“I can pretend to.”
“He’ll know you pretend.”
“Of course. On such twisted foundations are good manners built.”
Thorn looked at Brand, and he stared back with that helpless expression of his.
“Have a care,” came Skifr’s voice in her ear. “Even by the ruthless standards of the steppe Varoslaf is known as a ruthless man. Do not put yourself in his power.”
Thorn looked to the great chains strung across the river, then to those dangling bodies swinging, and could only shrug. “We’re all in his power now.”
THE PRINCE OF KALYIV’S HALL seemed even bigger on the inside, its ribs fashioned from the trunks of great trees still rooted in the hard-packed earth, shafts of sunlight filled with floating dust spearing down from windows high above. There was a long firepit but the flames burned low and the echoing space seemed almost chill after the heat outside.
Varoslaf, Prince of Kalyiv, was much younger than Thorn had expected. Only a few years older than Yarvi, perhaps, but without a hair on his head, nor his chin, nor even his brows, all smooth as an egg. He was not raised up on high, but sat on a stool before the firepit. He was not a big man, and he wore no jewels and boasted no weapon. He had no terrible frown upon his hairless face, only a stony blankness. There was nothing she could have described to make him seem fearsome to a listener, and yet he was fearsome. More so, and more, the closer they were led across that echoing floor.
By the time she and Brand stood at Father Yarvi’s shoulders a dozen strides from his stool, Thorn feared Prince Varoslaf more than anyone she had ever met.
“Father Yarvi.” His voice was dry and whispery as old papers and sent a sweaty shiver down her back. “Minister of Gettland, high is our honor at your visit. Welcome all to Kalyiv, Crossroads of the World.” His eyes moved from Brand, to Thorn, and back to Yarvi, and he reached down to stroke the ears of a vast hound curled about the legs of his stool. “It is a well-judged compliment that a man of your standing comes before me so lightly attended.”
Thorn did indeed feel somewhat lonely. As well as that bear of a dog there were many guards scattered about the hall, with bows and curved swords, tall spears and strange armor.
But if Yarvi was overawed, the minister did not show a grain of it. “I know I will want for nothing in your presence, great prince.”
“Nor will you. I hear you have that witch Scarayoi with you, the Walker in the Ruins.”
“You are as well-informed as a great lord should be. We call her Skifr, but she is with us.”
“Yet you keep her from my hall.” Varoslaf’s laugh was harsh as a dog’s bark. “That was well-judged too. And who are these young gods?”
“The back oars of my crew. Thorn Bathu, who killed six Uzhaks in a skirmish on the Denied, and Brand who took the whole weight of our ship across his shoulders as we crossed the tall hauls.”
“Slayer of Uzhaks and Lifter of Ships.” Brand shifted uncomfortably as the prince gave the two of them a searching gaze. “It warms me to see such strength, and skill, and bravery in those so young. One could almost believe in heroes, eh, Father Yarvi?”
“Almost.”
The prince jerked his head toward his willow-thin servant. “A token for tomorrow’s legends.”
She drew something from the satchel around her neck and pressed it into Brand’s palm, then did the same to Thorn. A big, rough coin, crudely stamped with a prancing horse. A coin of red gold. Thorn swallowed, trying to judge its value, and guessed she had never held so much in her hand before.
“You are too generous, great prince,” croaked Brand, staring down with wide eyes.
“Great deeds deserve great rewards from great men. Or else why raise men up at all?” Varoslaf’s unblinking gaze shifted back to Yarvi. “If they are your back oars what wonders might the others perform?”
“I daresay some of them could make the rest of your gold vanish before your eyes.”
“No good crew is without a few bad men. We cannot all be righteous, eh, Father Yarvi? Those of us who rule especially.”
“Power means having one shoulder always in the shadows.”
“So it does. How is the jewel of the north, your mother, Queen Laithlin?”
“She is my mother no more, great prince, I gave up my family when I swore my oath to the Ministry.”
“Strange customs, you northerners have,” and the prince fiddled lazily with the ears of his hound. “I think the bonds of blood cannot be severed with a word.”
“The right words can cut deeper than swords, and oaths especially. The queen is with child.”
“An heir to the Black Chair perhaps? News rich as gold in these unhappy times.”
“The world rejoices, great prince. She speaks often of her desire to visit Kalyiv again.”
“Not too soon, I pray! My treasury still bears the scars of her last visit.”