“You don’t say. This is quite something.” She reached for the beer. “I think I’ll take this now.”
Her cigarette had gone out. She lit it again and tasted the drink. It tasted fresh, crisp. Like the first beer of the night. He sat there looking at her, suddenly kind of awkward. She found herself blushing. There was something different about him. There was something there she hadn’t seen before. She didn’t know what to call it. This was uncharted territory for her. A human stranger had rarely lent her a helping hand, except for that farmer who had smuggled her in through the wall years before. But even then it had mostly happened because of her own effort and determination.
“Skál,” she said and raised her beer.
He raised his drink and toasted with her, smiling.
“Skál to you.”
She smiled with him. “My name is Garún.”
“Sæmundur.”
Tuttugu og sjö
Garún threw the waterproof sack tied around her waist on top of the decaying pier before she pulled herself up. Kryik’traak stayed behind in the river and stood watch. The jellyfish slid easily off her face. She spat out the blue mucus without retching or coughing, but still couldn’t help an involuntary shiver. It became easier with practice, but was still always as repulsive.
The pier was about to fall apart, having been out of use for years. They were at a branch of the Elliðaár rivers that had once seen a lot of traffic, but had fallen into disrepair after the Crown came and a large part of the industry moved out to Grandi. Abandoned fisheries and machine workshops lined the docks, the crumbled coral buildings sticking out of the river on the verge of collapse. In the moonlight they looked like coarse porcelain, lined with cracks.
Sæmundur stood by a stack of fish tubs, almost invisible in the gloom. She wouldn’t have noticed him except for the glow of a cigarette in his mouth. When Garún came closer she could smell the highland moss.
“So you finally showed up,” she said. “I suppose the charm you gave me was just useless junk? Not like I’d tell the difference. Or did you spend your days in a stupor smoking moss?’
He shook his head. “Stop it. I’m sorry I let you down. I was … in the middle of something difficult. But I’m here now. I want to help, if I can.”
“And you’re going to do that by getting stoned?’ It seemed as if he was about to protest, but she didn’t give him the chance. “No, you know what – I don’t care. It’s your business.”
He didn’t let go. “The thaumaturgical effect of the moss can affect galdur, Garún. I’m not—”
“A drug addict? Like I said – I don’t give a shit. And I mean it.” She shuffled her feet. “I need you to talk to the Ram Eaters. Katrín owes them money, a considerable amount. We need them on our side and we can’t have them interfering with us because of Katrín, if we’re going to pull this off.”
“Do what, exactly? And why does Katrín owe them money?’
“She smokes sorti. Smoked. She’s clean now.”
“Right. I’ll talk to him.”
“His people suffered greatly at the protest. He must be furious. We can offer him retaliation in the name of the Ram Eaters. Tell him we’ll be striking against the Crown soon. We’d appreciate their help in the aftermath, if possible. You’ll also be helping us with that – if you’re up for the task.”
“Anything,” he said.
She winced from the sycophantic offering of help, the eagerness of it. Thought of the quagmire of guilt and cowardice it spawned from. Sickening.
“At a certain time, we need you to use galdur to disable Loftkastalinn. Permanently, if possible. That can be Rotsvelgur’s revenge.”
It was an impossible request. A gargantuan undertaking, worthy of an army. But as she suspected, he instead tilted his head, considering it, weighing his options, probably already conceiving an insane method of making this suicidal request actually work. And that pleased her. She told him when, and where. Told him what they planned to do, and why. About the protests, the raid. He had no idea what had been happening.
“Níðstöng,” he said, after her summary. “Raising a níðstöng might do the trick. Rotsvelgur has suffered great dishonour at the hands of the Crown. We could offer to take out Loftkastalinn as retribution for the Ram Eaters.”
Fucking bastard.
“I just said that, before. I literally just suggested that you do that.”
Sæmundur looked embarrassed.
“Oh, well, I …’
“Listen, I don’t care. Whatever.” She refocused on what really mattered. “Take it out? Do you think you can actually do that?’
“I can do wondrous things now, Garún.” He sounded gleeful, excited at the prospect. “Unimaginable things. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
She looked out over the Elliðaár, away from him, taking in the city lights glistening like earthbound stars underneath the moon. Tried to calm herself, soothe the rage that threatened to burst at any moment. The moon was out, bathing the river in light, except the spot where Sæmundur stood.
“Why are you standing there in the shadows?’
“Because. It’s safer.”
She squinted, trying to see him better than as a black outline. Her eyes hurt from the strain, despite her seeing just fine in the gloom. The darkness was stronger around Sæmundur. Just like she’d seen around the police officers who had tried to arrest him.
“What have you been doing these last days? How did you not know about the protest? About the crisis this society is facing? What are you hiding with you in the dark?’
She moved closer to him, starting to feel the restraints of her rage come undone. What kind of mental condition he was in if he really intended to risk raising a níðstöng? She wished she cared enough about him to tell him not to do it, but any semblance of sympathy towards him had been incinerated when she found Mæja’s remains.
She’d buried her dead cat in the backyard. It was dangerous
