“Now that you mention it, he didn’t. Did he … have an accident?”
“The poor woman who found him said his pathetic penis was not the most embarrassing thing for the Meistari.” Ulfhild’s smile is broad and genuine as she pauses to gesture us into a large room, full of bookshelves and plush furniture in warm, soothing colors. “While she enjoyed the laugh, it wasn’t worth the mess she had to clean up. She asks you to send him to the privy before you tie him up next time.”
“I’ll do that,” Liv assures her, her own grin emerging as she settles into a chair by the fire. “And I’ll apologize to the poor woman.”
“Please do. Her goodwill is as important as the Meistari’s.”
“Yes, Meistara Ulfhild.”
Ulfhild chooses a chair next to the wall—the room and both its entrances within her sight—and drops into it with ethereal grace. She watches me with a question in her eyes as I sit across from her. “Have you brought me another bedmate?” She looks me up and down. “She’s a rare beauty. We could make space for her.”
“I’m Sifa,” I explain in a tight voice, the shard of ice that speared down my spine turning my words cold and brittle, “and I’m no bedmate.”
“Then why are you here? The kitchen is fully staffed and I don’t think you’ve come to buy what we have to sell.”
Releasing the breath that’s caught in my throat, I relax my shoulders.Calm confidence, I remind myself. “My talents differ,” I explain with a little tilt of my lips. “I can wield a sword like no other, and with or without blades, I win every fight, even against males much larger than me.”
“I don’t need warriors.” Ulfhild narrows her eyes, suspicion growing. “And I don’t trust you enough to place my girls’ lives in your hands. Why would I?”
In the next moment, two of the blades I keep on my belt are in my hands and flipping through the air, each landing a hair’s breadth from Ulfhild’s ears. Her smile widens as she holds my gaze. Next to manipulating minds, which I can’t risk with someone as astute as Ulfhild, my skill with knives is my most useful tool.
“Nice trick,” she says in a firm voice, “but unless your knife pierces the heart of one of my men, the fact remains I don’t need another warrior. I ask again, why would I trust you enough to hire you?”
Now I smirk, letting her see my devious side. This is where being a spy comes in handy.
Watching her as I stroll over to pluck my knives from the wall, I move to the chair closest to her and lower my voice. “I’ve been keeping your secrets for a long time, Meistara Ulfhild.”
“What secrets could you hold, girl?” The laugh that accompanies these words is forced. She wonders if I’m telling the truth.
“Two moons ago, a man drowned north of the town.” I hold my smile as I watch Ulfhild’s drop away. “He’d been drinking—he liked his mead—so the vekter believed he’d fallen in. But we know differently, don’t we Ulfhild?” My gaze hasn’t left hers.
She opens her mouth to speak but apparently thinks better of it, clicking her jaws shut after a moment. “He had stolen from you, and he took too much joy in causing pain to the females he bedded. Vanatia lost nothing when the sea claimed him. So I held my tongue.”
Ulfhild nods. She understands my unspoken threat, which is why I make it my business to gather tidbits of information about powerful people in Revalle.
“Perhaps it would be good to have a shield maiden who can pass as one of my girls,” she concedes after a moment. “You can join them when they’re called to one of the estates, or to the Kastali to entertain the Konungr and Dróttning and their guests.” She lifts a hand, rubbing her thumb along her jaw as another smile emerges. “Yes, you’ll do well.”
“Understand, though, that I’m not a bedmate. Ever. You’ll make sure nobody chooses me.” I don’t tell her why—that I couldn’t protect myself in the Nest, and swore I’d never be touched by unwanted hands again.
“I’ll do my best. If you catch the eye of someone powerful, it may be hard.”
“I don’t care. I’ll kill anybody who tries to bed me. Make sure it never happens.”
Ulfhild stares at me for nearly a minute. “I can send you with something that will repel most suitors,” she says at last. “It’s powerful but if any are interested enough in you to ignore it, you’ll also have a sedative you can give them. Just make sure they drink enough to believe it was the ale, and nothing else. We can’t have people suspecting we drug our clients.”
“That will work,” I agree. “I’ll return tomorrow. You’ll have a place for me?”
“I will. I trust I can rely on your discretion in all matters?”
I spin my knives in my hands a few times, never looking down at them, and then dip my chin. “I’ve kept your secrets, Meistara. I won’t stop now.”
I make it home within an hour, ready to become myself again. Sagga has no new words for me today, thankfully, and Halla is delightful without the weight of her mother’s premonitions. We laugh and chat about her day and how much she’ll enjoy the chicken on tonight’s menu. And then she skips off, leaving me to wander away lighter than when I met her.
Toffer looks up when I open the door, a broad smile taking over his crooked face. He’s the perfect embodiment of trolls from stories told in my worlds. Short enough for me to rest my chin on his shaggy yellow hair when we hug—which we do often—he’s stocky and surprisingly strong. With a broad, round face, an absurdly-wide nose, and a beard hanging halfway down his chest, Toffer looks exactly like Midgard children imagined when they pictured trolls.
He stays home most of the time because very few trolls exist in Vanatia. When he ventures out, he causes a stir. People gawk and talk about his unlikely existence in animated whispers. And that attention always—every single time—triggers his innate need to kill. I’ve had to stop him more than once. Since I’ve managed to convince him he should try not to kill people who don’t deserve it, he doesn’t often leave the house without me these days. He’s learned to lean on my presence to control his most base urges.
“Sif, my Sif,” Toffer yells as he launches himself from the couch and picks me up in a huge hug—the response I get every time I come home, like a dog ecstatic at its owner’s return. “I thought you’d never get back.”
