I sat for a moment, letting the conversations flow across me. Many of the locals spoke in the Empire Tongue. Arne told me it was common enough in the larger port towns. In the villages along the fjords a man could go for weeks without hearing a word not spoken in the old speech.

Across the room the troubadour began to pick at his mandolin, scattering a few notes over the crowd. I wiped pork fat from my mouth and swigged my ale. The older blonde kept watching me and I gave her the Jalan smile, the one the hero of Aral Pass offers to the masses. The man beside her seemed to have no interest in our exchange, a slightly built fellow with a drooping moustache and twitchy eye. Still, any peasant can stick a knife in you, so I curbed my instinct to barge over there and introduce myself. Instead I decided to put my goods on show and let the bees come to the honey.

“Do you know ‘The Red March’?” I called across to the mandolin player. Most bards do, and he looked well travelled in any case.

By way of answer, fingers flickered across strings and the first few bars rolled out. I stood, bowed to the various ladies, and crossed to the fireplace. “Prince Jalan of Red March at your service one and all. A guest to your shores and pleased to be here amongst such fierce warriors and fair maids.” I nodded to my new friend and he started to play. I’ve got a decent baritone and the princes of Red March are trained in all the arts: We declaim poetry, we dance, we sing. Mostly we’re trained in the arts of war, but wordcraft and painting are not neglected. Add to this that “The Red March” is a rousing military chorus that forgives a singer’s weaknesses and encourages others to join in and you have the ideal icebreaker. Even the frozen seas of the North couldn’t withstand my charm! I hoisted my tankard and gave full voice with the troubadour filling in the gaps with his own mellow tones.

I’ll say this for Norsemen, they like to sing. Before I’d finished either my ale or song almost everyone under that roof was roaring out “The Red March,” ignorance of the words proving no obstacle. Better still, my delicious blonde had detached herself from Droopy Moustache to stand at my side, showing herself during her approach to have been blessed in all the right places by the gods of Asgard. The pretty pale waif had also ditched her father to keep me company on the other side.

“So you’re a prince?” As the din of the last verse subsided. The blond beauty, more attractive by the moment, leaned in. “I’m Astrid.”

“I’m Edda.” The pale girl, hair flowing like milk, very fine-featured. “Who was that warrior with you? You know, the big one.”

I did my best to keep the irritation from my face. “You don’t want to worry about him, Edda. He’s tall, yes, but women report that he’s very unsatisfactory in the furs. Used all his growing getting too high off the ground and didn’t save enough for the important things. It’s a sad story. His mother and father . . . well, brother and sister—”