The Breath of God (35 page)

“What did you go and do that for?” The farmer shook his fist at Count Hamnet. “He's a good dog!”

“Good dogs don't act like they want to tear my throat out,” Hamnet answered. He nocked another shaft. If he had to shoot again, it might not be at a dog.

But the farmer, no matter what he thought, had better sense than to pick a fight with a band of thirty or so Bizogots and Raumsdalians. He went back to weeding. Each stroke of the hoe against some poor, defenseless plant said what he would have done to Hamnet Thyssen if only he were a hero.

Hamnet glanced up at the sky. It was blue—a watery blue, but blue. A few puffy clouds sailed across from west to east. No sign of dark clouds, threatening clouds, riding the Breath of God down from the north. But if the wind changed, when the wind changed . . . It could happen any day, any time. Hamnet Thyssen knew that well. The farmer had to know it, too. To Hamnet, it was a fact of life. To the farmer, it was a matter of life and death.

Which brought Hamnet back to the question he'd asked himself before. Why did he want to hold on to the one and hold off the other? He looked over at Liv, who was chatting happily with Audun Gilli. Yes, why indeed?

 

O
NCE THEY CAME
out of the forest and down into country where crops would grow most years, Marcovefa started marveling all over again at the richness of the landscape. Boats with sails astonished and delighted her, as the mere idea of them had delighted Liv a year before. Hamnet Thyssen wished he hadn't had the earlier memory; it meant he took no pleasure from the shaman's discovery.

“What happens in winter?” Marcovefa asked.

“About what you'd think. The rivers and lakes freeze. They haul the boats out of the water.” Hamnet illustrated with gestures. Marcovefa followed well enough.

They were well to the west of Nidaros, and had to work their way southeast. Hamnet didn't think local officials in this part of the Empire were warned against them. He didn't see any couriers hotfooting it off to the capital to say he'd presumed to come back.

When he remarked on that to Ulric Skakki, the adventurer shrugged and said, “Well, no. But if these people have any idea what they're doing, you wouldn't see it. They'd make sure of that.”

“If they knew what they were doing, they wouldn't be here,” Count Hamnet said. “They'd be in the capital or somewhere else that mattered.”

“Most of the time, you'd be right.” Now Ulric was the one looking north. “If the Rulers come down—no, when the Rulers come down—it won't be like an ordinary Bizogot raid, though. The Bizogots likely wouldn't get this far anyway. I don't know if the Rulers can, either. I don't know . . . but they might.”

“Yes. They might.” Hamnet Thyssen's scowl covered the invaders and the Empire impartially. “I don't even know if I care.”

“You need to spend some silver,” Ulric Skakki said seriously.

The quick change of subject confused Hamnet. “What are you talking about?”

“You need to spend some silver,” Ulric repeated. “Go to a whore house or pick a pretty serving girl who's easy—God knows there are enough of them. Once you lay her or she sucks your prong or whatever you happen to want, you won't hate the whole cursed world.”

Hamnet shook his head. “It wouldn't mean anything.”

“A pretty girl's got you in her mouth, it doesn't have to mean anything,” Ulric said. “It feels good. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing wrong with it while it's going on,” Count Hamnet said gloomily. “But afterwards you know she only wanted money, and she'd spit in your eye if you didn't pay her. If she doesn't care about you to begin with, why bother?”

“
Because
it feels good?” Ulric suggested with exaggerated patience.

“Not reason enough,” Hamnet said. Ulric threw his hands in the air.

They came to the town of Burtrask just as the sun was setting. Burtrask had outgrown its wall; suburbs flourished outside the gray stone works. The gate guards hardly bothered to question the newcomers. Burtrask was used to prosperity, and seemed to have not a care in the world.

Touts just inside the gate bawled out the virtues of competing serais. Others bawled out the vices of competing bawdy houses. Count Hamnet felt Ulric's ironic eye on him. He didn't give the adventurer the satisfaction
of looking back. Ulric's chuckle said he knew exactly what Hamnet wasn't doing, and why. Hamnet went right on ignoring him.

The seraikeeper they chose seemed surprised to have so many people descend on him at once, but he didn't let it faze him. “We'll have to set out pallets in the taproom for some of you, I'm afraid,” he said. “We'll keep the fire going all night—no need to worry about that. I don't believe in freezing my guests. Neither do the girls down the street.” The brothel stood a few doors away. That was also true of the other serais in Burtrask. They knew what travelers wanted. Most travelers, anyhow.

Thunk! Thunk!
A hatchet came down on the necks of chickens and ducks out back. No doubt supper would be fresh. A couple of servants rolled barrels of beer into the taproom. Everybody in the Empire's northern provinces knew how Bizogots could drink.

Food and drink did make Count Hamnet feel better, but not enough. He bedded down on the taproom floor himself. Ulric Skakki and Arnora stayed together, and Trasamund had found a friendly serving girl without needing any suggestion from Ulric.

Strangers coming in for breakfast woke Hamnet not long after sunup. The seraikeeper, with work to do, didn't bother keeping quiet. He rattled pots and pans and thumped mugs down on the counter. Anyone who didn't like it, his attitude declared, was a lazy slugabed who should have paid for a room far from the racket. That his serai didn't have rooms enough for all his guests bothered him not a bit.

As Hamnet sat up and yawned, one of the men who'd come in for breakfast walked over to him: a nondescript fellow, not too tall or too short, not too fat or too thin, not too young or too old, with features altogether unmemorable except for gray eyes of uncommon alertness. “You are Count Hamnet Thyssen,” he said. It was not a question.

Count Hamnet got to his feet.
Here we go,
he thought as he belted on his sword, which had lain beside him. “That's right,” he said aloud. “I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.” That sounded politer than
Who the demon are you?
even if it meant the same thing.

“I'm Kormak Bersi,” the man replied—a name as ordinary as his looks. “I have the honor to serve His Majesty.”

That was a polite phrase, too. It meant
I'm an agent,
though it sounded nicer. “Well, what Raumsdalian doesn't?” Hamnet said. He pointed to the oatcakes and mug of beer Kormak was carrying. “Do you mind if I get myself some breakfast, too? Then we can talk, if talk is what you've got in mind.”

“By all means, Your Grace, feed yourself,” Kormak said. “And talk is the only thing I have in mind, believe me. I'm a peaceable man.”

“That's nice,” Hamnet said. “But whenever somebody says, ‘Believe me,' I usually take it as a sign I shouldn't. I hope that doesn't offend you . . . too much.”

Kormak Bersi's smile didn't reach his eyes. “Not . . . too much, Your Grace.” He had a blade on his hip, and looked to be in good shape. Count Hamnet thought he could take him if he had to, but didn't want it to come to blood. He stepped over a couple of Bizogots who kept snoring away despite the noise and got a breakfast like the one the Emperor's man had bought. Kormak sat down at a small table. “Will this do?”

“As well as anywhere.” Hamnet perched on a stool across from him. “Well? What's on your mind?” He tore off a chunk of oatcake, put it in his mouth, and deliberately began to chew.

Kormak also ate and drank a little before answering. Then, steepling his fingers in front of him, he said, “A bit of a surprise, discovering you back in Raumsdalia.”

“Life is full of surprises,” Hamnet said stolidly. He had to fight a scowl as he raised his mug to his lips. The surprises he'd got lately weren't pleasant ones.

“What do you suppose Sigvat II will think of your return?” Kormak Bersi asked, as if it mattered no more than the price of a jug of wine.

“I hope he'll think I wouldn't come back unless it was important,” Hamnet replied. “You know about the Rulers?”

“I'm familiar with what you said last year,” Kormak answered, which was no surprise at all. “And some, ah, wild rumors have also come down from the Bizogot country more recently.”

“I'll bet they have. Most of what you've heard is less than what's really going on.”

“Oh? How do you know what I've heard?”

“Have you heard that the Rulers have already conquered most of the steppe?” Hamnet demanded. “Have you heard they've smashed the Leaping Lynxes? They're that far south, and getting closer.”

“I don't believe it!” Kormak Bersi exclaimed. “You're making that up so you can watch me jump and shout like a man a wasp just stung.”

“By God, servant of His Majesty”—Hamnet laced what should have been a proud title with scorn—“I am not. Some of these Bizogots lying here in the taproom are Leaping Lynxes. They're what's left of the Leaping
Lynxes now, or what's left that's still free.” He switched to the Bizogot tongue: “Marcomer! Are you awake there?”

“Afraid I am,” Marcomer answered glumly. “Why? What do you want? Who's that sour-looking fellow with you? I don't know enough Raumsdalian to follow the two of you going back and forth, jabber, jabber, jabber.”

“His name's Kormak Bersi, or that's what he says, anyway,” Hamnet replied, drawing a glare from Kormak and proving the imperial agent understood the Bizogots' language. Hamnet went on, “He serves Sigvat II. He doesn't believe you're from the Leaping Lynxes. He doesn't believe what happened to them, either.”

“Well, he's a bloody fool if he doesn't,” Marcomer said, ambling over to join them.

“Watch your mouth, you.” Kormak not only understood the Bizogot tongue, he spoke it well—and arrogantly.

“Oh, go bugger a weasel,” Marcomer said. “What the demon do you think you can do to me that the God-cursed Rulers haven't already done?”

“What
did
they do?” Kormak Bersi demanded. “So far, I've heard nothing but noise. What really happened?”

“Most of the noise is your own jaws flapping, seems like. Raumsdalians like to hear themselves talk, don't they?” the Bizogot said. If he was trying to annoy Kormak even more, he succeeded. In fact, he succeeded even if he wasn't trying. But while the imperial agent steamed, Marcomer told him of riding back to the stone huts at the eastern edge of Sudertorp Lake and discovering that the Rulers had got there ahead of him. He told of rescuing a tiny fragment of his clan and then riding after the band Trasamund led. And he finished, “Here we are in the Empire. If you think the Rulers are very far behind us, you're even stupider than I give you credit for.”

Kormak Bersi didn't seem any angrier, which proved he'd got caught up in Marcomer's tale. “His Majesty must hear of this, and quickly,” the imperial agent said. “Our officers up in the forest need to know of it, too.”

“If they don't know already, it isn't because we haven't spread the word,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “Of course, they may not want to listen. We can't do anything about that.”

“When do Raumsdalians ever listen to Bizogots?” Marcomer sounded more resigned than bitter.

“I'm no Bizogot,” Count Hamnet reminded him. “Neither is Ulric Skakki . . . and neither is Audun Gilli.” The last name tasted like bad fish in
his mouth; he spat it out as fast as he could, and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve afterwards.

“If what I hear is true . . .” Kormak Bersi began, and then stopped in alarm, for Marcomer's growl sound much like an angry dire wolf's. The Raumsdalian agent had nerve, for after gathering himself he repeated, “If this is true, it changes the nature of the orders I have.”

“What kind of orders are those?” Hamnet asked. “Lock me up, lose the key, and God forbid you should pay attention to anything that comes out of my mouth?”

“Something like that.” Kormak could sound almost as dry as Ulric Skakki. “But I may have to think twice.”

“That would be nice. Most people have trouble enough thinking once,” Count Hamnet said.

“Your precious Emperor must, if he doesn't believe the things he's heard about the Rulers,” Marcomer said.

Kormak looked at him—looked through him, really. “You will find it a good policy not to speak ill of His Majesty,” he said, his voice as chilly as if blown on the Breath of God.

“Why? If somebody's an idiot, how's he going to find out he's an idiot unless somebody else tells him so?” Bizogots didn't waste a lot of respect on their clan chiefs. To Marcomer, Sigvat II was nothing but a jarl writ large.

To Kormak Bersi, the idea that the Emperor might be an idiot wasn't far from blasphemous. “His Majesty is not an idiot,” he said stiffly. “His Majesty cannot be an idiot.”

“Why not?” Now Marcomer sounded honestly puzzled. “Isn't that like saying he can't shit? Everybody's an idiot now and again, on one thing or another. Over women, usually, or over men if you're a woman, but other stuff, too.”

“His Majesty is not an idiot,” Kormak repeated in tones more gelid than ever. “Anyone who says otherwise will be very, very sorry.”

By Marcomer's expression, he thought the threat was idiotic, too. Hamnet Thyssen kicked him under the table to keep him from saying so. Hamnet also thought the threat was idiotic, or at least juvenile, but he knew the agent could enforce it. Marcomer glowered but, for a wonder, took the hint.

Ulric Skakki came down then, looking indecently—and that was probably just the right word—pleased with himself. He stopped and grinned. “Well, well! Kormak Bersi, as I live and breathe!”