The slave-girls had been asleep, though not yet dismissed, on pallets out of sight. Four of them tumbled through the door that led to the main hall and the other apartments, rubbing their eyes and pulling dresses straight. It was not wise at any time of night to be slow in answering the summons of either queen. As Asa often said, she would be entering her grave-mound soon now, and she still had not chosen who should keep her company in death. The women, young or middle-aged but all with weary careworn faces, lined up hastily, daring only to cast side-glances at the two strange men. Men? Or marbendills from the deep? Queen Ragnhild might press even a marbendill into her service.
“Hot stones into the steam-room,” snapped Ragnhild. “More fuel for this fire. Heat water in basins and bring towels. Bring two blankets—no, one blanket for that one and my fine robe of ermine for the English king. And girls—” The women halted in their first obedient scurry. “If I hear that anyone hears of this, I will not ask which one of you told them. There is always a Swedish ship in port, and space on the temple trees at Uppsala.”
The women ran out. Ragnhild looked from her full height down at Shef, still standing irresolute in front of her, and then across at Asa.
“There is no arguing with the stronger luck,” she said. “Best to join with it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Shef sat on a broad wooden bench which almost filled the tiny dark room, lit only by a single wick burning in a dish of whale-oil. Beneath it a covered trough of hot stones radiated heat, scorching heat that shriveled the mouth-lining and stung the nose with the stink of pine-resin from the wooden walls. He luxuriated in it, feeling the deep chill thaw from his bones. Feeling also the need for instant decisions recede. He was in others’ hands now. Even Karli was no longer his responsibility. He did not know where they had taken him.
At the queen’s instructions, the slave-women had pulled him away, taken off his filthy, clammy clothes. One of them had rubbed his face furiously with handfuls of snow taken from the fast-shrinking drifts outside, to prevent the frostbite that had already attacked it. Others had poured warm water over him, rubbed him with lye, scrubbed off the dirt and blood and animal fat from his hands. Dimly he had realized that they had also taken his sword, that something or other of the same kind was happening to Karli, but the sudden entry into warmth had half-stupefied him. Then they had led him into the steam-room and left him.
For a while he sat, not even sweating in the fierce heat, just letting the warmth soak through to his half-frozen marrow. Then as weariness came over him he lay back, propping his head against a wooden billet, and fell into a light, uneasy sleep.
Somewhere in the dark above him, his fate was being discussed. He heard the now-familiar rumble of mighty voices. One spoke for him, he realized, one against.
“He should have died on the ice,” said the hostile voice: cold, authoritative, unused to contradiction, the voice not only of the Father but the Ruler of gods and men.
“No-one should blame a man for saving himself,” argued the second voice: Shef knew he had heard it many times, recognized it as the voice of his patron, perhaps his father, Rig the cunning.
“He threw away the spear, the spear with my own runes on it. He denied me sacrifice. He does not follow the heroes’ road.”
“The less reason, then, for taking him to you. He would not find a place in Valhalla, would not be an obedient recruit for your Einheriar.”
The first voice seemed to hesitate. “And yet… There is a cunning there. Too few of my champions have that. Maybe it is a quality I will need on the day of Ragnarök.”
“You do not need it yet. Leave him where he is, let us see where his luck takes him. He may do you service in his own fashion.” The second voice was lying, Shef knew, he could tell it by the sweet reason that dripped from its tongue. It was buying him time.