Part 3 (2/2)
”How do you know I haven't? Maybe I did and just didn't find anything worth taking.”
uri cracked his knuckles, a sound like smas.h.i.+ng walnuts. ”If you did, you'd be cackling with ceaseless glee, because you're a braggart with no self-control.”
Gustr seemed on the verge of a scathing comeback, but Hermod interrupted him with a cough. ”Gentle men? Perhaps you could settle this later. I was hoping we could do business.”
Both dwarves gave Hermod long, probing glances.
”Business usually implies an exchange of some sort,” said Gustr. ”You look like you'd be hard-pressed to exchange a pleasantry.”
”You've really never heard of me?” Hermod asked.
The dwarves checked with each other silently, then shook their heads no.
”I'm Hermod,” he said again, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. ”Hermod, of Asgard. Of the Aesir. Hermod, son of Odin. I trust you've heard of Odin?”
”Of course,” said uri, ”but that hardly recommends you.”
Hermod realized that if he'd spent more time building a reputation for recreational violence, people might be more impressed with him. It was hard to deny at least a grudging respect to someone who left mountains of b.l.o.o.d.y corpses wherever he walked.
”I would like to negotiate the purchase of a sword,” he said, tight-jawed.
”We don't have any swords,” said Gustr.
”We're not in the weapons trade,” agreed uri.
”What about that one?” Hermod shot back, his voice ringing off the pots suspended from the ceiling. ”The one under the cloth?”
”It's a commission,” said Gustr.
”Already spoken for,” said his brother. ”Anyway, it's not finished.”
In truth, Hermod didn't want that sword. That one was embedded with something he didn't understand, a deep enchantment of some kind. Enchanted blades were as likely to draw blood from those who carried them as from their enemies.
”And it's a very interesting blade,” said Hermod. ”The sort of thing crafted by wise, experienced hands. I can't believe it's the only sword you've got in the entire shop.”
The brothers leaned their furry heads close together and exchanged low muttering. Then, ”We may be able to dig something up,” said uri. ”What have you got to pay with?”
Hermod knew he didn't have much to interest them. They'd be unimpressed by his meager bag of coins, and, besides, he needed to save his money; a sword wasn't the only thing on his shopping list. But maybe this was an opportunity, a chance to test just how badly he was bound in a chain of events. Some body or something had wanted him to find the giant in Ironwood, had put him in a place and at a time in which he couldn't help but find the wolf den. It had also been awfully easy for him to find this seam to the dwarves' workshop. Yes, it was time to test his bonds.
And, of course, maybe that's how they-or it, or whatever-got you, by convincing you that you were acting of your own free will when you were really just dancing on the strings.
He rummaged through his duffel bag. It was pretty slim pickings in there: the hotel towels that had formerly swaddled his sword, a slim bar of soap, his canteen, a spare s.h.i.+rt, a hardened old piece of Hel cake. For this to be a proper test, he reasoned, he should select the most worthless possession he had. He withdrew a tattered postcard.
”There is a place in Midgard where many worlds collide,” he said. ”Egyptian pyramids, New York skysc.r.a.pers, the Eiffel Tower, the ca.n.a.ls of Venice-all within sight of one another. Anything you could want, they can provide.” He held up the postcard. The words Viva Las Vegas ran across the photo in pink script. ”This image was captured with a device that grabs light and holds it, frozen for all time. If you have a sword worthy of my hand, I will trade you this for it.”
Gustr looked at his brother. ”What about that one I saw you toss on the sc.r.a.p heap yesterday?”
”I was going to melt it down for nails.”
”Let the Aesir have it instead.”
uri considered this for a moment. ”I don't think we're getting the better part of this deal.”
”Of course we're not,” said Gustr. ”It's just a postcard. But at least then we'll be rid of him.”
The brothers scowled at each other in silent consultation, and then uri stalked off, disappearing behind a row of sc.r.a.p bins. He emerged a moment later with a mutt of a broadsword. The hilt was wrapped in scarred hide. A number of nicks ran down the length of the blade, a few so deep one could tuck a poker chip inside. uri held it in one hand. He held his other hand out toward Hermod, twitching impatiently for Hermod to hand over the postcard. The exchange was made.
It was a poor blade, but it was simple metal, and Hermod liked that. ”I don't suppose you'd throw in a scabbard?”
The brothers made only rude noises, so Hermod wrapped the blade in his towels and stashed it in his duffel bag. He turned to take his leave, again feeling vaguely ill as he pa.s.sed the strange sword.
”Who's this one for, anyway?”
Gustr opened his mouth to say something, but the other dwarf drove an elbow into his side.
”I wasn't going to tell him,” Gustr protested.
”I know,” uri said, ”because I wasn't going to let you.”
And Hermod left the brothers to bicker, their voices echoing in the metal pa.s.sage as he climbed the iron stairs.
The weight of the sword in his duffel bag felt good. He didn't suppose there was much chance he could leave it in there for long.
G.o.dS SHOULD BE easier to find. After two days in Los Angeles, Mist had seen no sign nor turned up any leads concerning Hermod's whereabouts in the places where the NorseCODE files said he'd been spotted. She'd thought a G.o.d walking around in Midgard would leave more of an impression.
As early darkness approached, she dashed down the sidewalk through hailstones that clattered against the pavement like molars. She dove out of the cold into a warm, dry place called Cafe Lascaux. As she peeled off her raincoat and hung it on a rack by the door, the smells of dark, loamy coffee and cinnamon enveloped her. She sighed with pleasure. It had been almost a day since her last coffee, and if she was going to continue her search, she needed a little time for nourishment and regrouping.
She'd covered her tracks as well as she could, drawing funds from her own savings to buy a used Toyota Corolla in Boston and then paying cash for gas and food in a sprint across the country. The expenses had almost broken her, but she couldn't risk using her NorseCODE credit cards.
n.o.body noticed as she walked to the counter; the other customers were absorbed in their laptop screens, their copies of Daily Variety and Advertising Age. Then Mist noticed a bearded man in a leather jacket across the cafe, looming over his little round table like a bear over a pancake.
She ordered a quadruple-shot Americano and waited for it to appear on the counter before joining Grimnir.
”So. You found me,” she said, blowing ripples across the top of her drink.
”Found you? Come on now, give me credit, kid. I did better than just find you. I planted myself somewhere you've never been, before you even got here.” He'd bought a new homburg, which he wore over a black bandanna covering the back of his head and neck.
”Neat trick,” Mist said. ”I didn't know you could predict the future.”
”Anyone can predict the future. Some people don't even stink at it.” He leaned forward, going into his tutor mode. ”I snuck a GPS tracker into the lining of your jacket months ago. I've been following you since Ohio.”
”And you figured I'd be coming in for a cup of coffee before too long.” Mist sipped her Americano. It was thin and still too hot.
”Well, I know I sure as s.h.i.+t needed one. That was mean, by the way, betraying me and cutting my head near off. But nicely done. Looks like I managed to teach you something after all.” He took a sip from his mug. Whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles clung to his mustache.
”What happens next, Grim? Do you kill me now, or do you take me to Radgrid first?”
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