Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(23)

Ceolwen peered through the smoke-filled gloom. “Where? By the Gods, is that a woman? How can you tell?”

Aelfhild waited for her mistress to take a sip from her cup before replying.

“Less stubble.”

It took Ceolwen a while to regain her breath as she coughed, laughed, and dribbled ale.

Bercthun rejoined them, his expression peeved.

“Lady,” he whispered, “I did say not to stare at folk. Someone may get suspicious. Even if they are not looking for you, the last thing we want is trouble.”

“These drunks would not notice if a team of oxen burst through that wall,” Ceolwen protested.

“No luck finding a ship?” Aelfhild asked. The young man shook his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“On to the next one, then,” she said.

The door of the inn closed behind them, muting the clatter and roar within. They stepped over a pair of what Aelfhild assumed to be men wrestling in the gutter—mud covered them to the point that she could hardly tell if they were human. It was unclear which man was winning.

The air outside was cold and blessedly fresh, rich with the tang of saltwater. Strains of singing drifted out of an open door across the way. Another jaunty sailor’s ditty, from the sound of it. The one thing she enjoyed were the songs. Each tavern had a mood to it and singers to fit—boisterous sea-chants rang from the walls of one alehouse, soulful keening in another. And what the dancers lacked in form or grace they made up for in pure, unapologetic spirit. Aelfhild found it an improvement over the haughty plucking of strings in the King’s court.

They wandered, looking for a drinking hole yet untested. The remaining options were few.

Bercthun led them down a quieter alleyway and into a squat, wood-shingled building. Inside they found the same haze of smoke, but without the humid press of humanity. This was no place for merry crowds and catchy songs, but a place to eat and drink in undisturbed solitude.

After a short conversation, the innkeeper directed Bercthun to a table against the far wall of the inn, near the glowing coals in the hearth. There they found two men, one thin with haggard features that hinted at recent illness, the other clearly descended from the giants in Bercthun’s campfire stories. Even sitting down, the man’s golden-brown beard was at Aelfhild’s eye level.

The sickly one was dozing, head nestled on his forearms, while the giant stared without expression into his mug. He turned his stolid gaze to the three intruders as they approached.

“Hail, friend,” Bercthun greeted him, bowing his head, “I was told you are the men to see about passage north.”

Their new “friend” stared back unblinking for a moment before he turned and elbowed his sleeping companion. Waking with a snort, the man sat back and peered at them from beneath his tangled hair.

“Whassit?” he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Hail, friend,” repeated Bercthun, “We seek passage north and were told to speak to you. Bercthun is my name.”

“Leofstan,” the little man said, introducing himself, and gestured for them to be seated across the table. As they took their seats on the other bench, he patted his cheeks and drained the last of whatever had been sitting in his mug. He burped and pointed to his silent friend. “Sigfus.”

It took Leofstan some time to regain his bearings, but he seemed to be the man in charge. Sigfus stared into his mug as before, unperturbed by conversation.

“The three of us are headed north to Jarlstad,” Bercthun said, “and hoped to buy passage aboard your ship.”

“Jarlstad?” asked Leofstan, shaking his head, “We are not sailing that far west. Tomorrow we set out for Ulfheim in the north. The closest I can take you is Fornhofn, but three folk is heavy cargo.” He scratched at the scraggly growth on his chin as he passed an appraising eye over all three. “You can row,” he added, pointing at Bercthun, “but those two are dead weight.” He gestured to the girls.

Bercthun nodded, “I can work for my share, and we can pay. But Fornhofn is only part of the way on our journey, and we will not pay a full price for only half the distance.”

Leofstan named his price. “Four silver crowns.”

It would have been a pittance for the daughter of the King on any normal day, but then and there he might as well have asked them for a wyrm’s horde. Bercthun scoffed. “One silver crown, and even that is too much.”

“You pain me, friend, you pain me,” Leofstan pointed to his companion. “You see how big Sigfus is? It costs more than a crown to feed him. Three crowns.”

Back and forth they went for a while, the captain feigning poverty and Aelfhild’s eyes watering as Bercthun’s offers crept higher.

They concluded on two silver and four copper pieces. It was the full extent of their wealth, and left them nothing for the remaining leg of their journey.

Focus on this step now, she chided herself. The others come later.

“You drive a hard bargain, stranger,” Leofstan concluded, bowing his head and spreading his hands in a show of mock defeat. “Half now, half on arrival—and you provide your own food. I have enough hungry bellies to feed as it is. Agreed?”

He spat in his palm and extended his hand to Bercthun, who nodded and did the same. They clasped hands, and the deal was made. Bercthun handed over half of their coins.