Page 32 of The Sun He Buried

I hand over the coins.

Baldr picks up my basket.

I let him keep that too.

The merchant folds the cloak into a square and wraps it in waxed cloth for the walk back. Baldr takes the parcel before I can.

“I can carry one of those.”

“Which one?”

I look at the basket. Then the cloak.

“The pastry.”

“You ate it.”

“Excellent. I’m helping already.”

We climb toward the middle terrace. Baldr has the basket over one arm and my purple cloak beneath the other. People stop him every few stalls. A smith asks about charcoal deliveries. A woman selling dried herbs tells him her roof still leaks. Two sailors disagree about whose boat damaged a pier post and try to make him decide from twenty feet away.

He remembers their names.

He remembers the roof.

He tells the sailors they both hit the post.

They argue.

He gives them each half the repair cost and keeps walking while they complain together.

“Do you ever get through the market in one day?”

“I was making good time until the ribbon stall.”

“That was your fault.”

“You bought twelve ribbons.”

“They were fairly priced.”

“After I left.”

“Exactly.”

At the top terrace, the hall rises above the market roofs. Smoke pulls east from the longhouse chimney. Beyond it, the sky is pale and clear over the mountains.

Myrkviðr is somewhere past them.

Baldr follows my gaze. “You can still say no.”

“I know.”

“My brother is difficult.”

“You mentioned insufferable.”

“That too.”