Loki's Gambit, page 31
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Amy remembers her run in with Thor in Alfheim, how he suggested Loki keep her as a plaything, and how he waggled his finger at her as though she were a bird in a cage. “I’d rather not think of that ass at all.”
Loki raises an eyebrow. “Oh, he isn’t all that bad.”
“He is an insensitive idiot and a clod!” says Amy, crossing her arms.
Loki puts the brassiere back on the rack. “No, not really.” And then he looks away.
Loki is in Asgard. It is night and the streets are lit with jeweled lanterns of many colors. The streets are packed with Asgardians, Vanir, dwarves, elves, giants and even the occasional fire and ice ettin. It is the festival of the Changing of the Streets. Asgard is about to transform itself from an above-ground replica of dwarven jeweled cities to a city modelled after the Imperial City of Midgardian China.
Anganboða is at his side, her arm in his. Fenrir lopes beside them. Loki is holding Helen in his arms—an activity that surely labels him as argr and a fool among the Aesir; but he is called a argr and a fool for so many other reasons anyway, and he sees no reason to deny himself the pleasure of carrying his tiny daughter in his arms. Helen adores him. And she is so small and light, her bones as delicate as a bird, her limbs narrow and fragile. Eir, Frigga’s lady-in-waiting and practitioner of healing, says Helen is as small as a child of one year, though she is nearly three.
In Loki’s arms, Helen’s misshapen limbs are easy to hide. The way her lips pull down slightly to one side, the blue color of half her face, the way her hair is half-honey colored, half-black, is another matter.
But tonight, everyone is too intent on the festival to pay Helen much more than a quick look of curiosity or disgust. Tonight Loki hears no whispers of how Aggie bewitched him into keeping a deformity, a monster. He catches no snippets of how Helen is a blight upon the court.
Not that these comments pain him much—though they pain Aggie. What is painful is when someone suggests he named Helen after Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman on Earth, as a cruel jest.
Loki glances down at his little girl, the blue light of her magic nearly brighter than the lanterns above his head. Asgard is as blind to her beauty as they are to Baldur’s ugliness.
Catching his eye, Helen gives him a lopsided grin, throws her good arm around his shoulder and buries her face near his neck. Loki can’t help but smile.
“She has you wrapped around her little finger,” says a familiar feminine voice from behind.
“Sigyn,” declares Aggie happily.
Loki does not scowl as Sigyn comes over and embraces Aggie, or when she touches a finger to Helen’s nose and Helen gurgles a laugh. No matter how much animosity he harbors toward Sigyn, she is one of Aggie’s few friends, Helen likes her—even Fenrir likes her. And though her chiding would be an insult to another man’s masculinity, he feels that it is completely good natured. So he bites his tongue.
As the women begin to chat about the elves’ continued objections to Odin’s order to remove the elven presence from Midgard, Loki’s eyes go to the edges of the crowd. There are all sorts of gaming booths tucked in among the alleys. Loki loves gambling. He’s married, he’s faithful—despite the belief of everyone in Asgard, and despite being in Aggie’s words ‘an incorrigible flirt’...he needs some games in his life. On Aggie’s advice he stopped betting on sure things and started betting on surely not things; it allows him to put less money in for higher stakes. That increased his takings immensely. Odin says it’s cheating. Loki says he’s jealous.
But now that Helen’s come along...before her birth Loki could tell when fellow gamblers were lying or bluffing, but when Helen’s with him he can feel what cards they hold in their hands, see the slightest unsteadiness in a horse’s gait, and somehow knows what strategies are going through the mind of his opponents during chess. Now, in the alley closest to them, he sees a man sitting in front of a board. Smiling, Loki walks in his direction and whispers into Helen’s ear, “Want to play a game of chess, Darling?”
“Nuh,” comes the reply.
“But it will be fun. Daddy will win lots of money and buy you a sweet.”
Thrashing in his arms, Helen twists her head. “Nuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Loki scowls. But he turns back to Aggie and Sigyn. At that moment the ground at the foundations of the buildings begins to send off tiny sparks and the crowd goes wild. In Loki’s arms, Helen squeals so shrilly he thinks he may go deaf.
The sparks begin to move up the side of the buildings, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. In their paths are ribbons of light of every color, roughly outlining the contours of the buildings beneath. There is a collective intake of breath, and then the threads of light slip down like a curtain. Instead of thick dwarven bejewelled brickwork and heavy green copper roofs, there are now white-walled pagodas accented with red and gold. Jewel lanterns are replaced by paper lanterns. The crowd roars. And then in the center of the street five plumes of smoke rise, about 40 paces apart from one another. Revelers run to get out of the way. Fire dances up to replace the smoke and smiling dragons slip out. They’re not quite wyrms; they have sets of tiny legs with wicked claws every few lengths. The dragons begin to march along the street, the rhythm of their claws being matched by clapping hands. The crowd moves as one body to follow them. Somewhere drums begin to sound.
In his arms, Helen squeals in delight as they are carried along with the crowd. Loki shakes his head. Odin has outdone himself this time. It is then that he realizes he can’t see Aggie. He projects himself upwards, sees her with Sigyn across the street from where he wades through the crowd with Helen. Fenrir is with them, so they’re given a wide berth.
She’s safe. Loki pulls back his apparition and concentrates on not letting Helen slip from his arms. Vendors are in the crowd hawking all sorts of mementos and alcohol. Loki sighs; with Helen bobbing in his arms, a bottle of mead is probably out of the question.
Loki follows the dragons and the crowds for what might be the better part of an hour. As he does he notices the crowd getting rowdier, even as Helen’s body sags against his. After being knocked into for a third time, Loki scans for an exit. Seeing a break in the press of bodies ahead he slips forward...and realizes why the gap exists.
Thor is walking amongst the commoners with his stepson Ullr, and Ullr’s fiancee Skadi. The people are giving them space in deference to their station. Loki scowls and thinks about slipping back into the crowd. But by chance Thor happens to turn. He meets Loki’s scowl with one of his own.
And then Ullr and Skadi turn also. Skadi’s eyes narrow. Like Loki, she is a jotunn, and her skin is very fair. A consummate athlete she is tall and lean. Her father once repaired a large section of Asgard’s walls. Since Asgard had no money at the time—due to fancy festivals like this—her father asked for Freyja’s hand in marriage in exchange. Lopt told him he would have it, but only if the repairs were done in a ridiculously short amount of time. Skadi’s father would never have succeeded if it weren’t for his stallion Svadarvi. The creature could work both day and night and had the intelligence of a man. He led the other horses in delivering materials and made it possible for Skadi’s father to concentrate on the actual masonry of the walls. But just before the task was completed, Svadarvi was distracted by a mare in season—human legend alleged the mare was Loki in disguise, but it was before his time. Mad with lust, the stallion ran off and the wall was unfinished. For daring to make a bargain of Freyja’s hand in marriage, Skadi’s father was slain, this despite the fact that Asgard had no death penalty. Svadarvi was never seen again, but 11 months later,Odin came into possession of the eight-legged realm-walking foal Sleipnir.
Skadi had come to the Aesir years afterwards to protest the treatment of her father. In compensation she was allowed to marry the man of her choice—but only allowed to choose based on view of their feet. She’d desired Baldur, but instead had mistakenly chosen Njörðr. She’d been furious and declared that unless the Aesir could deliver her happiness, she would relentlessly spread word of their unjust actions through the nine realms. It was Odin who declared if she was made to laugh, even briefly, her happiness had been achieved. One by one the Aesir had come forward with jests and tricks, but none even achieved a flicker of a smile. Loki, only a teen then, had held back. When two clowns were doing an imitation of a tug-of-war with an invisible rope he had slipped next to her and whispered, “Not as satisfying as seeing a tug-of-war with one end of the rope in the mouths of Thor’s goats, and the other end tied to Odin’s balls, is it?”
She’d laughed despite herself...and been angry at Loki ever since. Well, not so angry that they hadn’t had sex after her divorce with Njörðr. The anger had been fun in bed; what hadn’t been so fun were all her lectures afterwards on the importance of upright behavior, and how Loki disgraced his entire race with his cheap antics, and ‘justified the Aesir’s belief that jotunns are just slightly better than humans.’
Loki is snapped out of his reverie with the sound of Thor’s hand smacking Ullr on the back. “If it isn’t Scarlip,” says Thor with a cruel smile.
Ullr snorts. He is the bastard son of Sif, and no one knows who his father is, but he looks remarkably like Thor. Had he not been born before Thor came to court, people might believe that he is the result of an enthusiastic coupling before Thor and Sif’s marriage. But Thor had adopted the boy when he’d married Sif. Loki scowls. Thor still disputes Sif’s reputation as a whore, even with the evidence of her loose ways right before him.
Skadi looks at Helen now asleep in Loki’s arms. Her look is one of such unadulterated disapproval that the hairs on the back of Loki’s neck stand on end. Loki should ignore it, but he’s never been one for fine choices. “Something bothering you, Skadi?”
Skadi would never have let Helen live—she sees Helen’s existence as a weakness, and just another blemish on the good name of all right-thinking jotunns in Asgard. “Yes, Trickster, the monster in your arms,” she says. She’s never been one to back down either.
Ullr’s eyes go wide. Thor’s face hardens. And for a horrible instant Loki’s sharp tongue deserts him.
And then Thor says, “Ullr, look over there, a merchant is selling spun honey. Why don’t you and Skadi go get some. I would speak to Loki alone.”
The two depart through the crowd. Loki finds himself alone with Thor, revelers swinging around them drunk and oblivious.
“Out with it, Thor,” hisses Loki. “Please, state your objections to my daughter’s existence to my face rather than my back.”
Thor steps closer, so close he is in the sphere cast by Helen’s soft blue magic. “No, Fool, I will not, for I have none. It is good to see you so besotted.” He snorts. “Perhaps now you will understand that no shame is too great to endure for a child’s sake.”
He blinks and straightens suddenly. He looks as though he is confused, like his own words are shocking.
Loki’s eyes widen. He sees Thor’s eyes go to Ullr. Sif and Thor have a daughter, but no sons. Loki remembers all the times Thor has declared Ullr his ‘own son’. He remembers when Ullr was just Helen’s age, how Thor had presented the toddler with a tiny wooden sword, and then let Ullr chase him around while feigning fear. And he remembers seeing the two in the training yards for endless hours, sitting next to each other at feasts, even sharing each other’s cups of mead.
“You knew,” says Loki, the realization so strong his mouth moves of its own accord.
Thor turns to him, his eyes tired. “Of course, I’ve known the boy’s mother is a whore.” He looks down. “But the boy doesn’t, and that is what matters.”
Loki suddenly feels very small. He looks on Thor—brash, quick to anger, sometimes thick-headed Thor, and sees nobility he will never possess, compassion, and strength of will enough to hold up all of the nine realms.
“Of course,” says Loki. He can feel Helen’s drool through his shirt, and she is just beginning to get heavy in his arms. But these things are immaterial. Her magic is so thick that the crowd moving beyond the little space allowed in deference to Thor son of Odin is almost obscured. Thor holds up a hand in the pale blue mist. “A lovely color magic for a girl to have,” he says.
Loki has no words, and if he did his voice might crack.
“My head hurts,” says Loki rubbing his temple. Amy takes a step closer; he does look pained.
And then he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Melancholy serves no purpose,” he declares. Suddenly, by the cash register a skeleton in Halloween finery starts to clatter.
Amy’s eyes widen.
The skull begins to speak in a voice remarkably like Loki’s:
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep...
“What?” says the girl behind the counter, her eyes going wide.
“That’s awesome!” says a kid buying a gargoyle.
“It’s not supposed to do that,” says the clerk.
“Loki,” hisses Amy. But his eyes are focused on the skeleton.
The skeleton twists its head—or looks like it twists its head. Amy’s sure it’s an illusion.
“Am I dead or dreaming?” It raises a bony hand to its face. “Or both?”
“Auggghhhhh!” screams the girl at the cash register.
“Auggghhhhh!” screams the skull turning to her and the kid buying the gargoyle.
“Auggghhhhh!” screams the kid.
“Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Screams every gargoyle and skull in the store, whether on a t-shirt or made of plaster. The lights start to blink.
“Loki!” yells Amy as people start to run.
He turns to her and grins, lights blinking above his head. “Well, I feel better.” He waggles his eyebrows. “My work here is done. Now if you will excuse me...”
And then he disappears.
The lights come back on. The skulls and assorted monsters go quiet.
A man with a shaved head and an intricate tattoo of a hammer on his bicep turns to her. “Did you just say Loki?”
“Ummm...” says Amy.
The man points his finger at her, his lip curling up in a snarl. “He’s evil! I’m a pagan; I know!”
From behind Amy comes a woman’s voice. “I’m a pagan, too, asshole. Loki’s not evil.”
Amy turns to see a woman her age, with a 1940’s retro hairstyle, wearing glasses with thick black rims. The woman is staring at the skin-head hammer-tattoo guy.
“Ummm...” says Amy.
The man snorts and rolls his eyes. “What is it with chicks and Loki?”
Grinning, the girl sashays her hips. “Maybe we just like his silver tongue.” She winks at Amy and smiles. “Am I right?”
Amy blinks. “He’s kind of funny, but I’ve never thought of him as particularly eloquent.”
The woman’s smile drops.
The guy is just staring at her.
“I mean, if he existed...” says Amy slowly. She’s not supposed to talk about Loki.
They both scowl.
Amy’s eyes widen. “Ummm...bye?” She practically runs out of the store.
It isn’t until she’s panting just inside the comic book store, in the mist that’s become full-fledged rain, staring at a Captain America comic, that she realizes she hasn’t asked all of Steve’s questions...but she thinks she’s learned something more important than all of his questions put together.
Chapter Six
It’s 7:05 AM. In the elevator of the Presidential Towers apartment complex, Steve checks his email. There is one from Amy that he doesn’t read past the first sentence—he’s going to debrief her later in the day anyway, and several from Merryl, Brett, and Jameson. The one from Merryl about putting plastic explosives into goat carcasses before feeding the carcasses to trolls seems helpful.
The elevator dings, he puts his phone away, and he walks out of the building between another man and woman in business suits.
The streets are still wet from the rain Chicago had last night. The sky is clear and blue now, but unfortunately, not empty. Steve scowls. From over his head comes an all too familiar voice and the flap of wings. “Good morning, Steve, rawk, rawk.”
“Did Claire get home safely, rawk, rawk?”
Steve narrows his eyes. The birds hadn’t given him a rest over the weekend. They’d terrified Claire every time he’d taken her outside. Steve can feel the Glock he has at his hip. He swears it’s calling to him. He clenches his jaw and keeps walking.
“Are those ravens tame?” says the business woman beside him.
“Nooooooo!” shriek the ravens.
“Just a couple of angry birds,” says Steve.
“Steal their eggs?” says the man, laughing.
Steve’s hands clench into fists. Fortunately the man and the woman both make a left as Steve and the ravens go right. He scowls at the birds as they hop along the pavement in between short bursts of flight.
“Shouldn’t you be trailing Loki?” Steve asks as he walks down a stretch of street that is empty of passers-by.
Hopping around on the pavement about 10 feet away, one fluffs its wings. It is disturbing, but Steve’s familiar enough with them now to recognize that as a raven equivalent of a shrug.
“Nope,” says the bird.
“We’ve been assigned to watch you,” says the other, flapping to the top of the mailbox—and leaving a crap.
Steve rolls his eyes. “And to what do I owe this honor?”
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