“He says thanks for the help. Some of us would’ve been killed if you hadn’t been in their way.”
Even the sergeant seemed well disposed.
“Now’s the time to make any requests. He’s happy. He’ll be in good odor when the Duke hears about this.”
“Could he give us some kind of traveling pass? To get us to the City?”
“Good thinking, lad. I’ll see.”
They were ready to travel when the knight finished writing.
Later, after his lips stopped quivering, Bragi started whistling. But his brother never stopped looking back.
Haaken was still watching for a change of heart when they reached the capital.
The Red Hart Inn was a slum tavern. It was large, rambling, boisterous and appeared on the verge of collapse. Evening shadows masked its more disreputable features.
The clientele fell silent at their advent. Fifty pairs of eyes stared. Some were curious, some wary, some challenging, none friendly.
“I don’t think we belong here,” Haaken whispered.
“Easy,” Bragi cautioned, concealing his own nervousness. “Yalmar?”
No response.
He tried again. “Is there a man named Yalmar here? I come from Ragnar of Draukenbring.”
The Itaskians muttered amongst themselves.
“Come here.” A man beckoned from shadows at the rear.
The murmur picked up. Bragi avoided hard eyes. These were men Haaken and he had best not offend.
“In here.”
The speaker was lean, stooped, ginger-haired, about thirty-five. He limped, but looked as tough as the others.
“I’m Yalmar. You named Ragnar of Draukenbring. Would that be the Wolf?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“He sent us.”
“Why?”
“How do we know you’re Yalmar?”
“How do I know you’re from Ragnar?”
“He sent proof.”
“A map? A dagger, and an amulet of Ilkazar?”
“Yes.”
Yalmar’s grin revealed surprisingly perfect teeth. “So. How is the crazy bastard? We swung some profitable deals, us two. I picked the ships. He took them. I fenced the goods.”
Haaken grunted sullenly.
“What’s with him?”
“Ragnar’s dead. He was our father.”
“The infamous Bragi and Haaken. You’ve got no idea how he bored me silly bragging you up. Passed over, eh? I’m sorry. And not just for the loss of a profitable partnership. He was my friend.”
Neither youth responded. Bragi studied the man. This was an honest innkeeper? How far could he be trusted?
Their silence unsettled Yalmar. “So. What do you want? Or are you just going to sit there like a couple of clams?”
“I don’t know,” Bragi said. “Father was dying. He said to go to you, you owed him. We’re here.”
“I noticed. Better begin at the beginning, then. Maybe give me an idea what he was thinking.”
Bragi told the story. It did not hurt as much now.
“I see,” Yalmar said when he finished. He pinched his nose, tugged his golden chin whiskers, frowned. “You got any skills? Carpentry? Masonry? Smithery?”
Bragi shook his head.
“Thought not. All you people do is fight. Not your safest way to make a living. And it don’t leave you many openings here. Been at peace for fifteen years. And nobody in my business would use you. Too visible. And bodyguarding is out. Not enough experience. Tell you what. Give me a couple days. I’ll put you up meantime. Upstairs. Try to stay out of sight. I’ll put the word out that you’re protected, but that won’t keep the drunks from cutting you up. Or the police from breaking in to find out why I’m keeping Trolledyngjans.”
With no better option available, Bragi and Haaken agreed.
