Garún glanced over the article. It painted, in no uncertain terms, Trampe as the perpetrator of outright murder of his own citizens and Kalmar as an oppressive force on the country. It was also partly a eulogy for Jón and his life as a poet and political ideologist fighting for a better world. She turned the page. Next up was a large double-page article about Perlan and the flying fortress. It was vehemently anti-war and anti-Kalmar.
“It’s almost as if this is ripped straight out of Black Wings,” Garún said. “Ísafold has never printed anything like this.”
Katrín smirked. “That’s because it is. Most of this is from the piece I wrote after the protest. We spread it all over Reykjavík. With Kryik’traak’s help we also got it to Huldufjörður and the marbendlar’s coral cities in the great lakes. Someone at the newspaper got hold of it, I think. The thing is that they’re taking a stand with us.”
Garún shook her head. “They’ll go to the Nine for this. The person who wrote this, their editor. They’ll shut down the newspaper.”
“Maybe if it was regular people doing the publishing. But these are powerful people, Garún. They’re close to people in power, real power. The journalist who wrote this, he’s married to Sheriff Skúli’s cousin. Trampe can’t just arrest them like that.”
“Right.”
She got the gist, clear enough. They’re people like me, not people like you.
“And you think this will actually do anything?’ Garún asked. “Besides get people arrested?’
“It will get the humans talking,” Diljá said. “We need to reach the regular people. The people who think everything’s fine just as it is. This is how we get them listening.”
Garún gave her a careful look. It sounded as if she believed it.
This should have been something that made Garún ecstatic. Powerful forces were aligning with their cause. The people were waking up to the everyday injustice all around them. And part of her wanted to rejoice, to celebrate. But she took in Katrín’s elegant dress – its expensive fabric, the brooch pinned to her chest, the dainty jewelled necklace around her neck – and understood what they meant: I am above you. I am wealthy. I am one of them. And we will now change things.
Garún thought of her mother. Of the years she’d spent pushing for change. How step by step she’d changed their small village, broken the taboos of the past. This was what she’d been fighting for. Then why did she feel so hollow?
“That’s great to hear.” Garún forced a smile. “Skál.”
“Skál!’
They all toasted and downed their drinks. The moonshine was awful. Diljá didn’t bat an eyelid, but Katrín turned so pale she almost seemed translucent.
“So, all right. What now?’
“Well,” Diljá said, “what have you been working on in Rökkurvík? Have you been tagging more?’
She sounded concerned. Katrín maintained a neutral façade, but Garún knew she must be seething. To her, the delýsíð was taking civil unrest too far. People didn’t trust illegal seiður, let alone galdur. Wealthy people, that is. But those with less often had to make things work using whatever methods they had. No matter how dangerous. Garún felt a painful pang as she thought of her mother.
Garún hesitated. She thought of the protest. Of how upset Katrín and the others had been. Of Jón lying in his blood, his body transformed by a violent death. She steeled herself. Thorvaldsen’s was shut down. That might not be much, but it was something.
“I’ve got a small group of people in the Forgotten Downtown,” she said carefully, gauging their reactions. “Styrhildur’s mostly leading them. I’ve taught them how to make a few basic delýsíð symbols. Graffiti that empowers dissent, empathy and courage. Similar to the symbol I made at Thorvaldsen’s store.”
Garún had showed the group a few well-placed portals in and out of Reykjavík. The would-be insurgents were long-time dwellers in Rökkurvík, by the Forgotten Downtown’s standards at least. A few of them had been there for a couple of years. Each was there escaping something; each had given up in some manner. But now they burned with drive and urgency.
Katrín was shaking her head in disbelief, but Diljá’s interest was piqued.
“How do you have enough delýsíð? What places are they targeting?’
“It’s extremely diluted. Not nearly as potent as what I’m using. So only a few milligrams go a really long way. There’s a handful of them, so they can watch out for each other. They’ve been hitting heavy concentrations of traffic. Large road intersections, train stations. Stuff like that.”
Katrín huffed. “This will only lead to the Crown mobilising more seiðskrattar in the city. Seiðskrattar which will get these people killed!’ She got up. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
They watched her walk away towards the bathrooms.
“How?’ Diljá asked. “How are you mobilising out of Rökkurvík?’
Garún reached into her coat for her pouch of tobacco.
“I can find new portals. Cracks in reality.”
She rooted around in her coat for the cigarette papers.
“How?’
There was something about the gleam in her eye that made Garún uncomfortable. Why was she so interested? Diljá had known everything about her movements the night that Viður betrayed her. Had that been her doing? She felt Diljá reach out for her, looking for some clarity as to her suddenly hesitant manner. Garún acted nonchalant as she rolled a cigarette, keeping her defences up. Diljá tried to hide the slight hurt in her eyes at the rejection.
“I have a method. That’s all.” She struck a match and lit the
