Freyas Saga Ch. 22

"'You want to play with me? You think you can threaten me? She is dead! She is beyond your reach! Her deeds die with her, and all that was hers, I have taken! You want to know my name?' Rolond, he doesn't answer. He's going blue. She shakes him like a dog shaking a sheep, and she says it again. 'You want to know my name?!'"

He paused, and poured himself more wine, and sipped it.

"Rolond goes No, and she throws him, and he hits the ground and heads for the lane. So I get up as quick as I can and run around to the front and I just managed to get inside the door. I think if she'd seen me she'd have killed me. So I go in and sit down, and I wait, and after a while the other one comes in and pays their bill. Then she's about to leave, and she sees me, and she comes over."

He had another drink of wine.

"She says to me, Are we all right, then? And I say yes. And she looks down at me, and she goes, You know, people think they see things sometimes, but things aren't always things. And I go, I know. And she goes, Take care of yourself, and do nothing stupid. Then she turns and walks out."

"Did you see either of them again?"

"No. The next day, they were gone."

"Did you speak with this Rolond about what happened?"

"No. He left the guard not long after."

"What became of him?"

"Last time I saw him, he was a full-time drunk," Iago said. "Well, I didn't expect much less. He always liked drink too much. My father said he never got over the war."

The thin young man finished writing.

"And you swear to the truth of this?" he said.

"On my brother's grave," said Iago.

The thin young man paused, and nodded.

"Then, thank you, sir," he said, rising. "Your story had certain points of interest."

He held out a hand, and Iago took it.

"What do you think it means?" Iago said.

"It is all a great puzzle, but this is a part of it, however insignificant," said the thin young man.

"All right then," Iago said. "Thanks for the wine."

"You're welcome," said the thin young man.

The door behind him opened, and the tall man was standing there. Iago went over and the tall man ushered him out to the front door.

"Here," said Iago, pausing on the step, "um, just one question."

"Ask away," said the tall man.

"The maid in there, Marie," said Iago. "What time does she get off?"

"Later," said the tall man, after a tiny pause.

"Will you tell her I'll be here?" Iago said, smiling. The tall man smiled back.

"No," he said kindly, and shut the door.

***

The tall man went back to the inner room. The thin young man was sitting at the table looking at his notes. The maid came in from the kitchen.

"Well?" said the tall man.

The thin young man looked at them both.

"That would seem to be final," he said quietly.

"Does, doesn't it," said the tall man. He turned and looked at the girl.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Sounds like...the trail ends here."

"You think?" The girl eyed them both. She looked at the thin young man. "So, what do you think happened?"

"I think it is as the boy said," he said. "Perhaps Freya did survive, but in any case, this woman, whoever she is, presumably a barbarian, killed her."

"I see."

"This woman, she fits what we have heard of the Serpent Queen. Surely a barbarian. Her short hair, her dark skin, the roughness of her speech. A tattoo on her face? No northern woman would adorn herself so."

"We in the north adorn our bodies with the sigils of combats we have seen," she said.

"And barbarians do so to mock you," he said. "The forest full of men? Being killed? It is the act of a barbarian, to mimic the ways of civilised folk."

"So, this Serpent Queen," said the girl, "whoever she is. Let's say she meets Freya wandering the wilderness. She kills her, probably takes her gear, and then brags about it months later to a drunk she's met, just to deter him from revealing the secret he has guessed."

"That's how it goes in the wild," said the tall man. The girl gave him a brief look, and shrugged.

"Hm," she said.

"Then there is her behaviour," said the thin young man. "This woman is apparently on intimate terms with another, younger woman. It is the manner of barbarians to form liaisons with those of their own sex. Freya was chaste. That was the source of her power. If the thing that attacked her took her chastity, well..."

The girl gave him a strange look which he couldn't read.

"You mean, losing her chastity cost Freya her ability to defend herself?"

"I have heard that she herself prized it, above even her own skill."

"I've heard different, but fine. So, to sum up, Freya is hideously ravaged by this thing in Casman. She is left alone to die. Nevertheless, she recovers, albeit weakened, and pulls herself together enough to wander the wild only to meet the only other woman in the world, hitherto unheard of, who is her equal in stature and who, although a barbarian, is wandering freely in the same region. Said woman has a female associate, who like Freya is from the north. The two women defeat Freya, take her gear, and then turn from killing complete strangers to ridding the free world of monsters, perhaps out of a sense of atonement."

The tall man and the thin young man looked at each other, uneasy.

"Doesn't it involve rather a lot of assumptions," said the girl.

"There is some sense in what you say," said the thin young man, "but how could anyone survive what you say Freya went through?"

"How can anyone defeat a worm?" said the girl. "They are supposed to be invulnerable. Yet the Serpent Queen is killing them."

"It's like I said," said the tall man, "that's how it goes in the wild! People are worse there! You know that. This woman is either bullshitting completely, or else she met Freya and killed her and did what the boy said. Barbarians don't give a fuck. Everywhere's the wild for them."

"Yes," said the girl, "that's how it goes in the wild, if you're ordinary. Like me. But you forget something. I've met Freya Aelfrethe. And she is not like me. She's not like you, either. You do know that her mother was a southlander?"

"No," said the thin young man.

"She didn't like people pointing it out," said the girl. "Her mother was a sore point with her, I don't know why. But her hair is black, though she dyed it green, and her skin is dark, like the boy said."

"But nobody could survive..."

"You couldn't survive it, Owyn Durberry," the girl said, "and neither could you, Mandel Berman. Me neither. But if anyone could, she could."

"Carfryn," said the tall man, "I want to think you're right, but come on. You want this to be true. You want to think she's alive."

"Yes, Owyn," said the girl, "I do want it to be true. I have to believe that what happened to Freya did not utterly destroy her. And I think you know why."

The tall man stared at her, and he kept silent.

"Still,'" she said, "just because I want it to be true, doesn't mean it isn't."

"But the girl," said the thin young man. "Her friend. Where'd she come from? And how come she knows how to fight?"

"I don't know," said the girl. "One of the party, perhaps, who got left behind. I admit that that's my assumption, as our war parties never took females other than Freya, but there must be some explanation."

She stepped forward.

"Think about it," she said, her eyes gleaming. "Come with me. Just for a moment. Instead of making up a complete stranger who behaves in this extraordinary way, killing Freya and then taking a northern girl under her wing and then roaming about hunting worms instead of going back to her own people, suppose just two things.

"One, that Freya survived. She'd be hurt, first of all, perhaps grievously. I don't like to think too hard about what exactly happened to her because my brother did not see everything, but what little I know makes my stomach turn."

She paused.

"Anyway, if what he told me was true then I'm not surprised that her voice were changed. But there is another thing, and that I do know about, and she is as vulnerable to that as anyone else."

She looked at the tall man.

"I mean the humiliation," she said quietly.

He met her gaze for a moment, then looked down and nodded.

"In her case it is a double one," the girl said. "First the thing happens to her at all, and then her men leave her there, like kitchen rubbish, not even wanting to touch her. That will have wounded her, perhaps more than the act itself. Now suppose the other thing: that just one stayed behind to tend her. Freya believe in loyalty. She had time for no-one but her own men."

"Surely she had friends, though," said the tall man.

"I can personally testify that Freya Aelfrethe away from a battlefield had all the grace and charm of a punch in the throat," the girl said. "She kept her warmth for her men. Now, if all but one had abandoned her, Freya would give that one all her loyalty, and expect it back. So there's your mystery girl."

"What about the tattoos," said the thin young man.

"The tattoos are there so that anyone who can read them can tell who she is," said the girl. "But now, she is humiliated and ashamed. She doesn't want people knowing who she is. Maybe later the shame passes, or maybe not, but in the meantime she takes drastic steps to make herself unrecognisable. She shaves her head and when her hair grows back, she stops dying it. She tattoos over her old sigils. She lets her southern blood show. She shows what she thinks of her glorious war record by making it look like a mockery of itself. Isn't it simpler than your mystery barbarian, who kills the north's greatest hero and still manages to recruit a northern girl as her cohort? Your barbarian woman must have uncommon powers of persuasion, but how can she, if she never talks?"

The two men were silent.

"No, gentlemen," the girl said, "I don't believe in your mystery woman. I see only one explanation."

She looked at them both.

For eight months, they had walked the roads and slept under the stars and in inns and on hard ground, through a wet autumn and a hard winter.

For eight months they had asked everyone they met the same questions. To begin with, she had asked questions, until she realised that men only ever gave her the answer they thought she wanted.

So they had reconfigured themselves. Mandel Berman had shaved off his beard and they had bought him new clothes, and he had become Marcus Bariani, scholar and writer. Carfryn had long discarded Anni's too-tight dress for sensible walking gear, but they had got rid of that too, and she had covered herself up and become Marie of Pendower, a shy maid who got to listen in on Marcus's every conversation. Owyn had simply remained himself, save in one respect. Since that night at the inn where Carfryn had tried to hang herself, he had drunk nothing but tea, with the occasional small-beer if tea was not available and he was excessively thirsty.

Being sober for the first time in ten years sharpened his senses and his conscience. It had confirmed his sense that she was the leader. He was the sword, although constant practice with the crossbow had brought her skill up to a formidable level. He had shown her how to wield a knife, how to climb walls, how to kill a sleeping man and make it look like he'd hung himself. She had learned quickly. He still found it hard to be in a room with her, but not as hard, he knew, as she still found it to be in a room with him. But they had persevered, and with every day, or rather every week, it became a little easier.

"Eight months," she said at last. "For eight months we blunder around in the dark, picking up rumours and hints and slanders and every kind of bullshit. This city has been my last hope. I would have given up weeks ago if it weren't for the fact that of all the fuckholes we've been to, we hadn't been to this one yet. And now, we are here for two days, and on the second day, a boy walks through the door and tells us a story."

She looked at them both. The excitement was building in her. Even if we don't meet that fool again, this is enough. This is a lifeline.

"Yes," she said, "the boy was a fool, but if he was a liar then call me Ulf Jansson. Some unknown woman come from god knows where, doing away with Freya only in order to vaguely resemble her, and then invokes her in a moment of carelessness...no. No, no, no. I don't buy it.

"She wasn't bragging about killing Freya. She wasn't confessing, either. It's been her, all along."

They looked at each other.

"I'm not going to pretend I know for sure," she said. "I'm not going to swear it on my brother's grave. Apart from anything else, my brother has no grave."

She smiled bleakly.

"But I'm as certain as I can be that the woman we are looking for is the Serpent Queen."

There was a silence.

"I'll believe it when I see her," said the tall man, "but, yes. Let's go and see her."

"Agreed," said the thin young man.

"Good," said the girl. "Then let's pack up and go. I'm off to the market to get us provisions. Of course, there is one thing about this that we should keep before us."

She paused.

"If I'm right, she's going to be very far from pleased to see us."

***

The door opened and the maid emerged, wearing a hood and a cloak and carrying a basket, and she set off up the street.

Iago hurried after her and caught up quickly.

"Hello," he said.

She darted a glance at him and walked faster.

"Hey," he said. "No need to be unfriendly."

"My apologies, sir," she said, with a shy smile. "I am busy."

"Not too busy to chat, though, I hope?" He turned on his most winning smile. She really was lovely, he thought; her hair was hidden under her cap and hood but she had large, sad eyes, and full lips, and now he was closer, he could imagine a very shapely body beneath her baggy working clothes.

"I'm afraid so, sir," she said. "I do apologise."

"Where you going?"

"To the market."

"What a coincidence. I'm going there. I could help you carry things."

"Once again, sir," she said, her smile fading, "I am sorry. I have not the time to make company."

"You're not from round here," he said. "I can tell from your accent. You stick with me, and I'll see you don't get ripped off."

"Sir," she said stiffly, "your interest in my person is flattering, but for various reasons I will be conducting my business by myself. Good day to you."

"Really," he said airily, "I know these bastards. If they think you're a foreigner you'll get scalped."

"Sir," she said urgently, still walking, "in the names of the prophets, in the names of the claimants, and in the blessed name of our Lord which we do not utter, please, I beg you. I cannot."

"Oh, you religious then?" he said. "Did not the Lord command us to love one another?"

"I do not think so," she said.

"I'm sure that's in the old Book somewhere."

"He commanded us to be fruitful. More than that I cannot tell you. I am merely a Novice Reader and, please, I would be on my way unaccompanied."

"If you're religious, they'll see you a mile off," he said. "Specially the Bookmen. Only look after their own, they do."

"Sir," she said, flushing, her eyes moistening, "please. Leave me."

"Hey," he said, halting by a side street and taking her arm. She tugged at it ineffectually. He pulled her into the alley and into a doorway. She looked up at him fearfully.

"Easy," he said. "Easy. I don't want to go where I'm not wanted."

"Then let me go," she said. "Please, unhand me. I beg you."

"In a minute," he said. "Just, calm down, girlie."

She calmed herself and wiped her eyes and forced herself to look at him.

"It's nice, you know," he said softly. "It's not nasty."

"What?" she said.

"What people do," he said. "A man and a woman. Don't dismiss it if you've not tried it, is what I'm saying. Come on, girlie. Won't take ten minutes."

A lock of her hair had escaped her cap. He reached up and stroked it, and his fingertip brushed against the side of her face. She flinched away from him, then looked down and was silent for a long moment, her eyes lowered. Then she cleared her throat, and squared her shoulders.

He suddenly felt an inkling of doubt. She raised her eyes to him again, straightening up, and he realised that she was nearly as tall as him.

"I tried being polite with you," she said matter-of-factly. "I tried being curt. I tried being pious, and I tried being a shrinking flower. Still you keep on at me."

What? he thought.

"Fine," she said in a flat voice. "What do you want."

"Just a little of your time," he said. "Um, when you're free."

"Please don't clothe your meaning in soft words," she said. "You want to fuck me. And you will keep pestering me until I let you."

He was startled, but relieved. Nice to meet a girl so straight up for once. These northern ones. Surprising.

"Well, yeah," he said.

"I see," she said. "However, I cannot get with child, and I am between my monthly bleeds, meaning if I let you fuck me, I am likely to."

He grimaced with disgust.

"Have you a sheath?"

"No," he said, "Not on me."

"I don't carry one around," she said, unsmiling.

She was curt and impatient, keen to get it over with. She could have been talking about doing a bit of laundry for him.

"Do you have any ideas?" she said.

Her obvious and complete uninterest in what they were talking about was having an effect on him like dipping his manhood into a bucket of greasy dishwater.

"Well," he said, and smiled tentatively, "there's more than one entrance to the palace of pleasure."

"Yes," she said, nodding, "there is, but then what's in it for me? You get to spend in me, while I take no pleasure in the act, and I walk away with nothing but an aching arsehole and your seed dripping into my knickers. -Oh, and the memory of our precious time together. Forgive me. But it does seem to me like I'm down on the bargain."

He blushed. What kind of girl was this?

"Are you a whore?" he said.

"No," she said, "just not utterly stupid. If I do this for you, what will you do for me?"

"Well..." He felt bewildered and was sweating. "You want me to do something else for you? Besides..."

"Doing that to me isn't a service," she said. "It's disgusting and painful, but I'll do it if you can make it worth my while."

"Do you want money?" he said, more and more discouraged by everything about her: her obvious experience, her coldness, her matter-of-fact refusal to be the shy maiden he'd been attracted to in the first place. She thought for a moment.

"I'd consider it."

"How much?"

"Twenty talers."

"Twenty talers?" he exploded. "That's a month's wage."

She shrugged.

"Pay me a month's wage and you can fuck me up my arse."

"I could get a dockland tart to do it for seventy cents."

"So get one to, and stop wasting my time," she said, dropping the deadpan mask and glaring at him.

He went to slap her. She grabbed his wrist and somehow twisted him around so that his arm was bent up his back and he was twirled on the spot and slammed face first into the wall. He cursed. His nose was throbbing and he tasted blood. His arm, bent up his back, was agony.

"Who the fuck are you?" he whimpered. "Why are you like this? I just wanted to be nice."

She held him and bent his arm up his back. He gasped with the pain. She formed the words in her mind.

Touch me again...no. Come near me again, better, and I'll cut off your cock, and...and stick it on the end of my broom and shove it so far up your arse it'll fuck your lungs.

That was good. She was preparing to say it when he twisted his bloody face over his shoulder and stared at her, and she looked back at him and saw something in his face, some sudden shock of understanding.

"Were you," he mumbled, and he licked his cut lip, "were you...in the war, miss?"

That was it. That was what was in his face when he looked at her.