A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

I would not wish to bore you with it. But I might return the same question. Perhaps a tale equally improbable?’

‘Perhaps,’ Lilla replied. ‘Or else mere fate.’

‘Ah, fate.’ The face nodded. ‘The spinner of all our tales. Another question then. What are you doing here before these gates?’

‘It must seem as improbable, but we seek an audience with the emperor. I carry a proposal.’

‘That’s bold of you,’ Katāros said. ‘And what makes you think the emperor would see you? Aside from your more obvious qualities.’

Lilla ignored the limp compliment. ‘My name is Lilla Sviggarsdottír,’ she said, standing a little taller. ‘I am Queen of the Twin Kingdoms – of Danmark and Sveäland.’

Katāros’s marble forehead creased a fraction. ‘A queen, no less. Yet your retinue is a little underwhelming,’ he said, with a disparaging glance at Gerutha.

‘It serves me well enough.’

‘Hmm.’ Katāros considered her a little longer. ‘You know I heard of a king named Sviggar in my boyhood.’

‘Truly?’ blurted Lilla, unable to conceal her delight at this unexpected piece of luck. ‘Why, he was my father.’

‘Indeed. . . The Bastard King, they called him. So I recall.’

Her delight burst. ‘There never was a nobler king in all the north,’ she returned stiffly. ‘He did much for his people. I would do even more.’

‘And you’ve come all this way to prove it.’ The painted mouth pursed. ‘Well, either you’re mad,’ he sighed, ‘or else you had better follow me.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The tavern reeked like the breath from a diseased lung. A gloomy room, half-sunk into the ground, stinking of sour wine and stale sweat. Inside, sawdust was spread about the floor and behind a tiled counter stood the proprietor, glowering at his next customer.

Yet for all its dinginess, the drinkers made it a merry place. Einar rubbed his hands and went inside. His tongue was itching for a drink and by Odin’s beard he’d earned it. He’d spent the last day and a night peering into every hole festering on the underbelly of this town. Cities were, by and large, filthy places, he had concluded. Sure, there were plenty of impressive things, halls worthy of plunder, enough silver and gold to keep a dwarf happy till Ragnarök, but that wasn’t all of it. Not by a long yard.

He’d found his way down to the naval harbours on the south side of the Horn, wending along narrow streets clogged with drunks and whores. He felt quite at home, truth be told – but he struggled to imagine Erlan lingering in those spots. In the poorer streets, the shit ran in open gutters and the air was thick with a sickly miasma of these and the clouds of cheap perfume wafting from the brothels.

Eventually he had struck upon the Strategion which – as he’d understood from his halting enquiries – was where he would find any warrior worth his salt. Or soldier, as the Byzantines called them. Sure enough, he noticed more of them. Men, he guessed, serving on the dozens of war-ships at anchor on the Golden Horn.

As dusk fell, the taverns and slop-houses began to fill up. That first night he had trawled a few drinking shops. He must have started half a hundred conversations. It was thirsty work, that much talk, especially in a language not his own. But by night’s end, all for nothing. Norsk and Danes and Sveärs were rare beasts in this city, that was if anyone had heard of them at all.

Eventually the taverns closed and the brothels grew more lively. Maybe it was the drink. . . no, it was the drink, that got him to thinking about the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s touch. The best he could remember, his wife was half a year cold in the ground. And the boy. Gods, was it that long? He had buried them both himself. Still could hear her screams as she tried to push out the little mite stuck inside her. He shook away the memory before his thoughts became too maudlin and distracted himself with the lithe, dusky-skinned creature flashing him a beckoning eye. Well, my lad, he reasoned, it’s the queen’s coin and she wouldn’t want you to sleep on the street, would she. . .?

The next day his search had continued and proved as fruitless as the night before. Entering the tavern, Einar wished he could believe his luck was about to change. He sighed. Hel, at least it was time for another drink.

‘A jug of your finest, friend,’ he said amiably to the owner. One of the first phrases Demetrios had taught him. A man had to survive, after all. The owner didn’t smile back, just picked up a large pitcher and poured out some wine into a smaller jug. Einar licked his lips and pushed two copper coins across the tiles. ‘One cup will do.’ The man pushed a clay beaker at him, then went back to wiping down his counter.

Einar threw one cup down and had refilled another almost before the sour taste hit the back of his throat. The tavern’s finest was very far from fine. Still, Einar had grown accustomed to disappointment on that score. ‘So, friend. Who are all these folks?’ He jerked his head at the gabbling crowd. The owner said nothing. ‘What are they? Soldiers, whores?’ Again the man said nothing. Instead a deep, rumbling laugh sounded further along the counter.

‘You won’t get much talk out of him, friend.’ The speaker was a bulky fellow, curly black hair, sharp little beard, bulging shoulders, a uniform of sorts. ‘Show him.’ This, to the tavern-keeper. The man obliged, opening his mouth and waggling the stump of his tongue at Einar.

‘Hel’s breath,’ Einar hissed.

The soldier laughed. ‘That’s what you get for badmouthing your commanding officer.’

‘Someone couldn’t take a joke then?’

‘You didn’t hear what this one said.’ His companion took a swig of wine. ‘Don’t feel too bad for him. He’s a wealthy man – a hell of a lot wealthier than if he’d