Loki's Gambit, page 139
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Chapter Eleven
In Steve’s hospital room, Amy runs a magic detector over Steve’s forehead and gets a riot of beeping. His eyelids don’t even flutter. She runs it down the length of his body and gets a steady beeping the rest of the way. It’s been twenty-four hours since she administered the serum. Fenrir recovered in as much time.
Across his body, Nari gazes down at Steve’s unconscious form. “When I had a similar injury I recovered much quicker. As did your ... ” His eyes go to her little mutt, “err, thing—pet.”
Standing back, Amy looks nervously to where Henry sits at the edge of a chair. Steve’s father is leaning forward, a book dangling from his fingers. He’d dropped the book from his eyes as soon as Amy started the exam. Beside Henry sits Beatrice, a pile of knitting in her lap, her umbrella leaning against the chair beside her. Amy drops her eyes. Steve should have had some return of function by now. She feels ashamed, even if she shouldn’t.
She looks up at Steve’s forehead and sweeps the magic detector over it once more. The device beeps with such intensity it’s almost a constant whine. Pulling it away, she bites her lip. The frontal lobe of the brain sits behind the forehead. Among other things, the frontal lobe is responsible for planning, reasoning, and problem solving. In humans, the frontal lobe is comparatively big.
She looks at Fenrir. Fenrir looks up at her, pants, wiggles her body, and wags her stump of a tail. In dogs, the frontal lobe is much smaller. Amy’s dog chases cars and eats dead things that other dogs pass up. Fenrir’s frontal lobe might be small even by canine standards.
“Your brain was already magically wired when you had your injury,” Amy says, not looking at Nari because looking at Nari makes her stomach do funny things. He resembles nothing so much as Loki’s better-looking brother. “Steve’s brain wasn’t.”
“What are you getting at?” asks Nari.
“Maybe it’s the complexity of Steve’s brain that’s slowing things down,” Amy says. “The magic matter isn’t just working on his injury; it’s rewiring his mind. In Fenrir it wasn’t an issue because … well, there’s not that much in there to be rewired.”
As if agreeing with her, Fenrir gives a happy bark and wags her body.
Nari looks down at the dog. “She did try to eat that used gauze earlier.”
Amy winces. Fenrir didn’t try to eat it so much as swallow the two foot spool of filthy used bandage whole. If Amy hadn’t induced vomiting it would have been another trip to the vet emergency clinic for sure.
Fenrir barks and goes to the door. “Speaking of the little monster,” says Beatrice, putting her knitting down.
Amy looks between Steve and her dog. Amy took a shower earlier, and she’s wearing some clean clothes that ADUO agents acquired for her; but she hasn’t left the hospital, or even this floor, since the troll invasion. She’d like to take Fenrir out, just to go outside. Sigyn is fairly confident that if Amy stays close to the hospital and keeps a magical guard, Odin’s unlikely to try another abduction ... at least for a while.
She looks at Steve and bites her lip. The thought of leaving makes her feel negligent.
As if reading her thoughts, Henry says, “Dr. Lewis, why don’t you go. Being here isn’t going to speed anything up, and you need a break.”
She looks toward the old man. Tucking the book under his arm, Henry puts his hands on the armrests of his chair and pushes himself up. Amy sees him wince a little. He walks toward her, massaging his fingers. The subtle signs of chronic pain make Amy’s heart fall, and yet she knows pain isn’t the thing most on Henry’s mind. He hasn’t left the room either. The only reason Ruth has left is to look after Claire. She’s down in the lobby with her now, Sigyn with them.
Amy looks at Steve and suddenly finds herself drawn into one of Loki’s memories. Helen, Loki’s half-blue daughter, was dying on Loki’s lap in Niflheim. On the periphery of Loki’s vision mist swirled. There were monsters in the mist, but all of Loki’s attention was on his daughter. The side of her that was pale and human hued was covered with lesions. The side of her that was blue was unmarred. Her eyes were closed to nearly slits and she was not looking at him, but her fingers were wrapped around his. Her magic was dimming and Loki wished more than anything in the Nine Realms that they could switch places.
Amy blinks away the memory before tears have a chance to build. Her own parents tend to contact her when they need something. Loki probably didn’t have much in common with the upright Henry, or the tender Ruth, but at least in love and devotion to his children, he was the same.
“Go,” Henry says. It’s not a suggestion. And it strikes Amy that maybe he wants some time alone with his son. Loki never cried about Helen’s death when he returned to Asgard. Not in front of anyone. On Niflheim he wept until his eyes were dry.
Putting the magic detector on the nightstand, she backs away. “Okay.”
“I’ll come with you,” says Beatrice, setting aside her knitting.
“As will I,” says Nari, looking straight at Amy. Amy does her best not to look back.
The three are just at the door of Steve’s room when Nari says, “My scabbard, I forgot it!” Without waiting for a response he turns and goes back into the room. The magic scabbard is the same one that a not-so-mythical Arthur used to hold Excalibur. As long as he wears it, Nari cannot be injured, but it has a low-grade ambient magic. Although it normally doesn’t set off magic detectors when not in use, Nari had slipped it off just to be certain it didn’t influence Amy’s magic readings.
As Beatrice and Amy wait in the hallway, her grandmother wags her eyebrows and smiles. Dropping her voice to a whisper, Beatrice says, “He likes you.” Giving Amy a nudge with her elbow, she adds, “And he saved your life in the cave!”
Amy flushes, remembering Nari’s body draped over hers. Excalibur’s scabbard had protected him from harm; it wasn’t like Loki jumping through the In Between to rescue her from the fire, or Bohdi refusing to leave her in the spider nest. She looks down at her shoes. Still, he had thought of her. She shakes her head, “Romance isn’t what I need, right now.”
“Or it might be exactly what you need,” Beatrice says brightly.
Amy’s gaze flashes in her grandmother’s direction.
Beatrice tilts her head. “He’s a nice boy, who is nice looking, and nice to you. Is that really so bad?”
“He’s not a boy, Grandma,” Amy whispers.
Beatrice raises an eyebrow. “But is he nice?”
Amy feels her shoulders go slack. Despite his readiness to surrender earlier, Nari isn’t really a coward. His courage is just more intellectual than physical. In his life, Nari has been more than nice, he’s been brave enough to stand up to Odin himself.
At Odin’s right hand, Loki sits at the long feasting table swirling his mead. Thor sits at Odin’s left. Around them the hall rumbles with the shouts and cheers of warriors. There are the upright Einherjar, and uptight Valkyries—Sigyn now among them. Asgard’s own native warriors dot the room—Loki’s eyes drift down the table to where Valli is sitting. As usual, his brave and reckless son is flanked by the brashest and most foolhardy of the Valkyries. Nari is also in attendance. His more thoughtful, but cowardly, son has managed to convince Hisbernia, Idunn’s daughter, to attend the rowdy feast with him.
In attendance are also Vanir, Frost Giants, elves, and even a few dwarves. They are the remainder of the foreign forces that helped Asgard beat back the Fire Giants ten years ago. They are the same undisciplined, ungrateful foreigners who pushed Odin to reinstate War Rites. They are the loudest, most unruly revelers in attendance. Loki despises them like he despises fire lice.
Normally, he’d despise playing Odin’s lackey, too. But ... his eyes drift back to Nari and Hisbernia Things being what they are, he’s actually glad he came. He lets an invisible double of himself slip toward the couple. The double is almost in earshot when Odin slaps a hand on Loki’s back, spoiling his concentration. “I smell magic. Who are you spying on, Trickster?”
Loki stews under the hand, gaze still on his quarry. Too late he realizes his gaze has given him away. “You are spying on Nari and his woman!” Odin declares. He snorts. “You’re just like a woman, Loki, interested in your children’s latest romantic foibles.”
Leaning around his father, Thor says brightly, “I see them, Loki. A good match!”
Withdrawing his hand from Loki’s shoulder, Odin sits back in his chair and grumbles. “You’re both women!” With that he tips back his mead.
Ignoring his father, Thor says excitedly, “Hisbernia is certainly clever enough for your Nari.”
Loki looks down the table at the daughter of Idunn. Idunn is an elf. Despite being only half elf, Hisbernia is the spitting image of her mother, her ears are pointed, and her frame is delicate. Once long ago, Loki had an affair with Idunn. He scratches his head. Actually, maybe it had been Hisbernia he’d slept with, he can’t remember … and they look so alike. Hisbernia works in the orchards of her mother, and by all accounts, is as talented at growing and caring for the immortality-bestowing apples. She is a suitable match for Nari. Witty, charming, and one of the few in Asgard who actually does something rather than simply living off the stipend Odin doles out from the tolls collected at Asgard’s World Gates.
A meaty hand hits his shoulder with such force Loki nearly falls off his chair. His head whips in Thor’s direction. Thor has an upraised fist hovering in the air. Though aimed at Loki, the fist hovers in front of Odin’s nose. The Allfather rolls his eyes.
Brow furrowed, skin a shade darker than usual, Thor says to Loki, “Of course, if you’re a grandfather before me I will be furious.”
Loki draws his head back. “You have hundreds of grandchildren.”
Sighing, Thor drops his fist. “Yes, well, they’re all human. They die so quickly. I wish Magi or Modi would get to it.”
Magi and Modi are Thor’s illegitimate sons by Jarnsaxa, a Frost Giantess ruling over a small kingdom in Jotunheim. Thor has proposed to her on several occasions, but she always says no. Loki is not sure why; he’s heard her declare her love to Thor and sensed no lie.
Thor gazes mournfully into his cup. Loki’s not sure if the big oaf’s thinking about his rejected proposals, his lack of magical grandchildren, or the passing of his human descendents. But Loki is sure it’s his duty to distract Thor—after all, what are friends for? And there is the delightful business with Pru, Thor’s daughter by his ex-wife Sif. “There’s always Pru and that dwarf she fancies,” Loki says with his most charming leer.
Loki feels a charge of electricity sizzle in the air. Thor’s face goes bright red. “Why, you little—”
A mug of mead crashes into the wall behind the Allfather’s head, interrupting what was bound to have been an epic tirade. Thor, Loki, and Odin all turn to look at the source. A group of Vanir “warriors” are shoving each other and shouting, oblivious to their grave faux pas.
With a grunt, Odin grabs Gungnir, his magical spear, and raps the ground. “Enough!” The hall goes quiet. The guilty parties pause their fighting, turn, bow their heads, sink to their knees and weakly thump their right hands over their hearts. The Allfather says nothing for a few long minutes, and the hush in the hall begins to take on physical weight. Rapping the spear one more time, Odin says, “You may be seated.”
The men sit down hurriedly. The hush turns to an ambient whisper, the whisper to a low din, and then the shouting resumes again.
Loki prepares to speak his mind when Thor does it for him. “Father, why do you tolerate such lack of discipline? These men are brigands, not warriors. Throw the lot of them out!”
Eyes still on the men who threw the mead, Odin says, “I’d rather keep my eye on the disorder this rabble raises than have other, wiser men use the rabble to rise against me.” Leaning back in his seat, Odin says, “Besides, I will have use for them.”
As if on cue, someone in the hall shouts, “May the Merchant Dwarves rise against their masters so that we have cause to kill them all!” Cheers go up around the room.
Across the room, Sigyn turns to Loki and locks eyes with him. She’s urged Loki to convince Odin to ignore the Merchant Dwarf uprising. Loki has tried—to no avail. She says the trouble is that he doesn’t really believe in the cause of the Merchant Dwarves. Which is true. Loki could give a damn about their desire for self-rule; but he does care about his sons, and Sigyn and would rather they not be caught up in a military scuffle.
“May they rise so I have an excuse to thin the ranks of those idiots,” Odin grumbles.
“Father,” says Thor, “I realize the Merchant Dwarves are too weak militarily to pose a real threat—but don’t send these men. Sent in your name they become the face of Asgard. Send the Einherjar, the Valkyrie ...”
“They’re needed elsewhere, and too valuable to be wasted on petty squabbles,” Odin says.
“Father … ” says Thor, his voice low, hands slipping to his hammer. For just a moment Loki feels the prickle of electricity in the air again. His heart skips a beat, a showdown between father and son? No, Thor would never …
Odin waves a hand in Thor’s direction. “Oh, don’t fret. I’ll send a few Valkyries and Einherjar to insure the job is done right.”
A movement down the table catches Loki’s eyes. He turns to see Nari and Hisbernia rising but making no move to leave the room. Instead they stand together, facing the seated guests. Loki’s heart skips a beat, this time in joy. Are they going to publicly announce a betrothal? Nari’s never seemed much interested in such things, but maybe there was a happy accident?
Nari’s voice rings clear and true across the din, hushing the room instantly, a trick of Nari’s particular glamour. “Why go to battle with the Merchant Dwarves at all?”
Loki deflates. He looks to Sigyn, expecting to see a similar look of disappointment. Instead she is holding her chin high, pride shining in her eyes.
Nari’s voice rises again. “They merely want their freedom from the tyranny of the Red and Black Dwarf kings!”
Loki leans back in his chair. The dwarf kings are rather a horrible, venal bunch. Maybe it is because the true wealth of their realm lies with the merchants and craft guilds and they are jealous. Maybe it is because they are horribly inbred and stupid. But they tax their people cruelly and insist on ridiculous rules—they don’t allow anyone outside of the nobility to wear colors, dress in silks or cottons, and the lords and ladies have the right to arbitrarily declare goods, services, and lay people as property of the crown. If they bothered to run the realm well, it might be forgiven. But certain segments of the Merchant Class, forced by the nobility into enormous ghettos, have had to learn to govern themselves. Sadly for the dwarf nobility, and inconveniently for peace in Loki’s marriage, they’d discovered they prefer self-rule.
“What business of ours is it that some of the dwarf Merchant Class wishes self-government?” Nari says. “It might be in Asgard’s interest. Without the arbitrary confiscation of their wares they might have more to trade with us.” He turns to the Einherjar and Valkyrie in the room. “The dwarves are the finest metalworkers in all the realms. Imagine more and better armor and weaponry—that is what you would have if the dwarf nobility weren’t having their precious metals turned into rings and silly ornaments.”
Surprisingly, some of the Einherjar and Valkyrie look thoughtful … possibly because their numbers had been considerably thinned by the war with the Fire Giants.
Odin stands from his seat and raps Gungir on the floor. “We have treaties with the Red and Black Dwarf nobility. We cannot renege on those; it would be dishonorable.”
Loki sees the Valkyrie and Einherjar nod among each other at the Allfather’s words. There is nothing worse than dishonor in their eyes.
Beside Nari, Hisbernia raises her arms. “We would not be reneging on our treaties if we negotiated new treaties.”
Murmurs rise up around the hall. Odin’s face remains impassive, but Loki feels the Allfather’s magic rising in the room.
Nari holds up a hand for silence, and then Hisbernia continues. “We could offer the Dwarf nobility more apples—they’d grant their Merchant Class their autonomy for immortality.”
More murmurs rise in the hall. And Odin raps Gungnir on the floor for silence. “We do not have a limitless supply of apples!”
“But we could have more!” Hisbernia says. “I know, I work the orchards alongside my mother. And we need not give them to all the nobility; even offering it to the kings would be enough.”
“And you would have such treasures be doled out to the Dwarf Nobility, well known for their avarice and sloth?” Odin says. “They don’t deserve it.”
“And for that reason they do not deserve to rule over their Merchant Class!” Nari shouts. “We should not go to war over this!”
A din rises up among the Einherjar and Valkyries as they argue the merits of war and buying off the Dwarves. To Loki’s surprise, some of them agree with his son. He hears shouts of, “The Red King and the Black King are worse than the Merchant Class—let them get fat on apples!” But from the foreign born mercenaries, a chant begins to rise, “War, war, war, war … ”
Rapping Gungnir on the floor for silence, Odin bellows across the room. “The honor of the Red and Black King is not our concern. Our concern is our honor. Don’t you value that, Nari Lokison?”
Angry eyes flick to Loki and back to Nari. Loki feels his face go hot, and bile rises in his throat. He is generally regarded as the court jester. Odin is using Nari’s kinship against him. Loki resists the urge to speak, but every candle in the room flares. People jump back from the table, more angry looks shoot in Loki’s direction … and Nari’s.
Odin’s magic rises in the room in an ominous cloud and the candles snuff out. The Allfather’s voice rises. “It is no secret you do not thirst for battle, Nari Lokison. You speak noble-sounding words, but they are laced with magic!”
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