Beyong the Gap

not have to. As long as he didn't have to deal with Gudrid, he felt he could do anything.

The Great North Road ran from the Raumsdalian capital toward the imperial border—and toward the Bizogot country beyond it. Armies had moved up that road more often than Hamnet could easily count, ready to repel invaders from the north. And the barbarians had spilled into the Empire more often than he could easily count, too. Its riches and the better weather it enjoyed drew them like a lodestone.

One of these days, Hamnet supposed, the Bizogots would win, and either put one of their own on the Raumsdalian throne or topple the Empire altogether. Nothing lasted forever. It seemed not even the Glacier lasted forever, although a couple of lifetimes earlier everyone would have thought the Glacier the one surely eternal thing God made.

Was God himself eternal? Hamnet Thyssen uneasily looked up into the steel-blue sky. If God himself might pass away, who rose to power after he was gone? Men intent on their affairs? Women intent on their affairs? (Gudrid was certainly intent on hers.) Or older, darker Powers God had long held in check?

What was the Golden Shrine, anyway?

Ulric Skakki chose that moment to remark, 'A copper for your thoughts, your Grace.' Hamnet was a man who made a habit of saying what was in his mind, even—perhaps especially—when no one had asked him. He told Ulric Skakki exactly what he was thinking about. The younger man blinked; whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a copper coin. Offering it to Count Hamnet, he said, 'Well, your Grace, I got my money's worth.'

Hamnet solemnly stowed the coin. 'We endeavor to give satisfaction. It doesn't always work, mind you, but we do endeavor.' He thought of Gudrid again. But it wasn't that he hadn't satisfied her. He had, as far as he could tell. She'd wanted something else, something more, from him. Whatever it was, it seemed defined not least by his inability to give it to her.

Did her first lover, the one who laughed? Did Eyvind Torn Torfinn? Did Trasamund? Did having them give her what she craved? Was having them what she craved?

If Ulric Skakki had chosen that moment to ask him for his thoughts, he would have lied without the least hesitation. He didn't mind talking about the death of the Empire, or about the death of the Glacier, or even about the death of God. The death of the one real love of his life? That was different.

Farmers weeded their young, hopeful crops of rye and oats off to either side or the road. Barley rarely succeeded north of Nidaros, even now. Wheat? Maize? Those were crops for softer, more luxurious climes. The farmers always seemed to have one eye on the north. If the Breath of God blew against them for long, their crops would wither and freeze and fail, even here. Then they would live on what they'd stored in better years, and on what they could hunt.

Or they would die. It happened, in hard years. Oh, yes—it happened.

No one hurried. Neither Trasamund nor Audun Gilli was any sort of a horseman, while Eyvind Torfinn might have been once upon a time but wasn't any more. Some of the Raumsdalians in the party might not have been anxious to leave the Empire behind—not in their hearts, anyway, no matter what their heads might tell them.

Hamnet Thyssen knew perfectly well what lay beyond the border. Nomad huts on the tundra—land crushed flat by the Glacier that had lain on it for so many centuries. Herds of half-tame musk oxen and mammoths guided—when they could be guided—by half-tame men. Meltwater lakes. Cold beyond what even Nidaros ever knew. Wind almost always from the north, almost always with frigid daggers in it. Snow and ice at any season of the year.

And then—the Glacier itself.

Yes, it was wounded. Yes, if Trasamund spoke truly, the Gap had at last pierced it to the root. Not the Glacier any more, but Glaciers, divided east and west. Count Hamnet shook his head in slow wonder at that. But still, any man who ever saw the Glacier, even diminished as it was, knew in his belly what awe meant. It went forward and back—more back than forward of late—like alive thing, but it swallowed the whole north of the world.

Well, most of the north of the world, anyhow. If the Gap ran all the way through it... That was why they were here.

The Golden Shrine. Hamnet glanced over at Earl Torfinn. No, he hadn't believed in the Golden Shrine. Even if he had believed in it, what difference would that have made? With the Glacier between Raumsdalia and the Golden Shrine, whether it was real might trouble scholars, but not ordinary men. Count Hamnet was not exactly an ordinary man, but he was no scholar, either, and just as glad not to be one.

Ulric Skakki puffed on a long-stemmed pipe. Tobacco came up from the warmer climes of the south. 'Why do you smoke that stinking thing?' Hamnet asked. 'You'll just run out of your precious weed after we've been on the road awhile.'

'When I run out, I'll do without,' Ulric answered cheerfully. 'If you don't like the smell, I'm sorry. You can ride upwind of me easily enough.'

'You didn't tell me why you smoke it,' Hamnet said.

'Well, maybe I didn't.' Ulric Skakki smiled and shrugged. 'I've got to where I like the taste, though I didn't when I started.' Count Hamnet made a face. Ulric laughed. 'Tell me you liked beer the first time you drank it,' he said. Hamnet couldn't, and he knew it. Ulric went on, 'And the smoke relaxes me, and fiddling with the pipe gives me something to do with my hands. Does that suit you?'

'Reasonable today, aren't you?' Hamnet Thyssen said with a crooked smile.

Laughing, Ulric bowed in the saddle. 'I'll try not to let it happen again, your Grace.' He pointed north. 'Is that a serai up ahead?'

Hamnet eyed the large, low building by the side of the road. The lower half of the wall was of stone, the upper of timber. Smoke rose from three brick chimneys. 'It's not likely to be anything else,' Count Hamnet said.

'Well, no.' Ulric Skakki's smile was so charming, it made Hamnet distrust him on sight—as if he didn't already. Smiling still, Ulric went on, 'Do you think we're likely to come to another one before nightfall?'

'Mm—I daresay not,' Hamnet answered. 'They aren't usually set close together—if they were, they'd hurt each other's trade.'

'Then shall we stop?' Ulric said.

'Why ask me?' Hamnet Thyssen returned. He knew why the others were on the expedition. Trasamund had actually gone beyond the Glacier. Eyvind Torfinn knew whatever there was to know about the Golden Shrine. If Audun Gilli could remember his own name, he was a wizard. Ulric Skakki could get his hands on anything that wasn't nailed down—and steal the nails if that looked like a good idea.

Which leaves me, Count Hamnet thought. He could ride and he could fight and he was glad for a chance to escape the Raumsdalian Empire. All of that was well enough. But did it make him the leader? Ulric Skakki seemed to think it did. Ulric wouldn't want to lead himself—it was too much like work. But Eyvind Torfinn was a belted earl, while Trasamund was a jarl and as arrogant as anyone Hamnet had ever met. He didn't much want to lead such a motley crew.

But then Trasamund guided his horse close by Hamnet s. 'Shall we stop at that serai for the night?' the Bizogot asked.

Hamnet stared. Did Trasamund think he was in charge, too? He hadn't looked for that. But he said, 'Yes, I think we'd better. We won't come to another one before the sun goes down.' Trasamund nodded and rode away.

Eyvind Torfinn didn't even question Hamnet's right to decide. Neither did Audun Gilli, though Count Hamnet would have been astonished if he had. It's on my shoulders, Hamnet thought. And when things go wrong—and they will—the blame will land on my shoulders, too.

Despite the chimneys, the common room in the serai was smoky enough to make Hamnet Thyssen's eyes sting. Some of that smoke came from the hearthfires, some from the cookfires back in the kitchen, and some from the pipes and cigars on which more than a few of the travelers puffed.

Gnawing on a turkey leg, Trasamund said, 'This is not a bad place.' A tall jack of beer sitting beside his trencher of hard barley bread probably went a good way toward improving his opinion. So did the smiles he'd won from the barmaid who'd brought him the jack. He had at least some reason to hope he'd win more than smiles