Sæmundur tried to read the faces of Leifur and his companions. There was not a hint of suspicion. Just the mocking disdain.
“The library? How? That’s impossible.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone’s saying. But something happened, everything’s on high alert down there.”
“What …’ He cleared his throat, tried to look nonchalant. “Who on earth would think to break into Svartiskóli?’
“You tell me, buddy. It’s simply mad.”
Leifur said and laughed with his friends. Sæmundur kept quiet and stared them down. Their laughter quickly dissipated.
“They’re saying it was a terrorist group,” Leifur said in a serious tone, pleased to find himself the centre of attention. This was his night. “Some kind of revolutionaries. Definitely the same group that has been painting the thaumaturgical graffiti all over town. Fucking bottom feeders. Those psychopaths apparently used some form of seiður at the riot they planned, I heard their signs and banners were laced with seiðmagn. I just hope the Crown can get their hands on those idiots before they do any more harm. It’s because of this sort of garbage that desperate measures had to be taken at City Hall. They act like goddamn savages and make others suffer for their actions. They’re planning something big, you can count on it.” Leifur nodded wisely and took a sip of his beer. “They must have stolen something extremely dangerous from the library.”
“Right,” Sæmundur said. “All right, Leifur. See you around.”
He headed out and heard the snickering and mocking remarks as soon as he turned his back on them. He was glad. To them nothing was as preposterous as him doing the heist. Sæmundur the Mad? The drug addict and lunatic? To them he was just a burnout who wouldn’t amount to anything. They wouldn’t be saying that, in the end. He’d silence these fools, no matter the cost. He just had to take the next step. He had started down a winding path he didn’t fully understand yet. Kölski would guide him.
His heart was pounding as he left the bar. They were blaming Garún’s group for his heist? He was furious at himself. He couldn’t do anything right. He’d first betrayed her by being ashamed of her. Then again by sacrificing Mæja. He was doing a fantastic job proving her right, that he was selfish and egocentric. He’d sacrificed lives for his search of power. Now he’d sacrificed her as well. He wanted to disappear. Become nothing. But that wouldn’t do. He had to find Garún and make things right.
Trailing behind him, consistently keeping Sæmundur at such a distance that he was always just a step from being out of sight, was a man so wholly unremarkable that he could have passed his own mother without a second glance. He adjusted his hat and followed in the galdramaður’s wake. If anyone had noticed him it would have been an uncomfortable, if forgettable, moment, as the man in question didn’t look like anyone at all.
Fjórtán
Garún was a Hrímlander. She was used to the everlasting darkness of winter. But in the Forgotten Downtown, time ground to a halt. There was no way to tell if it was night or day. At first Garún had made an effort, but as time wore on the boundaries quickly became more abstract and she stopped caring. There was only candlelight and the dangerous glow of the hrævareldar. She’d given anything for a glimpse of sunlight.
She wanted to get out after the first night. The thought of being truly forgotten here stirred a real fear within her. She sat on the bed and lit a tallow candle to see her watch. There were no electric lamps here and no moon in the sky to illuminate the dark. Seven thirty. She’d slept for almost twelve hours.
Her room was a wreck. Old furniture, that no one had ever built or purchased, had been broken into scraps and splinters of wood. Squatters had stayed here before, leaving behind ruined mattresses and broken junk. Time stood still. She kept the bare necessities ready in her backpack, in case she needed to move. This was not a place she intended to settle into. She had to get out, go somewhere else. The air in the apartment was suffocating, the reality waiting outside like a bad dream. Reality had failed her. Now only nightmares remained.
At first Garún spent her time wandering around the Forgotten Downtown, but she quickly gave that up. She had nowhere to go and the streets weren’t safe. The empty windows looked as if they were hiding something. The hrævareldar were stalking her. She found them appearing unusually frequently in her way, so she had to regularly divert her path to avoid them. It felt as if they were tracking her.
Her fingers itched to paint. She had nothing better to do than drink, so she spent her time at Gómorra. The place was empty and depressing. Dejected drunkards and addicts stared down into half-empty glasses of beer. An old record player played old-fashioned songs about romance in the countryside and that most beautiful island in the north. The warped records and ageing record player lent the sound a hollow tone, making the cheerful songs sound sombre. Gómorra was the only place of entertainment in the Forgotten Downtown, located in a house that seemed have been converted from old fishermen’s huts. Around the neighbourhood were many buildings related to the fishing industry, even though they’d never been used for that purpose. They were useless; after all, no one rowed out into the unnaturally calm sea.
She ignored everyone and everyone ignored her. A silent agreement had been established. It was only here, on the edges of the real, that she could live a life where she was free to be herself. There were no glares here, no people to bribe just to be treated like everybody else, nobody looked at her twice, let alone gave her any kind
