They put little effort into altering the situation, though. They took their revenge by stealing chickens and sheep.
It was early spring. The sun rolled west. The afternoon breeze rose. The air grew cooler. Shivering, Bragi announced, "I'm heading back to town. Be damned cold by dark." It would take that long to get home.
Prataxis and Valther joined him. They had work to do.
"You ought to go see your wife sometime," Ragnarson told Valther. "I had a wife who looked like that, I wouldn't go out for groceries."
Valther gave him an odd look. "Elana isn't bad. And you leave her alone all the time."
Guilt ragged Ragnarson's conscience. It was true. His position was opening a gulf between him and Elana. And he hadn't only neglected her. The children, too, were growing up asstrangers. He stopped chiding Valther. The man's marriage was even more successful than Mocker's.
"Yeah. Yeah. You're right. I'll take a couple days off soon as I get the new armaments thing lined up. Maybe dump the kids on Nepanthe and take Elana somewhere. There's some pretty country around Lake Turntine."
"Sounds perfect. And Nepanthe would love having them. She's going crazy, bottled up with Ethrian."
Nepanthe was staying at the Palace. There were no children her son's age at Castle Krief.
"Maybe she should move out to my place?" Ragnarson's family occupied the home of a former rebel, Lord Lindwedel, who had been beheaded during the war. It was so huge that his mob of kids, and servants, and Haaken when he stayed over, couldn't fill it.
"Maybe," Valther murmured. "My place would be better." His wasn't far from Ragnarson's.
The head of an intelligence service doesn't always tell his employer all he knows.
FIVE: A Traveler in Black
North of the Kratchnodians, at the Trolledyngjan mouth of the Middle Pass, stood the inn run by Frita Tolvarson. It had been in his family since the time of Jan Iron Hand. The main trade road from Tonderhofn and the Trolledyngjan interior passed nearby, spanned the mountains, formed a tenuous link with the south. For travelers it was either the first or last bit of comfort following or preceding a harrowing passage. There was no other hospice for days around.
Frita was an old man, and a kindly soul, with a child for almost every year of his marriage. He didn't demand much more of his customers than reasonable payment, moderate behavior, and news of the rest of the world.
There was a custom at the inn dating back centuries. Every guest was asked to contribute a story to the evening's entertainment.
Winding down from the high range, a path had been beaten in the previous night's snow. The first spring venturers were assaulting the pass from the south. The path made a meandering ribbon of shadow once it reached the drifted moor, its depths unplumbed by the light of a low-hanging, full Wolf Moon. A chill arctic wind moaned through the branches of a few skeletal trees. Those gnarled old oaks looked like squatting giants praising the sky with attenuated fingers and claws.
The wind had banked snow against the north wall of Frita's establishment. The place looked like a snowbound barrow from that direction. But on the south side a traveler could find a welcoming door.
One such was crossing the lonely moor, a shivering black silhouette against the moonlit Kratchnodians. He wore a darkgreat cloak wrapped tightly about him, its hood pulled far forward to protect his face. He stared down dully, eyes watery. His cheeks burned in the cold. He despaired of reaching the inn, though he saw and smelled the smoke ahead. His passage through the mountains had been terrible. He wasn't accustomed to wintery climes.
Frita looked up expectantly as a cold blast roared into the inn. He put on a smile of welcome.
"Hey!" a customer grumbled. "Close the goddamned door! We aren't frost giants."
The newcomer surveyed the common room: There were just three guests.
Frita's wife bade him quit gawking and offer the man something to drink. He nodded
It was early spring. The sun rolled west. The afternoon breeze rose. The air grew cooler. Shivering, Bragi announced, "I'm heading back to town. Be damned cold by dark." It would take that long to get home.
Prataxis and Valther joined him. They had work to do.
"You ought to go see your wife sometime," Ragnarson told Valther. "I had a wife who looked like that, I wouldn't go out for groceries."
Valther gave him an odd look. "Elana isn't bad. And you leave her alone all the time."
Guilt ragged Ragnarson's conscience. It was true. His position was opening a gulf between him and Elana. And he hadn't only neglected her. The children, too, were growing up asstrangers. He stopped chiding Valther. The man's marriage was even more successful than Mocker's.
"Yeah. Yeah. You're right. I'll take a couple days off soon as I get the new armaments thing lined up. Maybe dump the kids on Nepanthe and take Elana somewhere. There's some pretty country around Lake Turntine."
"Sounds perfect. And Nepanthe would love having them. She's going crazy, bottled up with Ethrian."
Nepanthe was staying at the Palace. There were no children her son's age at Castle Krief.
"Maybe she should move out to my place?" Ragnarson's family occupied the home of a former rebel, Lord Lindwedel, who had been beheaded during the war. It was so huge that his mob of kids, and servants, and Haaken when he stayed over, couldn't fill it.
"Maybe," Valther murmured. "My place would be better." His wasn't far from Ragnarson's.
The head of an intelligence service doesn't always tell his employer all he knows.
FIVE: A Traveler in Black
North of the Kratchnodians, at the Trolledyngjan mouth of the Middle Pass, stood the inn run by Frita Tolvarson. It had been in his family since the time of Jan Iron Hand. The main trade road from Tonderhofn and the Trolledyngjan interior passed nearby, spanned the mountains, formed a tenuous link with the south. For travelers it was either the first or last bit of comfort following or preceding a harrowing passage. There was no other hospice for days around.
Frita was an old man, and a kindly soul, with a child for almost every year of his marriage. He didn't demand much more of his customers than reasonable payment, moderate behavior, and news of the rest of the world.
There was a custom at the inn dating back centuries. Every guest was asked to contribute a story to the evening's entertainment.
Winding down from the high range, a path had been beaten in the previous night's snow. The first spring venturers were assaulting the pass from the south. The path made a meandering ribbon of shadow once it reached the drifted moor, its depths unplumbed by the light of a low-hanging, full Wolf Moon. A chill arctic wind moaned through the branches of a few skeletal trees. Those gnarled old oaks looked like squatting giants praising the sky with attenuated fingers and claws.
The wind had banked snow against the north wall of Frita's establishment. The place looked like a snowbound barrow from that direction. But on the south side a traveler could find a welcoming door.
One such was crossing the lonely moor, a shivering black silhouette against the moonlit Kratchnodians. He wore a darkgreat cloak wrapped tightly about him, its hood pulled far forward to protect his face. He stared down dully, eyes watery. His cheeks burned in the cold. He despaired of reaching the inn, though he saw and smelled the smoke ahead. His passage through the mountains had been terrible. He wasn't accustomed to wintery climes.
Frita looked up expectantly as a cold blast roared into the inn. He put on a smile of welcome.
"Hey!" a customer grumbled. "Close the goddamned door! We aren't frost giants."
The newcomer surveyed the common room: There were just three guests.
Frita's wife bade him quit gawking and offer the man something to drink. He nodded
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