As we’d pulled into harbour I’d made out storm clouds louring across the ranges to the north, lightning deep inside them as if Thor himself were present. Somewhere out there beyond those peaks, Sven Broke-Oar waited for us in the Black Fort, and beyond him the Bitter Ice with its frozen dead, necromancers, and the unborn. My chances to escape had all but slipped away, and our long journey was at last closing on what would likely prove to be a short sharp end.

• • •

The tavern of Snorri’s choosing bore three rusting axes, stapled to the wall high above the doorway. The Norsemen installed me at a table, then ordered most of a pig to be roasted and brought out along with copious ale, maintaining that both were excellent cures for a man in weakened health.

The rest of the clientele were a rough lot, but none of them appeared to be looking for trouble. You develop an instinct for such things if you frequent as many low dives as I have. Additionally, the fact that I had eight Undoreth warriors in my corner would not have gone unnoticed.

“We’ll meet up here come nightfall.” Snorri sniffed the air with a certain longing. The smell of roasting dominated over all the usual tavern stink of smoke and sweat and ale. And with a sigh he led his men off into the town, Tuttugu armed with my pox recipe. I assumed that Jarl Torsteff’s men must have escaped with at least some of the proceeds of their looting on the Drowned Isles because for once Snorri hadn’t asked me for funds, and he had plenty he needed to buy—warm gear and provisions for nine not the least of it. I patted for my locket, just to be sure.

A lean southerner walked in as the last of my Vikings departed, wrapped in a motley cape, dulled by age, and with a mandolin under his arm. He settled by the fireplace, raising an arm for beer. Another man opened the street door, half-lowered his hood, thought better of it, then left. Not a music lover, perhaps, or finding the place too packed. Something about him struck me as familiar, but my meal arrived and my stomach demanded my full attention.

“There you go, my lovely.” A perky, fair-haired tavern girl set down my roast pork, a heel of bread, a steaming jug of gravy, and a tankard of ale. “Enjoy.” I watched her leave and started to feel twenty-two again rather than ninety-two. Good food, ale, and a floor beneath me that had the manners to stay where it was put . . . the world had started looking up. All I needed was a plausible excuse for staying in Trond until the nastiness up north had been dealt with and I could look upon this whole sorry affair as a vacation gone tragically astray.

I noticed a blond woman watching me from beside her companion, young and really quite striking once you looked past the homespun and dirt. Another pretty young thing, white-blond and pale, slanted glances my way from beside an older man. None of them dressed like professional company, even accounting for the summer chill. It seemed as though taking your sister or daughter to the tavern might just be the done thing in Trond. Another woman walked in through the street door, this one solid and dour, and pushed a path to the bar to order black ale. I chewed over that one with my meat. Things appeared to run very differently in the North. Still, I had no objections. I might complain about Cousin Serah and my grandmother’s plan to circumvent the rightful chain of succession, but in general I found the women with the most freedom to act were by far the most fun to be around. After all, it’s hard for the old Jalan charm to get to work if there’s a chaperone or inconvenient brother like Alain DeVeer in the way.