By mid-afternoon, through a rising mist, they could already see the Rhydian Bridge, marooned against the darkening sky. They could even smell the smoke from the town and the tanneries on the banks of the river, a rank, unpleasant, chemical smell; but to Loki – reclining on a pile of furs in the back of his wagon, drinking from a bottle of wine and eating one of Sif’s jam tarts – that was the smell of money.
Just the place for a circus, he thought. Folk with money and goods to trade were always on the lookout for entertainment. This was no Uplands village, trading in loaves of bread and bales of hay. Here there would be horses, gold, furs, fine wines, perhaps even slaves. The people, though perhaps not as sophisticated as those of World’s End, would have the kind of expensive tastes that come with northern money. With luck, and the right kind of patronage, the circus could ride on the takings for at least a hundred miles or so before having to stock up again, which would put them well within crow’s flight of their destination.
In any case, the travellers had no choice but to cross the Vimur by the Rhydian Bridge. The detour to the next crossing place would mean most of an extra day’s journey, all of it on minor roads, and Loki couldn’t afford to lose even half a day of his intricately planned itinerary. This was already the third day of their trip to World’s End. By dawn on the seventh he had pledged to lead them through the city gates – which meant that they had to move fast if they wanted to make it on time.
He wasn’t expecting trouble. Over three days the gods had proved more than capable of dealing with the few setbacks they had encountered: a couple of bands of outlaws, rapidly dispatched by Thor; an officious border patrol or two, who had proved no match for Freyja’s charm; roads obstructed by mud-slides or snow – in short, nothing unusual, and things had been going so perfectly that the Trickster had allowed himself to become just a little complacent.
Now, with Rhydian in sight and, beyond it, the broad, easy Lowlands roads, he had allowed his guard to slip …
That had been his one mistake.
At first it had looked so promising. First impressions count, and with this in mind, the Trickster had taken great care with the three wagons that made up his retinue, each one drawn by a pair of horses and emblazoned with these words, in gold, against a scarlet background:
LUCKY’S POCKET PAN-DAEMONIUM CIRCUS!
A PARAGON OF EXCELLENCE!
BEASTS AND MARVELS!
NEW AGE CURES!
MYSTERIES OF THE ELDER DAYS!
COME ONE, COME ALL!
This somewhat boastful display had worked very well in other towns, and the Trickster was pleased with the effect. The performers themselves flanked the wagons – Thor, stripped to the waist to show his muscles, Sif riding alongside, in Sow Aspect, in bonnet and frock. Next came Idun and Bragi – Idun throwing flower petals at the crowd (as well as her healing skills, she seemed to have the ability to produce flowers and fruit of any kind, effortlessly, in or out of season); Bragi playing his guitar.
At the rear came Angrboda with Fenris and the Wolf Boys, all three in Aspect, collared and chained, trotting obediently at her heels, while some way ahead of the convoy, Jolly and Sugar – renamed Grumpy and Stumpy by Loki, much to their indignation – rode in their turkey-drawn cart, throwing leaflets and handfuls of candies into the crowds that lined the street …
At least, until they reached Rhydian.
But in Rhydian there were no crowds. No one came out to see the show. No children ran behind the horses; no one laughed at the dwarves in their cart. Loki, who usually led the procession, was at first intrigued, then troubled, then hurt.
What in the Worlds was wrong with these Folk? It wasn’t an excess of Orderly zeal that kept the punters away from the show; there were no Laws in Rhydian against a travelling circus. It couldn’t be lack of interest; unless these Folk were a different race to all the others Loki had met, there ought to be plenty of takers for beasts and marvels and miracle cures.
Finally, when they’d been in Rhydian over an hour and no one but a few dogs, a road-sweeper and an old woman in a black bergha had turned out to see the show, Loki asked the question.
‘What is it with this place?’ he said, addressing the crone, who was sitting on the kerbside drinking a bottle of Ridings beer. ‘Is there nobody here who appreciates the arts?’
The old lady shrugged and grinned at him, exposing a set of fine wooden teeth. ‘A course there is, lad,’ she told him. ‘But ye’ll have to wait till sundown. That’s when the town comes alive, see? That’s when folk come out to play.’
‘Oh,’ said Loki.
The crone grinned again. ‘But don’t ye be counting your chickens yet. We’ve got a circus of our own. Right up by the Meridian Bridge.’ (She used the oldsters’ term for the bridge, which made her one of the few left alive who remembered Rhydian’s true name.) ‘Damn fine show it give too. Every day at sundown. I bet they could teach ye a thing or two.’
‘You think?’ said Loki.
‘Aye,’ said the crone. ‘I think ye’ll go a long way afore ye find better than Captain Chaos’s Carnival. But don’t you take my word on it. See for yourselves. Be at the bridge at sundown. It’s going to be a Hel of a show …’
And at that the old woman flashed him a grin that showed every one of her wooden teeth, and went back to drinking her Ridings beer.
SINCE HER LAST disastrous encounter with the Old Man in the rock, Maggie had tried twice more to question him. Both times she had failed to awaken so much as a spark from the prisoner. Maggie blamed herself for this. The battle of minds between them and the force of the blow she had struck him had left the stone Head lifeless and dark, with no clue as to when – or if – its occupant might reawaken.
Even so, a part of her was secretly relieved. Her last conversation with Odin had left her angry and confused, racked with self-doubt and uncertainty, ready to question even those truths that she had always lived by.
Her attempts to locate the Firefolk had been equally frustrating. At the Whisperer’s request, she had tried several times to find them through Dream; but either they had shielded themselves, or the turbulence from the rift between Worlds had temporarily obscured them from sight.
To her relief, the Whisperer had shown a surprising patience. The Old Man would speak eventually – it was only a matter of time. The Firefolk were no immediate threat; sooner or later they would be found. Meanwhile Maggie stayed in the penthouse, playing chequers with Adam, or talking, or practising her runes, and the time slipped by almost peaceably, so that she sometimes let whole hours pass without even a thought of the war, or the End of the Worlds, or the Æsir, or the Old Man, or even the Good Book.
Every day Adam would spend an hour or two outside in the city, watching their surroundings, buying supplies, and checking on the Red Horse. Maggie always stayed indoors – it wasn’t safe, Adam said, for her to show her face outside. When he returned, it was always with some little gift – flowers, or fruit, or pastries, or a necklace of brightly coloured beads – which Maggie accepted in grateful surprise. It had been so long since anyone had given her a present. She wanted to give him something in return, but failing the new runes, or some kind of map indicating the position of the Firefolk, Maggie had nothing to offer him.
Now, on her third day of idleness, she was feeling increasingly restless. The day was bright and welcoming: spring was on its way at last, and suddenly Maggie was desperate to stroll along Examiners’ Walk; to smell the scent of the linden trees or maybe buy a pastry or two …
She glanced at the window longingly. Adam had said he’d be back by noon, but the cathedral clock had chimed two and Maggie was getting hungry.
Surely, she thought, there could be no harm in opening the window a crack. She pushed it an inch or two ajar, and the scent of the city flooded in – a complex aroma of spices and ale, of perfumes and wood-smoke and ocean salt, of garbage and flowers and roasting meat – and with it came the familiar sounds of voices and hooves on the cobbled streets; of
hawkers selling their wares; of dogs and shrieking gulls and the wind across the rooftops; the multitude of city sounds that Maggie had missed so terribly.
With one hand, she cast Bjarkán. If there was danger anywhere, the truesight would reveal it. But nothing unusual showed itself, and so Maggie opened the window a little wider and stepped out onto the balcony. It felt good to be outside. She looked over the balcony and took a deep breath of the city air. The chop-houses and coffee shops were all open for business, and the smell of cooking rose from the streets, making Maggie’s mouth water.
There was a vendor just below her and his cry – ‘Sweet pastries! Fat Boys! Marchpane for your lady!’ – made her mouth water all the more.
She could be there and back again in the blink of an eye, she told herself. Gone just long enough to buy a couple of the fried, sugared dough balls that World’s Enders called Fat Boys. It would mean leaving the Old Man for no more than five minutes. Surely that would do no harm.
She flicked Bjarkán at the Old Man. It showed no sign of wakefulness.
Below her, in the crowded street, the vendor of pastries shouted his wares.
‘Marchpane! Fat Boys!’
Maggie turned towards the door. Five minutes. That’s all. What harm can five minutes do? And with one last glance at the Old Man, she left the room, locking the door, and ran down the steps into the street.
THE BIRDS WERE waiting as she came in, a sugared Fat Boy in each hand. Two ravens, one perched on the window-ledge, one, with a white feather on its head, actually inside the room, preening its feathers and watching Maggie with eyes of a curious wedding-ring gold.
Maggie put down the Fat Boys on the bedside table. ‘Out! Out!’ she said to the birds, waving her arms threateningly.
The ravens seemed quite unperturbed. The larger one cocked its head and scratched at its wing in a languid way. The smaller bird – the one with the white feather – looked at the Fat Boys by the bed and made a hopeful crowing sound.
Kaik! Kaik!
‘Not a chance,’ said Maggie. ‘Now will you both get out of here?’
The larger bird hopped onto the bed.
The smaller gave its raucous cry: Crawk. Kaik.
‘Get out,’ she said again.
‘Now that’s hardly bein’ hospitable,’ said a voice at Maggie’s side and, turning, she saw that the raven had turned into a raggedy man, dark-eyed and dressed in black, with a great deal of silver jewellery, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet and watching her with a gleaming smile.
Maggie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Well, I wouldn’ae refuse a quick bite …’ He helped himself to a Fat Boy. ‘I’m Hughie, and this is Mandy, and we’ve come a long way tae talk wi’ ye.’
The raven finished his Fat Boy with a speed that was almost uncanny, and tossed the other to his companion, who while he was speaking had assumed the Aspect of a young girl with a streak of silver in her hair and a dragon-claw ring in her left ear.
Kaik, said Mandy affably, eating the Fat Boy with lightning speed.
Maggie eyed her suspiciously. Could these two creatures be Firefolk? Anything was possible. And there was something about the pair that reminded her of the Red Horse: that hint of Chaos hidden behind an Aspect that seemed almost ordinary – especially in World’s End of course, where even the most Outlandish of gear barely raised an eyebrow. Each one had a tattoo on their arm – a tattoo or a runemark, Maggie wasn’t sure which.
She summoned the rune Bjarkán and glanced at the pair through the truesight. Like Sleipnir, their Aspects were different when viewed through the circle of finger and thumb: no longer human, nor even birdlike, but some kind of nightmarish hybrid of both, the black design on their arms now shining with almost unbearable light –
Maggie quickly summoned Tyr, the warrior rune, behind her back. ‘What are you? Demons? Firefolk?’
Hughie grinned and shook his head. ‘Messengers, hen. Just messengers.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To make a deal. To come to some arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement do you mean?’ The rune Tyr was still poised to strike.
Hughie gave her a comical look. ‘Hen, if we wanted trouble,’ he said, ‘we could have started some by now.’
Maggie’s eyes flicked towards the plinth, where the Old Man stood silent under his sheet. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. She allowed herself to relax a little.
‘So what do you want?’
‘We want tae help. Hugin and Munin, at your service. Travellers through Nine Worlds. Erstwhile messengers to the Auld Man himself, now in need o’ gainful employment.’
‘What kind of gainful employment?’ she said.
‘Anythin’ ye like, hen. We can travel through Death, through Dream. We see things. We know things. Lots o’ things.’
Maggie eyed him suspiciously. ‘And you think I’m going to trust you? You just told me you worked for the Old Man.’
‘Ach,’ said Hughie, ‘not any more. You’re the Rider of Carnage, hen. That means we belong to you now.’
Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘To me?’ she said.
Mandy crawk-ed.
‘You mean – like servants or something?’
Hughie scratched his armpit. ‘Servants, spies, sentinels; carriers, shield-bearers, outriders, batmen, purveyors of shiny things and generally jacks of all trade. Aye. That’s the basic idea. So. What do ye say, eh?’
Mandy craw-ed and sniffed hopefully at the bedside table for Fat Boy crumbs. Maggie found herself wanting to laugh. The creatures might well be dangerous, with their mysterious runes and their ability to change into birds, but most of all they reminded her of wild, chaotic children – strangely endearing, full of fun, fizzing with restless energy.
She cast Bjarkán a last time. Once more she saw the creatures in Aspect; once more she scanned their signatures. She saw a tendency to theft, a great deal of mischief, some vanity and a constant craving for sweet things and shiny objects – but there was no thread of malice there among those frenzied colours. Whatever else they intended, the ravens meant her no harm.
‘How can you help me?’ she said at last. ‘Can you give me the new runes?’
Hughie shook his head.
‘Then can you wake the Old Man?’
He shrugged. ‘Sorry, hen.’
‘Then what exactly can you do?’
‘We can give ye the Firefolk.’
And at that Hughie reached into his pocket and brought out a crumpled ball of pink paper, which he thrust at Maggie. For a moment his gold, inhuman eyes fixed on Maggie’s grey ones. He dropped the ball of paper into her open hand.
Crawk, said Mandy. Crawk. Crawk.
Maggie unfolded the crumpled sheet. She saw a cheaply printed single page advertising some kind of show:
LUCKY’S POCKET PAN-DAEMONIUM CIRCUS!
BEASTS AND MARVELS!
WONDERS AND FREAKS!
She frowned at the page in confusion. A circus? What in the Worlds could it mean? How could a travelling circus be connected with the Firefolk? Then her eyes widened, and she understood.
‘Is that how they’re doing it? Is that how they’re going unnoticed? How close have they come? How long till they get to World’s End?’
Hughie scratched his head and crawk-ed. ‘They’ve come as far as Rhydian. That’s a fair good speed, hen. A course, they have Loki to thank for that. He’s a one that’s never short of a plan – if his life depends on it.’
Maggie’s eyes were still on the paper. ‘Will they make it here in time?’
‘Aye, no doubt, at this pace,’ he said. ‘Though perhaps there’s a way tae slow them down – or stop them altogether.’
‘How?’
He seemed to hesitate. ‘Well, this may be a long shot …’ he said. ‘But there’s something sleeping in Rhydian. Something that, if it were to awake, might just provide the solution to your problem and ours.’
‘You mean,
asleep like the Red Horse?’ said Maggie.
‘Not exactly. More like a trap, or a tripwire. I think ye’ll find that it’s more than enough tae deal with the likes o’ the Firefolk. But …’ Hughie paused. ‘I were ye, I wouldn’t say anything tae your friend, or to his little passenger. In fact, I wouldn’ae mention us at all. Best not to let them know how ye happened to call us.’
‘Call you? I did not!’ she said.
‘Oh, but ye did,’ he told her. ‘We’ve heard ye calling these past three days. And then ye opened the window, and gave us an offering of cake.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Maggie said.
Hughie grinned. ‘Nevertheless …’
Maggie thought hard, still looking at the crumpled piece of paper. If Hughie was right, and the Firefolk had come as far as the Northlands border, then something needed to be done. By rights, she ought to tell Adam all this, but she didn’t trust his passenger. The Whisperer had already tried to make her kill her sister. What would happen if she told it about the Firefolk?
Frowning, she turned to Hughie again. ‘You said this thing would slow them down. Like a kind of trap, you said.’
Hughie nodded. ‘Aye, hen.’
‘Is my sister with them?’
‘No.’
‘Then tell me what to do,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Just dream a little dream.’
When Maggie awoke, the birds were gone and Adam was sitting beside her.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she said, with a glance at the open window. ‘I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have—’