They spent a week at the Red Hart. Yalmar told them things about Ragnar they had never heard at home. The Itaskian proved likable, despite an overpowering tyranny when he made them study his language.
Strange, hard men visited Yalmar late at night, though he steadfastly denied their existence. It finally dawned on Bragi that Yalmar did not trust them completely either.
One night he asked, “About the amulet, map and dagger...”
Yalmar laid a finger across his lips. He checked the windows and doors. “They’re why I owe your father. If I have to run, I can go knowing he provided means elsewhere. Now forget about it. The Brothers would be displeased. There’s honor on the Inside. There’s fear or friendship. Your father and I were friends.”
Later, he told them, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing for you here. I’d say go south. Try to catch on with the Mercenary’s Guild. High Crag is taking on recruits.”
Next afternoon, Haaken grumped, “This loafing is getting old, Bragi. What’re we going to do?”
Bragi touched his mother’s locket. “There’s Hellin Daimiel. I’ll talk to Yalmar.”
The day following Yalmar announced, “I’ve gotten you guard jobs with a caravan leaving tomorrow. There’s a job you can do for me while you’re at it. A man named Magnolo will be traveling with the caravan. He’ll be carrying something for me. I don’t trust him. Watch him.” He added some details. “If he takes the package to anyone but Stavros, kill him.” Grimly, Bragi nodded.
“Bragi?” Haaken asked.
“Yeah?” Bragi poked the coals of their campfire, watched them glow briefly brighter.
“I kind of wish we didn’t kill that guy Magnolo.”
The man Yalmar had set them to watch had delivered the Itaskian’s package to a house in the fanciest quarter in Hellin Daimiel. In their enthusiasm to fulfill their charge the youths had not only killed Magnolo, they had injured the gentleman he had visited and had killed one of the bodyguards. Aghast, panicky, they had fled the city.
“I’m hungry,” Haaken complained.
“Don’t seem to be much game in these parts, does there?”
They had made camp on a rocky hill eight miles northeast of Hellin Daimiel, in the only uncultivated area they could find. Hellin Daimiel was an old city. Its environs had been tamed for ages. Small game, especially agricultural pests, had been eradicated. The youths had eaten nothing but fish for three days, and those were treasures hard- won from irrigation canals.
“What’re we going to do?”
Haaken sounded a little frightened.
Bragi did not mention it. He was scared too. They were on their own in a foreign, indifferent land.
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“We don’t have too many choices.”
“I know.”
“We can’t just stay here. Not only will we starve, we’re Trolledyngjan. Somebody’s going to jump us for that.”
“Yeah. I know.” They had had their run-ins already. Trolledyngjans were not popular anywhere near the sea.
“We could go ahead and try the Mercenary’s Guild.”
“I just don’t like the sound of that. All that marching around and saying ‘Yes sir, no sir, by your leave, sir.’ I don’t think I could take it. I’d pop somebody in the snot box and get myself hung.”
“It doesn’t sound so bad to me. We could try it. They say you don’t have to stay if you don’t like it. It isn’t like joining a regular army.”
“Maybe. Okay? I’ve been thinking about something else.” Bragi rose and moved to a large boulder. He leaned against it and peered out across the plain surrounding Hellin Daimiel.
Even by night the view reflected the studious planning characteristic of these peculiar people. The lights of the planned villages where the farm laborers lived made points on the interstices of a grid. The grid was more clearly discernible by day, in the form of carefully maintained roads and irrigation canals. The city itself was a galaxy in the background.
A whippoorwill struck up its repetitive commentary somewhere downslope. Another vocalized agreement from a distance. A gentle breeze climbed the slope, bringing with it scents of crops still a few weeks short of being stealably ripe.
The lights died away till Bragi was alone with the darkness and stars. They formed an immense silver girdle overhead. He stared at them till one broke free and streaked down the sky. It raced toward Hellin Daimiel.
He shrugged. An omen was an omen. He went and sat across the coals from his brother, who seemed to be asleep sitting up. Softly, he said, “I wonder where mother is now.”
Haaken shook all over, and for a moment Bragi was scared something had happened. Haaken was the sort who could become deathly ill without saying a word.
His concern was short-lived. There was enough light in the fire to betray the tears on Haaken’s cheeks.
Bragi said nothing. He was homesick too.
After a time, he remarked, “She gave me this locket.” He waited till he had Haaken’s attention. “She told me we should take it to some people in Hellin Daimiel. To the House of Bastanos.”
“That’s not people. That’s what they call a bank. Where rich men go to borrow money.”
