Beyong the Gap

Trasamund and Leovigild exchanged more brags and barbs. They seemed more good-natured than otherwise. Maybe that meant they both remembered the obligations guesting gave them, or maybe that they didn't dislike each other as men even if their clans did not get on well. Hamnet accepted the good humor without worrying overmuch about the wherefores behind it.

His time to worry came a little later, when Leovigild rounded on the Raumsdalians and demanded, "And you people, what are you doing north of the tree line?"

The jarl eyed him and Eyvind Torfi

"Your Ferocity, we are explorers, come to learn what we may of your excellent country," Eyvind Torfi

Leovigild also nodded. "Our shamans will have somewhat to say to this fellow. One or two of them speak Raumsdalian." He plainly did not expect Audun to know his language. By the look he gave the wizard, he might not have expected Audun to know anything. His attention swung back to Earl Eyvind. "What of the others, then?"

"Soldiers help guard and help hunt," Eyvind said. Leovigild accepted that with a wave. Eyvind Torfi

"I know all sorts of strange things, your Ferocity." Ulric had no trouble speaking for himself. "You never can tell when one of them will come in handy, and you never can tell which one it will be."

"Huh." Leovigild eyed him. "Strange things about slitting throats and knocking heads together and setting traps and stealing pouches, or I miss my guess." Leovigild waited. When Ulric Skakki didn't deny it, the jarl grunted. "Thought so." He swung back toward Earl Eyvind. "And what about the woman?"

"Gudrid is my wife, your Ferocity," Eyvind Torfi

"Can't fault your taste—she looks tastable enough, in fact." Leovigild roared laughter at the look on Eyvind's face. He went on, "But what is she doing here!"

"I suggest you ask her yourself," Earl Eyvind replied.

"Never mind." Leovigild threw back his head and laughed again. "You just told me everything I need to know." Eyvind Torfi

"She is well able to take care of herself," Eyvind Torfi

True or not, it made Leovigild laugh even more. But then the Bizogot jarl sobered. "Something you should know," he said, aiming a scarred forefinger at Eyvind's chest. "Something you need to know, by God. Need to know, yes. The Empire is rich. The Empire has a great plenty of everything. Is it not so?"

"Well . . ." Eyvind Torfi

"It is so," Leovigild said solemnly. "And because it is so, in the Empire you can say, 'This one can take care of himself,' or even, 'This one can take care of herself.' There is so much down in the south, one person can have enough. It is not like that here. One person alone here is one person dead here. Only the clans can go on. Do you understand this, Eyvind Torfi

"I understand your words very well, your Ferocity," Earl Eyvind said. Leovigild scowled and turned away. Hamnet Thyssen knew why. Eyvind Torfi

How much trouble would it cause Gudrid? A woman could be independent down where trees grew and the ground wasn't frozen all the time. Up here, where even a man was more a part of his clan than an individual? She might find out the hard way just how different things were.

Leovigild shrugged, as if to say it wasn't his worry. "You Raumsdalians are our guests," he said. "Even Trasamund is our guest. Eat, then, and drink, and know that the Musk Ox clan does not stint."

When the mammoth-herders ate, they ate well. By Raumsdalian standards, they ate monumentally well. Musk-ox ribs and liver and chitterlings and brains did not taste much different from the beef Raumsdalians ate at home. The Bizogots made cheese from musk-ox milk. They also made but­ter, and ate it as a food on its own instead of spreading it on bread—they had no bread. They used it in their lamps, too.

Mammoth had a stronger flavor than musk ox. Not all of that sprang from the fuel over which the meat cooked; the musk ox was roasted over burning dung, too. Count Hamnet had never quite got used to mammoth meat, and would not have eaten it by choice. Coming up onto the frozen plains, he had no choice. Mammoth-milk cheese also had a tang all its own.

For treats, the Bizogots ate strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and gooseberries candied in honey. The berries that grew in this clime were small but very sweet. Bees had to scurry like madmen in the short spring and summer to lay in enough supplies to last through the rest of the year. Only a little farther north, and they could not live.

Smetyn, whether made from mammoth or musk-ox milk . . . Even ale was better, as far as Hamnet was concerned. But the sour brews warmed him inside and told him how sleepy he was. He rolled himself in a mammoth-hide blanket and went to bed in a tent that reeked of burning butter.

V

When count Hamnet woke, he needed a moment to remember where he was. He'd been on the road for a while now, and he'd got used to Ulric Skakki's resonant snores. He supposed Ulric was used to his, too, for the other man didn't complain about them any more.

The lingering smell of the butter lamp told him what he needed to know. That's right—the Bizogot encampment, he thought. In case he needed a further reminder, the shaggy hair on the mammoth hide draped over him would have done the job.

He yawned and stretched. A few early-morning sunbeams managed to sneak into the tent and turn what would have been darkness into gloom. One of those sunbeams hit Ulric Skakki in the eye. Ulric tried to twist away, but the damage was done. His eyes opened. He sat up and looked toward Hamnet Thyssen.

"You awake?" he asked.

"Of course not. I always talk in my sleep," Hamnet answered.

"It's too early in the morning to be fu