouses in Itaskia...."
"You should get the frost out of your fingers first."
"I suppose. But I've lost my men and my goods. I have to recoup fast. The old 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.
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.
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?
He dressed in his new winter boots and coat, donned his greatcloak, sheathed his freshly cleaned sword.
Bors' wife waited in the common room.
The stranger's dark eyes met hers. There was no pity in his. "I'll be leaving early. I have a refund coming."
Terror restructured her face. She counted coins with fingers too shaky to keep hold.
The stranger pushed back two. "Too much." His voice was without emotion. But he couldn't resist a dramatic touch. He fished a coin from his purse. "To cover the costs of damage done," he said with a hint of sarcasm.