The Soul Thief

by Cecelia Holland

  He watched three men in tight bright clothes toss a dizzying whirl of balls into the air; they leapt, spun themselves in the air like balls, stood on their hands. The watching folk cheered and laughed and threw money at them—Corban tossed one of his silver pennies at them, feeling very fine in doing so.

  At the harbor he saw ships rowing up into the quiet water, and watched slaves unloading the cargos. Rotten fruit bobbed in the scummy water of the harbor; he saw some dogs fighting over something at the water’s edge and recoiled, his stomach heaving, when he saw it was the body of a newborn baby.

  He walked away, his heart thundering; that was a bad omen, he thought. He thought of Mav’s baby, planted in her belly by the men who had murdered his family, and his bile rose. He wondered why she loved it. He would have thrown it into the harbor, like that poor baby back there.

  She loved it. He knew that; he let go his anger against it. Nothing he could do anyway. He would love it too.

  In the next street, a woman in a red gown and a face painted over her real face came up and blocked his way. She put her head to one side, smiled at him, said, “Well, then, handsome one, will you come with me?” and added something that popped his eyes open like cracked nuts.

  She hooted with laughter, seeing him blush to the hairline, and reached out and grabbed him by the crotch. He bounded back, out of her reach, and stared at her, while she laughed and pointed her fingers at him. For a moment he thought of going with her, and she saw that, and her dark eyes gleamed, but he remembered Benna suddenly, and turned away.

  She hooted after him. He went off, looking back over his shoulder at her. Under the cover of the cloak he slid his hand down over his man’s part, still throbbing from her touch. He wondered what it would be like, to handle a woman he did not know, would never see again, to whom he could do anything he wanted. Under his hand his part throbbed, hungry.

  He should have gone with her. He was glad he had not.

  Fretting on this, he went into the nearest alehouse, and got a stoup of liquor. The man who gave it to him had another, tiny man sitting on his shoulder, covered with hair, and with a long curling tail; Corban’s jaw dropped, seeing this, and the ale-man laughed and reached up and patted the tiny hairy man, which chattered in an alien tongue. Corban drank the ale off in a single draught.

  He thought, It isn’t that the world is strange. It’s that I know nothing.

  That made him feel better. He realized that the idea of knowing always betrayed him. He had known there were no tiny hairy men with tails, until he saw it. What he actually did know was a tiny rock in the middle of a great sea of unknowing. The ale sweetened his mind; he looked around him now for more interesting sights.

  He drifted through the markets, past bolts of cloth, woolen stuff as thick and coarse as his cloak, and fabric so fine he thought it would fall apart at his touch. Under awnings that flapped in the wind were heaps of nuts and combs of honey and a thousand shapes and kinds of bread; he bought a round loaf, studded with bits of fruit, whose sweet taste delighted him. In the next street under a broad green awning was a woman selling toys, dolls and balls, necklaces of clear and amber stones, carved bits of bone and horn, and a chess board with pieces of smooth stone, one side black and one white. He was afraid to ask how much these things cost, but their shine and glitter drew him.

  He thought of Benna, of her sisters, who never had such things. Here was a good use for his money. He found a necklace for Gifu of bright colored beads, and a painted wooden hair comb for Arre. Benna was harder to suit. Nothing seemed good enough. Then he saw a tray of disks of shining silver, rimmed with painted metal flowers; when he picked one up to see, his own face appeared reflected in the silver circle.

  He recognized himself from Benna’s drawing. From Mav’s face. The old man behind the display said, “Those were made in Miklagard the Great, those looking glasses.”

  Looking glass, he thought, pleased. Benna should have a looking glass. The price was almost everything he had left, but he paid it gladly.

  “Take care with it,” the old man said. “They are full of luck, but if you break it, all the luck will disappear.” Corban wrapped up the looking glass in a corner of his cloak and went back to the house of the Lady of Hedeby.

  He was her brother, and he was not her brother. She sat watching him pack up his things, the clothes the Lady had given him, the little glittery charms he had bought for those other people. Her old brother had been a windblown reed, had leaned on her, always, since they were babies, had spoken loud and said very little. This new brother was strong, and nothing bent him.

  She had leaned on him, she had gathered up some of his strength, enough that now she could see him going, and not fall into despair. But it was hard. She had so much she wanted to say, and somehow she could not make him understand.

  In the middle of her, the hot coal that was her baby stirred. It grew bigger, every day, revelling in its growing, in its newness, its feet thumping up under her ribs, pushing out her belly impossibly round and taut.

  She folded her arms around it. Little fool. The Lady had said nothing about it lately, but Mav knew she would kill it, if she could. She curved herself around it, a fortress around it, as she watched Corban close up his pack. She had to protect them, the man going out into the world, the child within her, and she had barely enough strength to stand.

  Corban came over to her and sat beside her, and took hold of her hands. “I am going.”

  “Ah,” she said. She freed one hand, and fisted it in the cloak. A wild rush of things flooded at once into her mind—too many. She could not give tongue to all, so she spoke none. “Ah, Corban.” She lifted the cloak and buried her face in it, breathing his scent out of it.

  He put his arms around her. “You must take care. Eat, and drink, and sleep—” He held her tight against him, and she began to cry. Watch out, she thought, seeing thousands of enemies around him, knives in their looks. Walk straight. Say nothing. Her tongue locked; she could not speak.

  “I will come back,” he said, and let go of her, and took her face in his hands. “I will come back.”

  Be careful, she thought. She ran her fingers down the front of his shirt, her eyes full of tears. You came, she thought. You came for me.

  Then he was gone. The pack gone, the cloak, the hall empty, huge, hollow, cold. She sat there on the bed, feeling the space around her stretch and thin toward nothing, as if the world fell away from her, and left her hanging.

  She shut her eyes, dizzy. As he went away her mind stretched toward him, following on his shadow. He was gone into the kingdom of their archenemy, and she was powerless to help him—she would even betray him, when she sang, give up everything he did and said. A wave of nausea swept up into her throat. She shook herself. Then she opened her eyes, seeing the hall, the upright columns, the horizontal beams, all still and even and solid.

  In front of her, smiling, stood the Lady of Hedeby.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He dreamt of the dark forest, far to the west; that he walked up that stream again into the forest, with its thunderous birdsong, its fabulous creatures. He walked along the little stream through the trees. He was looking for someone, someone was ahead of him, in among the dark trees, waiting for him—

  “Corban.”

  “Unhh.” He stirred awake, out of the dream; his limbs like waterlogged wood after the lightness of the dream.

  Ulf said, “We’re almost there. We’re almost to Jorvik.”

  Corban muttered at him. He straightened up out of the bow of the ship, where he had been sleeping; he did not row, now, Ulf had hired other men to row. Corban was only part of the cargo, too bored even to stay awake. He stood, stretching his arms out, and looked eagerly up the river.

  They were gliding strongly upstream, past thickets of willow, trailing branches like long green hair into the brown flowing water. The spring had come and gone here; deep summer lay on the land, the trees heavy-headed and full of bees, the fields overgrown wi
th brambles. Ahead the river curved around to the right; Ulf had gone back to the stern, to steer the ship past the root end of a great tree half-blocking the channel. A turtle basking on the downtilted trunk of the tree plopped into the water at the ship’s approach. From the shoal behind the tree root a long-legged bird lifted up into the air. Then, as the ship swung around the broad curve of the river, there came into sight the spire and the rooftops of Jorvik, strung along its embankment like a great thatchy crust, overhung with smoke.

  He wondered again at what the Lady wanted him to do here. He knew nothing of buying and selling; she meant that, he knew, to get him close to Eric. He remembered how the mere mention of another farmann’s name had gotten him out of hanging, when he first came to Jorvik. The traders had power, but he did not understand how.

  They were coming up to the shore at Jorvik. He went back to the bow again and dug out his pack. He took out the fancy red coat, unfolded it, shook it hard to get some of the creases out, and put it on. His old red and blue cloak he balled up and thrust into the pack, down below everything else.

  The oarsmen were shouting and leaning out to see ahead of them, the ship wobbling under their unsteady strokes. Ulf roared at them and they settled to the work again, but still their voices babbled up. Corban took the little leather sack of jewels from the pack; he had thought a while about how to present these to the Queen, to buy her favor. He had found a piece of black lambskin, before he left Hedeby; he took this out of the pack also, and quickly poured out the jewels onto the wooly side of the lambskin and rolled it up.

  The ship was nosing in toward the west bank of the river; he glanced up, hoping they would find room among the crowd of other ships, and stood straight, surprised. There were no other ships along the shore, not even the dragonships of the King.

  Ulf shouted, Corban grabbed hold of the gunwale, and the oarsmen leapt over the side and ran the ship up onto the gravel beach, below the steep high bank where the King’s Hall stood. Corban straightened up again.

  The shore was almost empty. The slave pens were falling apart. Below the sheer wall of the riverbank where the crews of visiting ships had passed their jugs and kept warm around firepits, the ground was cold and sodden. A few men loitered around by the foot of the street up to the city. He cast a quick look toward the east bank, but he could see nothing there except wild trees.

  Ulf came up to him. “Looks as if we’re the only people here. That should make your trading easy.”

  “Why did they leave? There were always ships here.”

  Ulf shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s your job. Shall I unload all this?”

  “Do you know where the Hedeby house is?”

  “Up there, on the right hand of the street. There, the long one in the middle.”

  Corban looked where he was pointing. The street climbed the bank and went into the town; on the high ground just above the river sat three houses in a row, the middle one longer than the others, the roof higher. “I see it.” He took the ringed key from his belt and handed it to Ulf. “Open it, store everything there, and wait for me.”

  He gave another quick look at the east bank, veiled in a tangle of willows in the green deep of the summer, and went up the street toward the King’s Hall.

  The red coat was heavy and hot, but surely it had some charm; he needed to wear it now, to face the King. To face Gunnhild. The Lady had said almost nothing to him about her, except that she was powerful, and vain. Corban remembered her sharp, cold eyes, the dry crackle of her voice. His feet were heavy, trudging up the street, the fur under his arm. He thought of Mav, which put some iron back into his legs; he walked harder, striding out. Get this over with. He lifted his eyes, and above him rose the long gable and green thatch of the Hall of King Eric Bloodaxe.

  Ragnar let out a yowl, and gripping little Leif by the shoulders heaved him up off the ground entirely. Along the table a roar went up. Most of the men were off with Sweyn Eelmouth, and they had pulled out the extra tables to make room for the wrestling.

  “Bite him, Leif!”

  “Kick him in the stones!”

  Leif writhed in Ragnar’s enormous hands and then abruptly twisted his legs up and booted Ragnar hard in the chest. The big man staggered and Leif bounded free, his yellow hair flying.

  “Catch him, Ragnar! Catch the little bastard!”

  Eric reached for his cup. Beside him in the high seat, Gunnhild was not watching the wrestling, one finger twisting and twisting a hank of her long, wheat-colored hair. He slid one hand up against her and stroked her hip.

  She glanced at him, that narrow sideways look that always reminded him of a snake, as if she struck at him with her eyes. She was angry with him, had been for days, part of this long argument about England. He smiled at her, hoping to jolly her out of it, and rubbed her hip again. She curled her lip at him and turned away, pressing herself against the far arm of the high seat, showing him the back of her head.

  Eric snorted. He would get her later, in the dark. He turned toward Arinbjorn, sitting on his right hand.

  “I have sent Eelmouth out to raid. When he comes back, we shall have some goods for you to sell, I hope.”

  Arinbjorn leaned back, not looking at him, pretending to be interested in the fighting. “I shall have to send them all out of the country, to get a good price.”

  “Whatever you need to do,” Eric said. A slave was coming up, bowing and cringing before him.

  “My lord King—”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Corban Loosestrife is at the door.”

  Eric said, blankly, “Who?”

  The slave bobbed up and down, as if dodging a blow. “He says he is from the Lady of Hedeby.”

  Gunnhild looked around. “Tell me that name again.”

  The slave hung his head down, to avoid looking her in the face. “He says his name is Corban Loosestrife, Queen.”

  Eric glanced at Arinbjorn, and saw him interested in this, too, looking up, his eyebrows arched. Eric wondered what he had missed. He struggled to remember the name. Gunnhild struck the table with her hand. “So he is come back again.”

  “You know this man?” Eric asked. Out in the middle of the floor, Ragnar threw Leif down with a crash; the other men all screeched and cheered. Nobody liked Leif.

  Gunnhild was frowning at him. “He was here in the winter. He was then only a simple countryman, passing through, in a cloak that was not King Kenneth’s colors, with money from Jedburh that was not from the archbishop.”

  Eric grunted. “I don’t remember.”

  “Bah.”

  “Why should I remember every bumpkin who comes before me?”

  “He is back again, and with her name on him,” she said. “And so he is not a bumpkin and never was.” Her fingers drummed on the arm of the high seat. She stared at him, hard. He disliked it when she stared so at him, as if she wanted to see someone else in his place. She turned to the slave. “Send him in.”

  Eric lifted his head. Ragnar was dragging Leif up and down the hall while the men on either side yelled and stamped their feet and threw bones at them both. Up past them, past the pushed-aside tables, came a man in a fine red coat, a broad-shouldered young man with dark hair, whom Eric did not remember.

  He wiped his fingers on his beard. If this Corban were important he would have remembered him. She made a lot out of nothing sometimes. Of course she and the Lady of Hedeby got along like two cats in a sack. He leaned down toward Arinbjorn.

  “Who is this?”

  Arinbjorn smiled, but his eyes never left the man in the red coat. “Who knows where she gets these people?”

  Eric sat straight again. He wished he knew what was going on. He glanced at Gunnhild, who sat with her head back, looking down her long Danish nose at the newcomer, her hand on the thunderstones around her neck. The man in the red coat came up before the High Seat, and flexed at the waist. Behind him, the brawling stilled, with even Ragnar now watching him.

  “My lord,” said the man
in the red coat. “My lady.” He straightened, looking from one to the other. “I am Corban Loose-strife. I offer you the greetings of the Lady of Hedeby, who has sent me here to trade on her behalf.”

  Eric slouched in his side of the High Seat. “I hope you brought us something to prove her love for us.”

  Corban stood up closer to the table. Under his arm he had a parcel of black fur, rolled up with the tanned-skin side out.

  He said, “For the King of Jorvik, I have six rods of iron, which my men are unloading now, a present to you from my mistress. For the Queen of Jorvik—”

  He laid the fur down on the table. Gunnhild leaned forward, eager in spite of herself; she loved presents. The men around the table half-stood to see, and a little murmur started up among them. With a flip of his wrist the newcomer unrolled the fur.

  Against the dense blackness the jewels glittered like living eyes. Eric muttered an oath, and reached out to touch them, and Gunnhild caught his wrist. He drew his hand back, out of her grip. She bent forward, over the jewels, and picked up the biggest, the size of an egg, and red as heart’s blood, and held it in her long fingers.

  Her gaze lay on Corban Loosestrife. She said, “You have changed your coat, innocent. How did that happen?”

  If the Irishman feared her he did not show it. He bowed his head again to her, but straightening he looked her in the face. He said, “I serve the Lady of Hedeby, Queen Gunnhild. She gave me the coat.”

  Eric slouched against the arm of the High Seat. He was feeling much better suddenly. He needed iron, and now here was six rods, for swords, for helmets, for studded armor. He needed a lot of other things, too, but cold iron would get him those. He said, “Welcome to Jorvik, Corban Loosestrife. You can trade here.”

  Gunnhild gave him the briefest of glances. One by one, she was picking the jewels out of the fur, holding each in her hand, turning it in the light, and then transferring it to the other hand. Eric saw she would not gainsay him. He turned to the Irishman again.