“Leave me be.”
She sounded annoyed at the insistent interruption, dragged out of the viscous dreamscape she found herself stuck in.
“Elka is fine,” the man said. To Katrín’s relief, he released his grip on her arm. He bowed slightly, apologetically. “She’s just a bit lost in the fog.”
“You’re smoking drugs?’
Katrín immediately bit her tongue for sounding a bit too much like a goddamn schoolgirl.
“Yes, I suppose we are. You’re free to join us, if you want.” He sat back down on the sofa and started messing around with the pipe and the wooden box on the table. “It’s quite harmless, really.”
This was the most exciting thing that had happened to Katrín in a long time. The monotonous parties, the lack of prospects, her stifled aspiration. She wanted to run away from everything. But she had nowhere to run to. She stared at the woman, Elka, on the sofa. She was smiling. Despite her dazed state, to Katrín she looked full of life and indulgence. The dreams in her mind were coming to life. She wanted that. She wanted to let go.
She sat down in a chair next to the man.
“What is it?’ she asked.
The woman’s hand reached out and found hers. Elka started stroking Katrín’s hand, gently, affectionately. She felt herself blushing and was embarrassed for how her face must be glowing red.
The man remained impassive, tactfully ignoring Katrín’s visible embarrassment. He handed her the pipe. It was made from bone, carved in a pattern of faces of demons and vættir, connected with vines and malevolent flowers in full bloom. It was a femur. It almost looked human.
“It’s sorti,” he said, and smiled. “It will show you how much beauty there is in the world. It will transform your pain into a wonderful dream.”
Katrín wasn’t an idiot. She had known what it was. She’d heard rumours about Elka and this man, so she had gone looking for them. Still, she had enjoyed acting out this little play. She put the pipe to her mouth and leaned in towards the flame.
* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Katrín! Náskárar? Are you insane?’
Hrólfur jumped to his feet as soon as she’d mentioned the name and started pacing. They had resumed the discussion of Katrín’s situation now that she had rested properly. Garún felt an anxious knot when she thought of her short meeting with Rotsvelgur. Owing a náskári wasn’t good.
“What else was I supposed to do, Hrólfur? Go to the police? Drop in for a visit at the Nine and see if Mother and Father could help? I did what I needed to, like the rest of you. I knew he could get me safely to the portal to Rökkurvík. The náskárar would never betray me to the Crown. Unlike what Viður did to Garún.”
That last sentence visibly stung Diljá. She clearly felt guilty about that. Garún filed that away for later.
“She’s right,” said Garún. “A náskári would rather die than aid the Commonwealth. They have a very strict code of honour. Well –’ she hesitated – “unless he didn’t belong to a tribe.”
She looked at Katrín expectantly.
“I … I’m not sure. Aren’t all náskárar in a tribe?’
“No. Not all of them. A few have been excommunicated. Usually traitors or law-breakers. They’re called korpar.”
“Korpar? How can I tell if Hræeygður was one of them?’
“If he’s a korpur he won’t be decorated with significant colours or adornments. Weapons, sure, but nothing much besides that. Did Hræeygður carry something on himself – dyed feathers, cloth or bone?’
Katrín thought for a while.
“He had all kinds of bones and junk on himself. Hooks or fish-hooks? Femurs and all kinds of bones dangling everywhere. Does that mean anything?’
“A náskári never carries decorations without meaning. I’m not sure what the hooks mean and the bones are too generic. Do you remember any clear details about his decorations?’
“He had some kind of straps on, where all of this was hanging from. I remember he had a skull.”
“They call it hertygi. What kind of skull was it? Was it any specific colour?’
“I think it was a ram’s skull. It had horns at least, but maybe it was a goat. I don’t remember, I never really thought much about it. But it was all covered in red splotches. Like blood.”
Garún nodded. She had seen that before, during the meeting in Skeifan.
“He belongs to a tribe, so that’s good. But I’m not sure if it’s good company.”
“What do you mean?’ asked Hrólfur.
“A ram’s skull is the symbol of Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram,” said Garún. “The Ram Eaters. They are one of the largest and most powerful tribes in Reykjavík. They roost in Hræfuglaey and consider most of the city to be their territory.”
“Were they the ones who showed up at the protest?’ asked Diljá, hopefully.
Garún shrugged. “I think so. Maybe they’ve decided to ally themselves with us?’
“No, he …’
Katrín had to gather herself for a while. Spilling out all her secrets in such a short time must be taking its toll on her. Things she’d kept secret for years. Begrudgingly, Garún found herself respecting her more for it. It was as if she was burning away the weaknesses that had been burdening her for so long. It was ruthless. It was kind of beautiful.
“I had to pay him,” Katrín finally managed to say. “He wouldn’t help me for free.”
“How much did you pay him for the trip into the Forgotten Downtown?’ Hrólfur interjected.
Katrín didn’t reply and looked away in shame.
“You didn’t pay him, did you?’ he said wearily. “You owe him even more.”
“How much do you owe him?’ asked Diljá.
“Fifteen,” answered Katrín, so faintly it was barely audible.
“Hundred?’
Katrín shook her head. “Thousand.”
They took a collective breath. That was a small fortune.
“What else was I supposed to do?’ said Katrín, growing more agitated. “And so what if I owe him? I’ve owed him before!’
“Yes, but then you had the money to pay, didn’t you?’ said Garún. “You went to dear Father
