Bracelet of Bones (12 page)

Red Ottar snorted, but then he narrowed his eyes. “So you’re not from Kiev, then?”

“Me?” exclaimed the pilot. “South. Far south. Sea Black.”

“The Black Sea,” Torsten corrected him.

“People in Kiev,” Mihran told them, “they are Rus. Very tall. Very pale. The king is Rus.”

“Indeed he is,” said Red Ottar. “King Yaroslav.”

Then Mihran sat down with all the crew around him, and by the time he had described the Eastern Way—the long days in gloomy forests, the splendor of Novgorod, the little quiet trading posts, the great lake of Ilmen and the rivers feeding it—and then estimated that the journey would take no fewer than thirty-one days, all this with gestures and laughs and amusing little slips of language, Red Ottar and Torsten and their companions were in no doubt about the pilot’s knowledge or his confidence.

When the skipper asked Mihran about the dangers, he immediately held up three fingers. “The portages,” he said. He braced his forearms and shouldered the empty air as if it were immovable, and then he splayed his fingers over his eyes. “And the wild beasts,” he growled. “The forests have many, many bears. Wild pigs—tusks.”

“And the third danger?”

“Ruffians,” replied Mihran. “Human wild beasts.”

“We’re prepared,” Red Ottar told him.

Mihran twisted his black mustache with his right thumb and forefinger and then looked around him. “With these women?”

“I can fight,” Bergdis said at once. “May the gods help the man who tangles with me.”

Mihran inspected Odindisa and Edith and gently shook his head. Then he considered Solveig.

“Maybe,” he said. “Tall. Strong.”

“One-handed and one-legged,” Red Ottar told him. “And stiff-necked.”

“What about me?” Bard demanded.

But Mihran dismissed him and Brita with the back of his hand. “Too smalls,” he said. “Too young.” Then he held his right hand to his heart. “The real danger is always here, no? Inside, not outside. The one who’s afraid. The one who falls ill . . . The one who’s a thief.”

“You’re right,” said Red Ottar. “As with the gods and the trickster Loki, so with us. One of our own number.”

“Which?” asked Mihran with a wary smile.

“Be on guard against your dark selves,” Red Ottar said very slowly, looking from one person to another. “If one of us fails, most likely we all fail.”

At first, Solveig thought Red Ottar was talking about her. But then she heard Bruni sucking his cheeks and caught him staring at Torsten; she saw Odindisa drawing Bard and Brita to her side and wrapping an arm around each of them; Edith laid her hands over her stomach; and while Red Ottar was still warning them, Slothi mouthed some silent prayer,
stretching out his arms as if he were being crucified. Solveig realized that each of the crew thought that Red Ottar might very well be talking about them.

“Well,” Red Ottar asked his crew, “who has any questions? You, Torsten?”

“When the time comes,” the helmsman said, and he gave Mihran a friendly nod. “When the need arises.”

Then Bergdis asked the pilot about the frequency of the trading posts and what livestock and vegetables she would be able to buy; Vigot and Slothi both wanted to know what river fish they would catch; and Bruni inquired about the best place to buy silver.

“What about you?” Red Ottar asked Odindisa. “Don’t you want to know about the river ghosts?”

Odindisa shrugged.

“And . . . what are they called? Sendings?”

“They won’t stop you,” Odindisa said. “Nothing will.”

“How far is it,” asked Solveig, “from Kiev to Miklagard?”

Mihran threw back his head. “Miklagard! Ha!” He turned to Red Ottar, smiling. “But you—you go to Kiev.”

“That’s quite far enough,” the skipper replied. “For me—and my sea wife.”

“But I’m going to Miklagard,” Solveig explained. “To find my father.”

Mihran raised his eyebrows and gave Solveig a searching look. Then he pushed out his lower lip and slowly nodded.

“All right!” said Red Ottar, looking around the crew. “All agreed?” Then he, Torsten, and Mihran made their way to the
stern, where they began to bargain over the payment for the pilot and discuss when to leave Ladoga.

Before the three of them had clasped hands, Solveig shuffled down the gangplank and padded along to the place where the hellhounds had attacked her.

The ground was scuffed, and when she stooped, Solveig could see globs of her own congealed blood with dog hairs stuck in them. Then she picked up the old paddle with which Vigot had brained the hound and dropped it into the water.

Some of the Bulgars were watching Solveig from their boat, and one of them called out to her and beckoned.

Solveig pretended she hadn’t noticed. My third eye, she thought. My maker’s eye. One-eyed Odin, in your wisdom, allow me to find it.

12

“N
onsense,” said Torsten. “The gods aren’t against you.”

“Red Ottar thinks they are.”

“No, he’s just worried about keeping his crew together and selling his cargo,” the helmsman assured Solveig.

“Sometimes I doubt myself.”

“We all do,” Torsten told her. “Look! The sun herself can’t burn through all the clouds this morning.”

“I didn’t know what it would all be like,” Solveig said, “this journey.”

“Have faith in yourself,” Torsten declared. “Your father, he’ll be proud of you.”

Solveig smiled mistily at the helmsman and ran her right hand through her golden hair.

All that day, Solveig still felt shaky, but by the next morning—their last in Ladoga—she was altogether stronger, and Red Ottar gave her permission to walk to the market with Edith. Bergdis accompanied them, saying she had “certain purchases” to make but without saying what.

On their way through the cemetery, the three of them read some of the rune stones. Bergdis found one raised to Thora.

“My daughter!” she cried. “The same name. Oh!”

Yes, thought Solveig. Memory and caring, they’re both in a name.

“First happiness and then war—that’s what my name means,” Edith told them.

“A very strange name,” Bergdis observed. “Edith.”

“Not in England. Anyhow, it tells my story. I was happy enough. A good man, two strong children. But then the fighting . . .” Edith sighed. “Yes, the fighting put an end to all that.”

“When I came up here with Bruni,” Solveig said, “he told us no one can escape ghosts. And Odindisa said we shouldn’t want to.”

“He would say that,” Bergdis observed. “Bruni’s pursued by ghosts. Vengeful ghosts. In time he’ll meet them.”

Yes, thought Solveig, that’s true. Time buries, and sometimes, in its own good time, time reveals.

They could hear the tom-tom-tom of the big drum long before they pushed their way through the crowd and saw the drummer and the ring of dancers surrounding him. First they swayed to the left, then to the right, then they joined hands and advanced on the drummer, then they stepped back again.

“A very grim kind of dance,” Edith said.

“Grim,” Bergdis agreed. “That’s what the Finns are. Their idea of singing is a terrible warbling. As bad as a dog howling at the full moon. But I’ve never seen them dance before.”

“How do you know they’re Finns?” Solveig asked her.

“Look at their square stone jaws. Some Finns have never smiled once in their lives. And those puffy sleeves—nothing like the ones we wear.”

“That’s to hide their fins!” Solveig told Edith. “They’re half fish, you know.”

Edith took Solveig’s arm. “Brita might believe you,” she said. “Come on now. Red Ottar has given me a silver coin.”

“Each to her own,” Bergdis replied. “I’ve got work to do.” And with that she disappeared into the milling crowd.

“What’s she doing?” Solveig asked.

Edith shrugged. “She doesn’t want us to know.”

“A silver coin! Why?”

“To spend, of course.”

“But, well . . .”

“What?”

“Couldn’t you just run away?”

“Run away?” Edith looked astonished.

“Yes.”

“Where to? Anyhow, one silver coin wouldn’t last long. And then what?” Edith quietly folded her hands over her stomach.

“You’re not.” Solveig gasped.

Edith gave her a knowing look.

“You are!”

Edith’s eyes were shining now.

“Oh, Edith!”

“Bergdis guessed, but you’re the first person I’ve told.”

“You haven’t told Red Ottar?”

“Apart from him, I mean.”

Then Solveig hugged her tight, like a sister, until they were both quite breathless.

“Oh!” exclaimed Solveig, laughing. “I’ve never held anyone like that.”

“This is not what I chose, you know,” Edith told her in a serious voice. “I didn’t ask Swedes to come. I didn’t want to be taken away.”

“But you are glad, aren’t you?”

“I feel happy and sad at the same time. Ottar’s pleased, very pleased—he can be tender, you know. I’m only his slave woman, but I think he’ll ease my workload when the time comes.”

“I’ll help you,” Solveig told her.

Edith gave Solveig a loving smile, but even as she did so her features froze. And then, hare-eyed, she looked all around.

“Hear that?”

“What?”

“That voice? Listen!”

“Foreign.”

“English!” said Edith excitedly. “Those two men.”

At once Edith hurried up to them, but one man immediately turned on his heel and strode away.

“You’re English,” Edith told the other. “I heard you talking.”

The man was quite bulky. He had buckteeth and a ready smile. “So are you, by the sound of it!”

“Oh!” cried Edith. “The first one.”

“The first one?”

“Since the Vikings . . .”

Edith could see the man was eyeing the scars around her wrists and her scrappy clothing.

“And now . . .” the man said, “you’re a slave.”

Edith lowered her eyes.

“The devils! Where did you live, then?”

“Around Ravenspur,” Edith said, “and into the Ouse. A town called Riccall.”

“Is that so!” the man exclaimed, and he smiled broadly. “God’s own country. I know it well. I live in York.”

“No!” gasped Edith. Her whole body was sunlight and ripples and shivers.

“I heard about that raid on Riccall, three boatloads of Swedes attacking the Danes settled there.”

“My man,” Edith told him, “Alfred, he was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Englishman, and he shook his head.

“What’s your name?” Edith asked him.

“Edwin.”

“Edwin,” Edith repeated slowly, savoring the sounds. “You and your friend, are you trading?”

The Englishman gave Solveig a suspicious look.

“Oh!” said Edith. “Solveig—she’s Norwegian and we’re boat companions. She can’t speak English.”

Edwin nodded. “Trading,” he said. “Yes, we’re traders . . . of a kind.”

“What are you selling?”

“Words,” said Edwin. “Information. Arrangements, you could say.”

“Secrets!” exclaimed Edith. “Are you on a mission?”

“Better not ask,” Edwin told her. “Sometimes it’s better not to know what you don’t need to. What about you?”

“We’ve come from Sigtuna. I’m Edith.”

Hearing the word Sigtuna, Solveig interrupted her. “Tell him we’re going to Kiev. Tell him I’m going to Miklagard.”

Much to Solveig’s and Edith’s surprise, Edwin was able to reply, though rather haltingly, in Solveig’s own language.

“Miklagard! The golden city.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Quite well known to you Norwegians!”

“Harald Sigurdsson sent for my father,” Solveig told him. “To join the emperor’s guard.”

“Your father?” said Edwin, looking around.

Solveig shook her head. “Last autumn,” she said. “I’m following him.”

“With your companions.”

“Yes, well, no . . . They’re going as far as Kiev. Have you been to Miklagard?”

Edwin tapped his head and smiled. “Many times,” he replied. “Like you, I suppose. But what I’m asking is why. Why are you following your father? And what will you do when you get there—if you do?”

Solveig shook her head impatiently. “I look after today,” she said. “The gods and fates look after tomorrow.”

“The gods are dead,” Edwin said dismissively. “Christ has slain them.” He gave Solveig a friendly smile. “I’m not asking you to answer my questions, just wondering whether
you’ve asked yourself. I wish you both a safe journey. A home from home.”

Tears had sprung into Edith’s eyes, but by the time she had brushed them away the Englishman had gone.

“I wish he hadn’t said that,” she sniffed. “About home. First I felt so glad to talk to him. Now it hurts.”

“If I’d tried to think everything out, like he said,” Solveig observed, “I’d still be sitting at home. Will we see him again, do you think?”

“His teeth stick out like a jackrabbit’s,” Edith said. “I hope so, though.”

“I liked talking to him,” said Solveig.

Edith smiled. “I rather think he liked talking to you.”

Over their heads there was a great rush of wings as thousands and thousands of little shorebirds flooded over the market, turning back on themselves, rising and waving, for all the world like a dark scarf, a trailing sky scarf.

“Look!” cried Solveig. “Odindisa would know what they mean.”

“They mean high tide,” Edith said. “I’ve seen that at Ravenspur. The spring tides drive the shorebirds out of their roosts.”

At this moment, a little slip of a man came up to Solveig and cupped her right elbow.

“Oleg!” she exclaimed.

“The gods go with you,” Oleg replied.

“This is Edith. She’s English.”

Oleg smiled. “Let us forgive her,” he said.

Edith laughed.

“The best kind of laughter,” Oleg observed. “Laughing at yourself.” Then he pointed to Solveig’s neck.

“Two dogs,” she told him. “My calf as well.”

Oleg winced, and then he gave her a thoughtful look. “Your eye,” he told her. “I saw it.”

“Where?” gasped Solveig.

Oleg gestured toward one of the stalls. “On that table over there.”

“I dropped it when the dogs attacked me, and I’ve been searching for it everywhere. On the quay, beside our wares, on the deck, in the hold . . .”

Solveig and Oleg stared at each other.

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Oleg told her. “Makers always recognize their own work.”

Solveig narrowed her eyes. “Where from? Who sold it to them?”

“That’s what I asked them.”

“What did they say?”

“A tall young man. Very watchful. ‘Like the blade of a knife.’ That’s what the stallholder told me. He sold her several things.”

Solveig lowered her eyes. “I hoped it wasn’t,” she said under her breath. She turned toward the stall, but Oleg caught her by the elbow again.

The craftsman reached into a pocket, pulled out the violet-gray eye, and pressed it into the palm of Solveig’s right hand.

“Oh!” Solveig exclaimed. “I can’t. I haven’t got any money.”

“I’ve got this coin,” offered Edith.

Oleg waved his hand. “Certainly not! Provided Solveig promises not to lose it again.”

“I didn’t lose it!” protested Solveig. “It was stolen. I’ll cut a strip of leather and wear it around my neck.”

“When your wound has healed,” said Oleg with a smile. Then he gave Solveig and Edith a small bow. “Those who meet twice meet three times,” he said.

“Yes,” said Solveig eagerly, “we will. On our way home.”

Oleg smiled. “I live in hope,” he said, and on his light feet he walked quickly away.

Edith covered her mouth with her hand. “He made me laugh,” she said through her fingers. “He looks like an elf.”

“Vigot said . . .” began Solveig, but then she shook her head angrily. “He said Oleg looked like an overgrown dwarf.”

“Vigot,” began Edith very deliberately, “he looks like the blade of a knife.”

Solveig bit her lower lip.

“Come on!” exclaimed Edith. “Let’s look at everything! Everything old and everything new. Everything we know about and everything we don’t!”

“Edie!” cried Solveig. “That’s what I’m going to call you. Edie! Everything!”

Late that afternoon, Solveig and Edith slowly walked down from the market in Earth Town to the quay. Edith made her way at once to the latrine, and Solveig limped along to the boat. Red Ottar was standing with Bruni and Slothi at the foot of the gangplank.

“Those furs,” Slothi told her, “the ones the Bulgars fingered and smelled and stretched.”

“I remember,” said Solveig.

“They came back and bought them.”

“You said they would.”

“Twenty-three of them.”

“Twenty-three!” exclaimed Solveig. “Were they good ones?”

“All our furs are good ones,” Red Ottar said.

Slothi raised his eyebrows. “But some are better,” he added.

“And a very few,” said Red Ottar, “are best.”

“What price?” asked Solveig.

“Not the worst,” Red Ottar replied. “They made us wait long enough. You like buying and selling, do you?”

“And you,” Slothi said to Bruni, “you sold three carvings. An ivory brooch and a pin and . . . a fine scramasax.”

“This has been the best day,” Solveig said.

“It’s always like that,” the skipper told her. “The pace quickens just before we leave. Mihran’s spreading the word that as we’re sailing in the morning, we’re selling off our sacks of salt and wax.”

“Are you?”

Red Ottar gave Solveig a knowing smile. “No,” he said. “But it brings in customers. Now, then. Go and give Bergdis a hand.”

It was all but dark when Bruni and Slothi brought their merchandise back to the hold, and as soon as Bruni unfastened the chest containing his precious sword and a number
of smaller pieces of metalwork, he saw one scramasax was missing.

“When I closed the lid this morning,” he told Slothi, “there were three. Now there are two.”

“You sold one.”

“Yes, I took that one down and left three here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” bellowed Bruni. “And I’m sure I know who’s stolen it.”

Bruni climbed out of the hold and stood foursquare on deck. “Torsten!” he yelled. “Where are you?”