‘I don’t have two bits,’ Maddy said.
‘Ah, come on,’ said the journeyman. ‘Genuine piece of Asgard, this. Blasted to cinders by Screaming Lord Surt himself. Fell on the fields like black rain. Go on. Make me an offer.’
Discreetly, Maddy fingered Bjarkán. In the circle between her finger and thumb – a gleam of rainbow runelight.
‘So you can see the colours, eh?’ The journeyman peered at Maddy, and once again she caught a glimpse of his eyes above the grubby yellow scarf. She’d taken him for an older man at first, but those blue eyes were clear and bright. She guessed him to be forty at most; maybe even younger.
‘If I were you,’ he told her, ‘I wouldn’t do too much of that. Too many people watching. Ready to take an interest.’
Maddy banished the rune Bjarkán. The smallest gleam of kingfisher-blue flickered between her fingers. Had she imagined it? Probably. She’d done it so many times before. Her old friend was three years dead, and still she saw him everywhere – through a carriage window; sitting by a fountain; in a crowd on market day; walking by the side of a road. It hurt – perhaps it always would. And yet she almost dreaded the time when she would no longer see One-Eye in the face of journeymen from World’s End to the distant North …
She looked more closely at the man. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ she said.
The journeyman shrugged. ‘You might,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a lot of places.’
That voice too was familiar. Maddy’s heart gave a hopeful lurch. She reached out her hand and tugged at the scarf wrapped round the journeyman’s head, exposing his features completely. The wry and slightly irregular mouth; the hair pulled back with a strip of hide; the mobile, humorous eyebrows – all were more than familiar, but the face was that of a stranger.
The journeyman raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me?’
She looked away. ‘I thought you were someone else,’ she said.
‘Aye, well, that’s life,’ said the journeyman, indicating his tray of wares. ‘Take these little bits of rock. You wouldn’t think that once they’d been part of something that spanned the sky. Look at ’em now – all burned out. And yet there’s glamours inside of ’em, like seeds just waiting to up and grow …’
Maddy looked at him. ‘Glamours,’ she said. She picked up one of the black stones. ‘Where did you find these, anyway?’
‘They’re all around the city,’ he said. ‘That is, if you know where to look. Most of the big ones were gathered up, but you can still find fragments lying around, and of course, there are the stories.’
Maddy thought of Red Horse Hill. ‘What kind of stories?’
‘The usual. That this is what’s left of the Sky Citadel that fell during Tribulation. Fragments of Dream that the Firefolk brought to build the Bridge between the Worlds …’
‘What’s your name?’ Maddy said.
The journeyman shrugged. ‘What’s in a name? Call me Lord Perth, if you feel like it. And you can be Lady Madonna. And then we can both pretend to ourselves that we’re not just a pair of scallies, raking the footprints of the gods.’
A shiver went down Maddy’s back. She cast the rune Bjarkán once more, and looked at him through her fingers. And this time she saw his signature, red as the heart of a midsummer rose, which shone out like a beacon, and on his arm, a patch of light …
A runemark?
‘Show me your arm,’ she said.
Perth gave her a quizzical look. ‘What? Here?’
‘Your arm,’ she said, and, grabbing his wrist, pushed up the sleeve of his blue robe.
And there it was: a new rune, rose-red and burning with glam –
‘What are you playing at?’ hissed Perth, and pulled down his sleeve to cover the mark. ‘This isn’t show and tell, girl. Play that kind of trick again and I’m apt to end up in the stocks. Or even at the end of a rope.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Maddy. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Of course, it’s just a tattoo,’ he said. ‘Had it done on Saint Sepulchre’s Day after a few too many pints. Could have kicked myself afterwards – I dunno what got into me. After all, the last thing I need is another set of distinguishing marks.’
Maddy nodded. She was thinking hard. She knew that rune was no tattoo. Did Perth really believe it was?
‘So – what does it mean?’ she said at last.
He shook his head. ‘It’s just my name. Perth, it says, in some Outlandish tongue. Supposed to bring me good luck, but it’s brought me nothing but bad so far.’
‘Really?’ said Maddy. ‘How so?’
Perth just shook his head again. ‘I’d rather not discuss it here. And if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll hide yours. Yes, of course I see it,’ he said. ‘Right there in the palm of your hand. Wear gloves, for gods’ sakes. The Order may be gone, but there are slavers in this city who’d pay good money for a girl like you – that is, if you don’t get lynched first.’
Maddy put her hand in her pocket and frowned. There was so much she didn’t know about the ways of World’s End. Slavers, mercenaries, thieves – how in the Worlds would she find her sister? Perth – whoever, whatever he was, with his runemark and his pile of rocks – was hardly a trustworthy ally. But could he help her find Maggie? Or was she better off alone?
She peered at him once again, through Bjarkán. Yes, there was deceit in his colours, a green-gold thread that ran through his glam. The man was more than capable of lying to her, or selling her out, or stealing from her, or swindling her. He’d done those things before, she sensed. And yet in spite of all that, Maddy read no malevolence there; no real signs of wickedness. She concluded that he was harmless enough, as long as she didn’t trust him with her purse. Besides, she badly needed a guide through this maze of a city.
‘Listen, Perth,’ she said at last. ‘I’m a stranger here. I may need help. Perhaps we could help each other.’ Perth looked doubtful. ‘That so?’ he said. ‘I thought you didn’t have two bits.’
Maddy clicked her fingers, summoning the money-rune Fé. It gleamed provocatively in her palm, guinea-gold and glamorous.
Perth’s blue eyes lit up at once. ‘Nice trick.’
‘I’ll teach it to you.’
‘Done!’ Perth grinned. They shook hands. ‘So – what have you come to find in World’s End? And exactly what kind of horse is that?’ He narrowed his eyes at Jormungand, who was apparently investigating a display of fresh fish on a nearby market stall. As Perth and Maddy watched, the Horse idly snapped up a live king crab as if it were a mouthful of straw.
Maddy grabbed Jorgi’s bridle. ‘No!’
The Horse of the Sea rolled his eyes. For a moment the king crab’s spidery legs twisted and clawed in his open mouth. Then there was a crunching sound, and a whinny of satisfaction.
The vendor in charge of the fish stall, who had barely had time to take it all in, now rubbed his eyes in disbelief. ‘Did you see that?’ he asked Perth.
‘See what?’ said Perth innocently.
‘That horse,’ said the fishmonger, looking shaken.
Perth looked sympathetic. ‘I know how you feel,’ he said kindly, putting his arm round the man’s shoulders. ‘The hooch they were selling here last night was enough to make anyone start seeing things. If I were you, I’d just sit down, take the weight off your feet for a while …’
The fishmonger, a burly man, sat down heavily on the ground. As he did so, Maddy saw Perth relieve him deftly of the fat purse at his belt. She glared at Perth in warning; the journeyman gave her a sunny smile.
‘Come on, you,’ Maddy hissed, dragging Jorgi away through the crowd.
Perth grinned and followed them, still carrying his tray of rocks. ‘This is going to be fun,’ he said.
Jorgi gave a fishy belch.
Maddy closed her eyes in despair.
They moved on into the Universal City.
MEANWHILE, BACK IN Malbry, the gods and their allies in Chaos were engaged in strenuous argument. Maddy’s disapp
earance, as well as that of the World Serpent, had already caused enough concern; but the signatures that she had left – the spent cantrips, her struggle with Loki, the unmistakable colour-trail of her escape into Dream – had triggered further division between Æsir and Vanir.
One faction (mostly Thor) was sure that she had been abducted, although the tracks were confusing. On the one hand, the presence of Loki’s trail pointed to some kind of ambush. On the other, it was clear that she had defeated Loki – which seemed to suggest that whatever the reason, Maddy had entered Dream willingly. How she had entered it, whether or not Loki was still with her, and whether the presence of the World Serpent could positively identify either of them as the Rider whose name was Treachery, remained a matter for debate.
Heimdall’s side was strongly in favour of finding Loki and making him talk. But to the Æsir, the rift in Dream – now growing at a visible rate – remained the more immediate concern.
‘It has to be sealed,’ argued Frey, whose runesign, Madr, marked him as a friend of the Folk. ‘If we don’t, then the valley Folk won’t stand a chance.’
Bright-Haired Sif gave a grunt of contempt. ‘Seal it? You and whose tribe?’ she said. In fact, Thor had spent most of the afternoon working around the rift in Dream, tapping the ground and blasting it with runes, and finally using Mjølnir, his mighty hammer, to pound at the site of the Horse’s escape – the only visible result being the line of enormous hammer-shaped holes that now surrounded Red Horse Hill.
Since then, Jolly had refused to leave his dwarf Aspect, complaining of a headache, and Sif had had a great deal to say on the subject of Thor’s incompetence.
The Thunderer looked resentful. ‘This isn’t like fixing a leak, dear,’ he said, with the scowl that had once levelled giants. ‘We’re talking about a fundamental breakdown between the fabric of Worlds, not a faulty U-bend.’
Sif gave a very pig-like snort.
‘More cake, dear?’ suggested Thor.
By this time the Huntress had joined the gods in the front room of the Parsonage, and, with her furs and her runewhip, was looking very out of place on Ethel’s blue silk ottoman. Odin’s ravens – in human form – perched silently at her side.
‘I know we’ve had our differences,’ Skadi said, looking at Njörd. ‘But this rift in Dream threatens us all. It has to be closed. Whatever it takes.’
‘You think we haven’t tried?’ said Thor.
‘I know you’ve tried,’ said Skadi. ‘But the rift is growing all the time. It’s like something’s melting a hole in the ice, and we’re all about to take a dive.’
The image, though crude, was potent enough. The gods exchanged fearful glances. Only Jolly seemed unconcerned; apparently oblivious to the imminent arrival of the second Ragnarók, he was picking the icing from a pile of cupcakes that Ethel had made for afternoon tea.
It wasn’t that she’d wanted tea. But in her days as a parson’s wife, Ethel had come to rely on certain routines, which was why the table was set as usual, with its array of little sandwiches, scones and cakes. Skól gave the cupcakes a hopeful sniff, but Jolly wasn’t about to share. He bared his teeth at the demon wolf and gave a long, low growl. For a moment Skól was tempted to take up the challenge, but, seeing Jolly’s ferocious expression, wisely decided against it. Besides – a wolf in a fight with a hammer? Dude, that was just too freaky.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Heimdall at last. ‘At first the prophecy seemed clear. Asgard rebuilt by the power of Dream. But so far, this rift in Dream has brought us nothing but Chaos.’
He looked out of the Parsonage window, where the rift was clearly visible in the late-afternoon sun – a column of cloud that towered above what was left of Red Horse Hill. He reckoned its diameter at about a quarter of a mile – not large, but growing steadily, expanding, consuming bushes, rocks, grass, trees at a rate of about three feet an hour. All the gods could hear it now – a sound like the chirr of crickets; a sound into which all other sounds were vanquished by a wall of noise.
Bragi fingered his guitar. Still out of tune after the battle, it gave a mournful jangling sound.
‘Oh, please,’ said Freyja. ‘If I hear another one of Bragi’s dirges, I’m going to kill myself.’
Bragi looked hurt. ‘It’s the strings,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like out of Aspect. If only we could get Asgard back …’
Freyja sniffed. ‘Yes, I know. In Asgard, everything’s peachy. In Asgard, Sif gets her figure back, Tyr gets to play with the big boys, Thor gets to hammer whoever he wants, I get a change of clothes and a bath, and you get to play your lute again without making everyone’s ears bleed.’ She flicked back a strand of her red-gold hair. ‘The only problem being, of course, that Asgard fell an age ago, taking our Aspects with it, and the only chance of getting it back is to decipher some lame prophecy that doesn’t even rhyme.’
Fenny gave a smirk. ‘Noobs. You don’t have a clue, do you, babe?’
‘Who are you calling babe?’ said Freyja, her Carrion Aspect beginning to show.
Heimdall had to intervene before it got any uglier. ‘The key to the gate is a child of hate, a child of both and of neither. Do you think that line could refer to Maddy? After all, she is the child of Thor and the demon Jarnsaxa. Though why she should be a child of hate—’
‘Loki,’ said Frey with conviction. ‘He’s the child of demons, and everybody hates him. Plus, he was the one who opened the gate to Netherworld in the first place. Who else could it possibly be?’
‘I’m not sure I like the term demons,’ said Angie, interrupting. ‘Some people might find it offensive.’
‘So what would you rather?’ Heimdall said.
‘Persons of Chaotic origin?’
‘Gods!’ exploded Heimdall. ‘Maddy’s lost, Loki’s escaped, the End of the bloody Worlds is at hand, and you’re lecturing me about political correctness?’ But Ethel had suddenly gone very still. ‘Now what?’ he said.
‘Maddy isn’t lost,’ she said. ‘How could I have missed it? It’s obvious.’
‘What is?’ Heimdall said.
‘I see a mighty Ash that stands beside a mighty Oak tree. We all thought the Ash was Yggdrasil, but—’
‘Maddy’s sign is the Ash,’ said Frey. ‘You mean, Maddy’s involved in this? If that’s true, then who’s the Oak? And what about Treachery, Carnage and Lunacy?’
‘The Three Horses of the Last Days.’ Ethel dropped her knitting (a hat) and, for the first time, looked agitated. ‘The Horse of Fire is Sleipnir, of course. The Horse of the Sea is Jormungand. And the Horse of Air is probably already on its way. And if Maddy is the key to it all, then World’s End is where she’ll be heading. That’s where Asgard fell, after all. And that’s where we should be right now.’
‘Why? What’s the rush?’ said Sugar-and-Sack.
Ethel gave him a quelling look. ‘In just twelve days, at End of Worlds; a gift within the sepulchre. You all remember the prophecy I made the day before yesterday. That means that in nine days’ time, in World’s End, where Asgard fell at the end of the war, the final conflict will occur.’
There was silence as the gods took this in.
‘What about the Folk?’ said Frey. ‘Leave now, and they’re done for.’
‘Leave too late, and we are done for!’
Frey sighed. ‘Ethel’s right,’ he said.
‘What about Loki?’ Angie said, with a curious look at Ethel. ‘Being the Trickster, and all that – don’t you think we might need him?’
‘Need him?’ said Thor. ‘I’ll break his neck.’
‘Not if I do it first,’ said Frey.
‘Leave him alone,’ said Skadi. ‘We don’t have time to hunt him now. When we’re finished in World’s End, we can deal with him at leisure.’ She looked around at the other gods. ‘Agreed?’
Thor shrugged. ‘World’s End it is.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ethel with a smile.
And that was how, by sunset, anyone watching the Hindar
fell road (through the circle of finger and thumb) might have seen the ill-assorted band – some on horseback, some trotting on foot, some running, some soaring overhead – approaching the narrow cleft in the rocks and passing out of the valley.
Such an observer, armed with the truesight, might have seen their signatures, ominous as the edge of a storm, spanning the dusk like a rainbow as they passed into the shadow of the mountains.
Such an observer, had they but seen her on her porch by the Malbry road, might have sighed and shaken her head, and muttered, Kids, what will they do next? before hitching her skirts above her knees and kicking her heels in a gleeful dance – not a pretty sight, to be sure, with her swollen old legs in their long stripy socks, but Crazy Nan Fey could dance a jig as merry as the next man when the occasion demanded it, and she had been waiting a long time for just this opportunity. The Auld Man had promised her a glammy of her very own, and a place at his side in Faërie, if only she did what he told her to do when next she came to him in Dream.
Crazy Nan Fey believed in dreams. She always had, even when they had tried to say that dreams would steal away her soul. They never had – maybe Nan’s soul was too old and dry for dream-demons to care about – but over the past three years it seemed that every time she closed her eyes she saw more when she opened them. Goblins and little folk; signatures and glammies. And now she had seen the Auld Man in Dream – aye, and his black birdies too – and they had taught her a skipping song like those she’d danced to as a child:
The Cradle fell an age ago,
But Fire and Folk shall raise her …
Which, to Nan Fey’s mind, at least, meant that everything must come around-round, like the Serpent with its tail in its mouth circling the Nine Worlds, and she had smiled and nodded, because she knew the Good Book, including the Book of Apocalypse, in which the end of one World is announced, and the beginning of another.
To Nan, the signs were very clear. The End of the World was coming. The first sign had been the emergence of the new runes of the Younger Age; then the release of the old gods from the Black Fortress of Netherworld. Then had come the Nameless, and his defeat at the cost of the General’s life. Then had come the rift from Dream, spilling into the Middle World. Then the return of Odin’s Horse, and the escape of the World Serpent.