We drew up at the quays of Harrowheim in the gathering gloom, guided in by the lights of houses clustered on the steepness of the slope. To the west some sort of cove or landslip offered a broad flattish area where crops might be grown in the shelter of the fjord.
An ancient with a lantern waved us alongside his own boat where he’d been sat picking the last fish from his nets.
“You’ll be wannin’ me ta walk you up,” he said, all gums and wisps of beard.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Father.” Tuttugu getting onto the quay with far more grace than he showed on land. He stooped low over the man’s boat. “Herring, eh? White-Gill. Nice catch. We don’t see them for another few weeks up in Trond.”
“Ayuh.” The old man held one up, still flipping half-heartedly in his fingers. “Good ’uns.” He put it down as Snorri clambered out, leaving me to stagger uncertainly across the rolling boat toward the step. “Still. Better go with you. The lads are twitchy tonight. Raiders about—it’s the season for ’em. Might fill you full of spear before you know it.”
My boot, wet with bilge water, slipped out from under me at “raiders” and I nearly vanished into the strip of dark water between quay and boat. I caught myself painfully on the planks, biting my tongue as I clutched the support. “Raiders?” I tasted blood and hoped it wasn’t a premonition.
Snorri shook his head. “Not serious stuff. The clans raid for wives come spring. Here it’ll be Guntish men.”
“Ayuh. And Westerfolk off Crow Island.” The old man set down his nets and came to join us, making an easier job of it than I had.
“Lead on.” I waved him forward, happy to trail behind if it meant him getting speared rather than me.
Now that Snorri had mentioned it I did recall talk of the practice back at the Three Axes. The business of raiding for girls of marriageable age seemed something that the people of Trond felt beneath them, but they loved to tell tales about their country bumpkin cousins doing it. Mostly it seemed to be an almost good-natured thing with a tacit approval from both sides—but of course if the raider proved sufficiently unskilled to get caught then he’d earn himself a good beating . . . and sometimes a bad one. And if he picked a girl that didn’t want to get caught she might give him worse than that.
Men emerged from the shadows as we walked up between the huts. Our new friend, Old Engli, put them quickly at their ease and the mood lightened. Some few recognized Snorri and many more recognized his name, leading us on amid a growing crowd. Lanterns and torches lit around us, children ran into the muddy streets, mothers and daughters eyed us from glowing doorways, the occasional girl, bolder than the rest, hanging from a window recently unboarded in the wake of winter’s retreat. One or two such caught my eye, the last of them a generously proportioned young woman with corn-coloured hair descending in thick waves and hung with small copper bells.
“Prince Jalan—” I managed half a bow and half an introduction before Snorri’s big fist knotted in my cloak and hauled me onward.
“Best behaviour, Jal,” he hissed between his teeth while offering a wide smile left and right. “I know these people. Let’s try not to have to leave in a hurry this time.”
“Yes, of course!” I shook myself free. Or he let me go. “Do you think I’m some sort of wild beast? I’m always on my best behaviour!” I stomped on behind him, straightening my collar. Damn barbarian thinking he could teach a prince of Red March manners . . . she did have a very pretty face though . . . and squeezable—
“Jal!”
I found myself marching past the entrance into which everyone else had turned. A quick reversal and I was through the mead-hall’s doorway into the smoke and noise. Mead-hut I’d call it—it made Olaafheim’s hall look big. More men streamed in behind me while others found their seats around the long benches. It seemed our arrival had occasioned a general call to broach casks and fill drinking horns. We’d started the party rather than crashed in on it. And that gives you a pretty good picture of Harrowheim. A place so desolate and starved of interest that the arrival of three men in a boat is cause for celebration.