“Yes, master. They are shrouded by feeble illusions. Seiður, it feels like. A person who has been stalking you. Their leader.”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He should have performed a galdur of hiding. Something. But he’d just stumbled around like an idiot.
“I can’t stay here. We have to go.”
“Very well, master.”
“You can’t remain as you are. If you’re seen among people there will be hell to pay. You’ll have to be disguised somehow. Can you turn yourself into a fly or some creature?’
“I’m afraid not, master. If only it were that simple. But with a simple word of command I can retreat back into the form of your shadow. Would that suit you?’
“It will do.”
“You can temporarily bind me back into the shadow-form with an archaic incantation. It is fairly simple in structure, but to keep the galdur strong you will have to constantly reinforce it. It will be draining. You will also need a different name from the one you now use to call me. Kólumkilli is one of my ancient names – one of hidden power and patience. That name is laden with the power of deception and illusion. I will teach you how to sing your shadow back into existence.”
It took him a long time to pronounce the name properly and incorporate it into the chant. There was something about the pronunciation that he had a hard time with. When Sæmundur spoke the galdur, the protective circle broke and the demon faded back into a flickering shadow.
* * *
Garún had walked past the building countless times, the windows broken and nailed shut here like everywhere else. When she looked inside there was nothing to see except scraps of wood and rusted iron, remains of large industrial machines. It was a dead place, abandoned, although she was certain that nobody had ever worked there. The only door was rusted shut. It turned out to be quite easy for her to break in through one of the windows. Silently she made her way between the machinery. The floor was covered with broken glass and scrap: screws, bolts, faded electrical wires with worn-out ends. No one had ever used these things. No one had made them or left them behind. Still they were here. Why? She pushed these thoughts away.
At the end of the factory floor was a dusty break room. Dirty mugs were in the sink and yellowed notebooks lay open as if someone had just stepped away decades earlier. Nothing was written in them. Rows of pale green steel lockers were at the end of the room. The paint was mostly peeled off and had fallen in flakes on the floor around them. Garún crammed herself into the third locker from the left and closed it.
The musty air was heavier in there. The faint light trickling through the vents on the door faded. She heard nothing except her own breathing. Then she was there. She could smell it before she could see it.
One moment she was inside a locker, trapped with the stale darkness, the next she stumbled around a corner and found herself in the middle of a market.
Oil lamps cast a yellow light on booths lining crooked, twisting paths. It was crowded, making her feel as if she was actually in Reykjavík proper. The market was in a large building, probably a warehouse, but the windows had been bricked over. Nobody paid her any mind, despite her being the only blendingur in sight. It smelled of old books, stockfish and dusty heirlooms, lost trinkets and family baubles that nobody wanted any more. People who might have seemed quite normal in Reykjavík became undesirables in Kolaportið, odd and fetid; here new clothes were as worn-out rags. Gaunt paupers tried to pawn an odd mismatch of junk and knickknacks, stern marbendlar offered lumpfish, shark and other peculiar creatures from the deep. Kuklarar sold illegal, homemade magical solutions and sorcerous artefacts, eccentric collectors displayed stamps, books and collectibles. Hunched náskárar patrolled from booth to booth in their odd, three-legged walk. They carried no decorations, but were fully armed with leaden skrumnisiron, fused to their beaks and claws. They stood a head taller than everyone else, who made sure not to be in their way. Garún realised that they were korpar, warriors without clan or honour. Two walked past her, their iron talons hitting the floor like swords dragged over stone. Everything was for sale but nothing was priced, and a shiver crawled down Garún’s spine as she considered that perhaps some wanted something besides krónur for their wares. Just like Feigur.
She wandered aimlessly around the market. Beside the occult items and a few illegal books, she did not find much that aroused her interest. She bought a used oil painting set cheap and a few ragged brushes with it. At another booth she bought old and torn sheets. She knew that she was being fleeced for these common items because she was a blendingur. Haggling was no use – the prices were as set in stone as in the finest colonial store. But at least she got to shop. Here, among the dregs of society, she belonged. More or less. Garún had very little money left, only a few krónur. She thought it more important to paint than to eat, however. Before she headed out she bought herself a long, sharp knife in a sheath for two krónur, discarding her old, dull dagger which was more useful for threatening rather than an actual confrontation. It was a soldier’s knife and she got it cheap. Being found in possession of stolen loot from the royal army was not desirable.
Kolaportið had only one door. A golem made from whitewashed driftwood stood guard and let people out, sometimes in groups, sometimes one at a time. The eyes of the golem were conches; inside each was a drooping growth similar to a sea anemone. Garún stood in line until it gestured to her to approach. As soon
