Diljá still persisted. “You’ve been working on something else, haven’t you? You said Styrhildur was managing the group.”
Garún nodded, unsure of how much she should say. She had been working on a new type of symbol, an eye-shaped rune made from clear delýsíð. It connected to a central symbol, elaborate graffiti she’d painted in the room where she squatted in Rökkurvík. It allowed her to remotely perceive things through the eye-runes, although what she could see of their surroundings was very haphazard and her control rudimentary. It was often hard to locate where the graffiti was located. Finding good spots to tag on was also another challenge. Finding places where they could perceive something useful, but still not be immediately spotted by a passing seiðskratti, was a problem. When the connection worked, however, it was like standing there in the flesh.
“I’m mostly just dealing with the group,” she said. “Not all of them can get the hang of using delýsíð.”
Which was true enough. Not everyone had a natural affinity for channelling seiðmagn, no matter how slight a trace, and they didn’t have time to refine that instinct.
Katrín returned with a round of drinks. Normally Garún would protest – who the hell buys people entire rounds? Fucking showoff. But she was as good as broke, and Katrín was flush. Let her pay for it.
“You should tell those journalists to get into hiding,” Garún downed the drink Katrín had just handed her. “I can find a place for them in the Forgotten Downtown.”
“I just told you – it will be fine. They know people, most of them are married to or are related to a goði in Lögrétta. Like I said, one of them is married to Sheriff Skúli’s cousin, for crying out loud.”
“Trampe will be coming for them. He won’t stand for this. They should go to ground before it’s too late.”
Katrín shrugged. Diljá remained silent.
“What have you been up to?’ She changed the subject.
Katrín reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of new copies of Black Wings. A striking cover in black and red, showing silhouettes of two humanoids and a marbendill raising their fists in unison, above and behind them a silhouette of a flying náskári with spread wings and three claws outstretched. In the background a coarse yellow outline of Perlan could be seen. The headline read in stark white letters:
UNITED WE STAND! RISE UP AND FIGHT!
It was a bit more daring than their usual fare. Hrólfur had apparently found an illustrator worth his salt.
“Hrólfur did it himself,” Diljá said, almost as if she was reaching out and reading her thoughts.
“I never knew he had it in him,” said Garún. “Are these out yet?’
“Freshly printed last night,” said Katrín proudly.
“These will go out tomorrow,” Diljá continued. “I’ve secured distribution around the city, especially in Starholt and central Reykjavík. The marbendlar will smuggle copies out to Huldufjörður and the coral cities. It’s unprecedented. People want to hear real, uncensored news, read real, unfiltered opinions.” She smiled. “People are finally listening.”
“Wait, sorry, just a second. Do you think we could add in a small leaflet?’
Her brow furrowed. “For what?’
“Listen. I wanted to meet up because I’ve been thinking about something. And now, seeing Jón’s picture in Ísafold … Well, it makes me doubly sure that it’s something we have to do. We need to rally people. Get them into one place and get them talking. More than what we’ve been doing lately. We need to make a stand.”
“Where are you going with this?’
“We need to remember who we’ve lost, and why. We need to keep their memory alive. We’re going to have a memorial concert in Rökkurvík. For those who died in the City Hall protest. And we’re going to use that as a stepping stone to stage a massive protest.”
She reached for Diljá’s drink and threw it back.
“We’re going to overthrow the government.”
Átján
The empty beer bottle shattered on the pavement. Everything was quiet, the streets empty. The last beer bottle foamed when Garún opened it. She drank the foam, sucked the warm beer off her hands. That six-pack had evaporated fast. She’d have to go back into Gómorra to get more. The thought of tonight’s concert made her sick with anxiety. She’d rather jam her hand in a náskári’s beak than have to go through with this. The alcohol’s numbness flowed over her, as if she was stepping into a hot bath.
Styrhildur had reported to her early the morning before. Not that the concept of morning made any difference in this place. It required a surprising effort on her part to keep up with Reykjavík’s time. Styrhildur told her that a group of taggers had been arrested. They’d grown cocky. They had been tagging Hlemmur train station, mere metres away from the massive police headquarters. Hlemmur station’s decrepitude was an anomaly in Reykjavík. The station was one of the busiest travel hubs in the city, and the one where hobos most frequently spent their time drinking or sleeping. It was almost as if the police station being so close placed the station in a blind spot.
Maybe that’s what the group had thought: they’ll never think to look right under their noses. Although the occasional tagger might get away with scribbling, and the police might turn a blind eye to human vagrants – emphasis on human – that didn’t mean that they’d stood a reasonable chance of pulling this off.
Rumours about the arrest all conflicted with one another. Some said that bystanders had gone berserk, which led the police to the taggers. Some said that a seiðskratti had set them ablaze, the police arresting the survivors. But the most reliable rumour that Styrhildur had heard was
