upwards. Loki was staring at him, the disir’s head on one side.
“Well, now, little named one,” the disir said. “What have you brought me this time?”
Deed reached into the pocket of his coat and drew it out from its leather box. A scrap of flesh, green as mould and still wet. Scales shifted, opalescent in the bone light as the disir held out a taloned hand. The god never snatched. He took the flesh with a mincing, pinching movement and then it was gone.
“Not bad,” Loki breathed. “Rusalka?”
Deed nodded. His pocket still felt river-wet. “From the Northern Quarter, the forests.” The hunter had overcharged, too. Deed was not inclined to argue, at least, not just yet.
“So,” Loki said again. “You’ve brought me a little present. How kind.”
Deed took a breath, wondering if he’d have to invoke the old law, remind the god that an offering required a reply. But the disir took pity on him.
“What do you want, O my descendent? Answers? Or a question?”
“I’ve seen the Library,” Deed said. He felt he was radiating excitement. “As it first was when they stole it, not as it is now. The predictions didn’t lie. It’s there, in the past of the Liminality.”
“We knew
“But no one has been able to see it. The Skein kept us out. And now-I
The skull-face of the disir grinned wider. “But what are you going to
“Get it back. Bring the Library of Alexandria through, replacing the version that now stands in the Citadel. Place it and the knowledge that it contains under the control of the Court.”
“Ah,” said the god. He knew damn well, Deed thought. Generations of preparation had gone into this. He just wanted to hear Deed say it. “How do you propose to do that?”
The Abbot General, at last, turned to face him. “I need your help.”
With the god within him, the Abbot General walked to the edge of the ridge and looked down. Loki was an uneasy rider; Deed felt like a horse whose reins were in a cruel grip. He did not trust the old god not to jerk them at a whim, tearing at the mouth. But for now, Loki’s presence was bearable. Just.
The encampment sprawled along the edges of a lake. It was ice-bound along its shore, but further out Deed could see the gleam of sullen water, greasy with cold. A low range of hills, furred white, ran along the furthest shore. Deed did not know where this corresponded to in Earth’s past: probably Lapland, or northern Russia. It didn’t really matter, this far back along the storyways: the tribes had held much in common.
It would be going too far to call them “tents.” They were stretched hides, tied to poles. The disir did not suffer from the cold, as humans did. There were no fires-they were afraid of fire, an atavistic dread that Deed felt superior in having conquered. The disir ate their food raw, and preferably bloody. At the far side of the encampment, a range of poles each boasted a severed head: some human, some not. One was a wolf’s and Deed could not help wondering if this had belonged to an animal, or one of the clan members.
“See her?” Loki whispered, inside his mind. There was the sound of smacking lips, a lecherous sigh. “Fancy a tumble in the snow, Deed?”
Deed did not. The disir was tall, well over six foot in height, and as gaunt as a goat. Her long face was tattooed in the tribe sigils and she had a long crest of hair, bound with an iron band, on the top of her head. She wore armour of skins, and her person clanked with hoops of silver, lead, and carved coal encrusted with protection runes. At her waist, she wore a small skull with a long snout and sharp teeth.
“Not my type,” Deed said.
The old god laughed. “I can see a little thing inside your mind: half-human, eh? So refined, with those tip- tapping heels.”
“Her name’s Darya. Don’t go imagining any great romance.” He’d have to take better care to school his thoughts.
Loki laughed again. “Does she change when you fuck her?”
“No more than most women.”
The god within nodded towards the tall disir. “She’s the shaman. Or one of them. You can see-she whispers with magic. She’s stolen power from animal totems, mainly bear, wolverine, raven. Anything that likes a fight.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, you see,” the god said, “this is nearly forgotten, this story. People have progressed too far.” He made Deed’s head turn, and spit into the snow. “They’ve forgotten these old tales of the old north lands. They remember me-quite well, actually-and the others, but the Vanir-not so much. Frey was fading even in my day. Anything further back from that, forget it. Literally. So you have a storyway on a siding, a tale that no longer grows, changes, moves. All these creatures are just hanging around here with nothing to do. Do you think that’s
Deed shrugged. “
“Yes, but you’re not exactly some tribal chieftain, are you? You’re a descendant, partly human, mainly changed. I know you can show the teeth if you want to, and sometimes when you don’t, but there you sit, in your fancy clothes, in your smart office of the Court-not exactly roaming the tundra, are you? Not exactly hunting and gathering?”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Deed, Deed.” The god’s chastisement was like having a slap to the brain. Deed reeled, and only regained his balance on the ridge with difficulty. “Look at the opportunities. There are thousands of the disir, all with raging aggression and nothing on which to vent it except bunnies. What does that suggest to you?”
“An opportunity.”
“Quite so. I’ve conducted a little experiment. Some days ago, one of those dear ladies strayed a little too close. So I sent her on a little holiday down a storyway, into your city. I wonder where she’s ended up?”
“Into Worldsoul?” Deed asked, in alarm.
“Quite so. I lost her after that. Can do the first push, but not much more.”
Deed was silent, and into his silence, Loki poured a plan. Then he sealed it, like someone putting a lead lid on a jar and welding it shut.
“You see,” he told Deed, just before the magician blacked out, “I don’t want you remembering everything. Some, but not all. That might lead you to tell other people, especially under duress. So you just go back to that city, and do my bidding, and everything will become clear. Eventually.”
Returning to the Court, Deed felt as if he’d been gone for years. The Dead Road was like that: it was one of the most dangerous storyways of all. He doubted that anyone outside the Court even knew of its existence, although perhaps some of the Eastern mages trod their own version. Had Deed been truly human, it could have snatched him away, showing him its beautiful, flower-filled face, leading him lost and uncaring until the moment when it revealed itself for what it was and spat him out.
Good thing he wasn’t truly human. He thought back to the meeting with Loki. He remembered that the god had told him about a disir, sent into the city. That had to be a priority: he made a note on official parchment, and sent it to the Sept. But for the rest-try as he might, he couldn’t uncork the jar of memory. The old god had programmed him, as neatly as if he were a computing machine. Deed was disir enough to resent this, but man enough to recognise the sense behind it: any conscious information can be extracted under enough torture. The trouble was, how can you trust a trickster god?
The answer was: you can’t.
He sat back in the deep leather chair of his chamber, nursing the whisky. It tasted of peat, of age, of blood. He savoured it with disir senses humans did not possess. Even the disir needed down-time. Deed adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, meticulously picked a speck of lint from the black velvet. He was slightly disappointed when Darya walked in, her clicking heel-taps muffled by the thick carpet. She was smiling, and for a moment, Deed felt something that might almost be described as affection.
“I spoke to True. A dear old man,” she said. Her smile grew sharper.
“You’ve got the permit?”
“Oh, yes, Abbot General. He was so helpful,” Darya said. She sat down opposite, sinking into the seat and taking the glass of whisky that Deed proffered. “We had a most interesting chat and he’s given me a letter. Also he
