“No, no, no, sit.” He motioned to her to quieten down. She looked at him, livid. “Sit!’ he commanded in a harsh tone.
She obeyed. She had a bitter taste in her mouth. Iron.
“Relax a little.” He dug around on the table for a pack of cigarettes. “You are always so wound up. They can’t trace it to me.” He held up a finger before Garún could interrupt. “Because there are people at customs and the police that work for me. Not the Crown. Me.” He lit himself a cigarette. “Don’t worry. It’s all good. Sometimes they just need to hit their smuggling bust quota.”
He offered her the pack but she shook her head. He stared at her and smoked so intensely that the cigarette almost burned up all in one drag.
“You really are tense tonight,” he said, exhaling smoke slowly.
She felt him suddenly fumbling around for her hidden emotions. It was aggressive, clumsy, a vulgar intrusion of her personal psychological space. It was repulsive. She pushed him back, hard, making him recoil visibly, and shut herself off from him. He looked surprised and then actually had the nerve to smile. Fuck that rotten son of a bitch.
“Just had some trouble downstairs,” she said. He nodded slowly, as if he knew exactly what she was talking about. “It’s nothing.”
“Anything I can do? You just have to ask.”
She knew that would be a dear favour to pay back.
“It’s all right. I’m fine. I just need the delýsíð.”
“I’m out, Garún, I told you.”
“You must be able to hook me up. Do you know anyone else? Someone who can be trusted?’
She emphasised the last word, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter in the slightest to Viður.
“That you can trust, huh?’
She felt him reach out again. Just on the surface this time. But she didn’t feel like letting him get close to her.
He furrowed his brow. Garún held his gaze. She tried to keep her face completely neutral. Frozen. But who knew what he could see? She might try to close herself off, but the huldufólk could possibly still pick something up. She also knew that Viður smoked highland moss regularly – a thaumaturgical plant that had a unique effect on the conscious mind. It might make him more proficient with the huldufólk’s innate gift. She couldn’t stand it, but Sæmundur had used the moss unsparingly in his research. Or that’s what he told himself it was for.
“Well,” Viður said finally, when she didn’t let down her guard or reach out in turn. “I know people who know people, who … know people. I still can’t guarantee anything. You’re not buying directly from me as usual. And the price is higher. Considerably higher.”
“Who are they? How do I reach them?’
“It’s not easy. He’s in the Forgotten Downtown.” He stopped her before she could say anything in protest. “I’ll give you instructions on how to get to the other side. Solid instructions.”
He started scribbling something down on a wrinkled sheet of paper. It took him a long time to write, in long careful strokes.
“Can I trust him?’
She tried to catch a glimpse of what he was writing.
He didn’t look up.
“Can you trust me?’
No.
“Yes,” she lied.
“If you say so,” he said with a smile, and looked up. The smile didn’t reach his dilated eyes. “It’s a big old house in Rökkurvík. You’ll find a huldumaður there. Odd fellow, with long hair, looks like he’s dying from hunger. Always wears the same torn leather coat. Name is Feigur. Tell him I sent you and you should be fine.”
“How do I get through to the Forgotten Downtown?’
He handed her the note. “These are solid gates both in and out. New ones, still hidden. Don’t let anyone see you cross.”
She nodded and stood up. Handed him a few banknotes without being prompted. He took them without counting.
“Thanks, Viður.”
“Any time, Garún.”
He watched her leave, never dropping his smile.
* * *
When Garún came downstairs Diljá had joined the others at the table. Styrhildur and Hraki were there with her. A strangely upbeat but sombre song blared from the speakers. Someone had put on a record. Diljá noticed Garún and looked concerned as she came closer and reached out for her emotions.
“Are you all right?’ she asked, and respectfully dialled her emotional outreach back. Garún replied in turn, but only out of politeness. Diljá felt mellow, tired, and now, slightly anxious. “I’m sorry,” Diljá continued, “but you look and feel like a goddamn mess.”
Garún shook her head quickly, then nodded. She noticed Styrhildur and Hraki sitting quietly next to Diljá, trying not to look as if they were worried about Garún.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need another drink.”
As she moved towards the bar Diljá placed a hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry,” Diljá said. “Let me do it. Cheaper, too,” she added, and flashed a quick, apologetic smile.
Garún returned it and went to sit down at the table. Diljá did that all the time. If something was easier for her because she was a huldukona, then she did it for Garún. If someone gave Garún shit because she was a blendingur, or just gave her shit in general, then Diljá always had her back. Always. Garún hadn’t known many friends like that in her life. The most beautiful thing about it was that it wasn’t exclusive to Garún. Although Diljá had taken more of a big sister approach to their relationship, she was also like this towards most people. She often helped or spotted other blendingar or huldufólk and backed them up in trouble. She stood up to injustice, regardless of whether it was major or minor – to her they were all gravely serious.
Styrhildur and Hraki had made it into the city only a couple of years earlier. Garún was so relieved and happy that Diljá had somewhat taken them under her wing. She’d helped them find jobs in Starholt and a small apartment that the siblings rented together. Garún loved them, they were blendingar like her and she’d known them
