Dustin Long - Icelander

I didn’t say anything for a moment, and Gerd just stood there twirling her little knife.

Their partnership?

“God,” I said. “I’d really thought better of him, though…” [45] Such coyness is one of the most infuriating aspects of this novel. That the Author would so strongly imply that Hubert Jorgen was somehow involved in the hypothetical forgery plot, tainting him with the guilt of the matter, yet refusing to commit wholly and describe the masterful skill—surpassing even that of Surt—with which Jorgen would have executed whatever part he might have played in such a plot had he been involved.

“Ah. Indeed. So I’ve heard. Not your wisest choice, that.”

Somehow, this was what made me lose my temper.

“Excuse me?” I said, looking back up and into her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m not about to start accepting relationship advice from Prescott’s new girlfriend. Who also happens to be his half-sister, I might add, which is totally gross.”

“His name is Freysgo∂, and my relationship with him is none of your concern. Nor is he any of your concern.” She wasn’t smiling now, but she was still spinning the knife, slowly, in her right hand. “He is not your husband any longer, and you will remember that in the future.”

Then she grabbed my left hand with her own and drew the knife, quickly, straight through the base of my ring finger, then out the other side, just above the knuckle. I saw the finger hit the floor before I felt the pain.

“I’m going to cut you loose, now,” she said, “as I promised that I would.” She sliced with one motion through the left leather strap as she said it. “I am sorry about your finger, and I truly don’t bear you any ill will.” She cut the other strap just as easily as the first, and then the shape of her moved down to my feet; I couldn’t quite make out any details through the blur of sudden tears.

“I’ve actually been thinking that we needed to talk about all of this for quite a while now,” she said. “My only regret is that it had to happen under such unpleasant circumstances. Perhaps next time you’re in Vanaheim we can continue this discussion in a more amiable manner. And I’ll just hold on to your finger until then.”

My feet were free, and I fell to the floor.

“Anyway, you should probably go now. Freysgo∂ is undoubtedly close to finished with your father, and I’m sure you’ll want to be gone before he gets here. I’m afraid he won’t be very pleased with me when he finds out that I’ve let you leave, of course, but then you don’t need to worry about his moods anymore, do you? Although I suppose he might send the Refurserkir after you… So, on second thought, perhaps you do need to worry about just this one mood. But don’t fret; I’ll do my best to dissuade him.”

I didn’t say anything coherent—just staring down at the blurry hem of her robe, holding my left hand in my right—but she stood there, still for a moment in front of me, before moving toward the table to pick up the candle tray.

“Well, all right, then,” she said. “It’s been nice talking to you.”

And then she blew out the watery candlelight and was gone.

After a short while, I was able to stand, and I stumbled toward the wall that had been to my left. Toward where I recalled the wall having been, though I underestimated by a couple of feet—tripped before slamming my right hand against a pipe. The metal was hot, and I pulled immediately away.

I wasn’t sure which direction Gerd had gone, or I would have taken the opposite. In my ignorance, I just settled on the direction that had originally been in front of me; I figured that there had to be an exit either way. I felt much more comfortable after I took a moment to squat. I walked quickly, then, and I tried not to touch the walls; my hands hurt enough already as it was.

I tried not to think about what Prescott was almost finished doing to my father.

On an average walk down New Crúiskeen streets, steam seemed to rise from the sidewalk just about every twenty feet. I was now in the place that the steam came from; this should have meant grates somewhere nearby for me to find… Light leaking in. Ladders leading upward. But after a minute or more of walking straight I still didn’t see a thing. I did hear something, though, suddenly behind me, and—pivoting on one heel—I screamed something back.

A voice whispered my name. A male voice, familiar, and it sounded about ten feet away.

“Prescott?” I called, tentatively.

“No. It’s Nathan,” the voice stage-whispered back. “I met you earlier, remember? You don’t happen to have a light, do you?”

“Nathan! God, you scared the—” I let out the deep breath I’d taken, but it didn’t really relieve my frustration.

“Sorry,” he answered, still quiet, coming closer. “You don’t happen to know the way out of here, do you?”

“No,” I said. “I have no light. I don’t know the way out.”

“Just checking.”

I could almost make out the shape of him, standing there, holding his own shoulder. A solid silhouette against the otherwise nebulous black.

“What are you doing down here, anyway?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“I was looking for you, actually.”

“And you knew I’d be down here?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story. And I think we should probably try to be quiet until we know that we’re safe.” He lowered his voice back to a whisper. “For now why don’t we just concentrate on finding our way back to the surface?”

This made sense, I supposed. Just in case the Refurserkir really were after us.

“Okay,” I said. “Except for the fact that neither one of us has any idea which way the surface is.”

“Sure we do,” he replied. “Up.”

Nathan’s response wasn’t quite as inane as it sounded. What I’d failed to notice in my attempts to avoid touching the pipelined wall was that side passages occasionally branched off at inclines and declines from the tunnel that we were in. Nathan had joined my passage from one of the declines, though he’d gone up and down a few times before reaching me and wasn’t certain which level he’d started on. Taking inclines whenever we could, though—over the next several minutes—we managed to make our way to a tunnel with grates letting out directly onto the world above. What I assumed were streetlamps filtered down through them, and I could make Nathan out a little more clearly. Enough to know that it was really him. Still holding his shoulder.

“I could give you a boost,” he said. “Maybe we can reach one of those grates.”

“It’s too high,” I answered. “Let’s just see if we can find a grate with a ladder.” I started off in a direction at random and he trotted after me.

“What are these tunnels here for, anyway?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, exactly. But I know the campus heating system is connected to them, somehow.”

“Well, do you have any idea how far they extend horizontally? I mean, since they have something to do with the campus heating system, can we at least assume that we’re beneath the campus?”

“I really have no idea,” I said. “The power plant that provides the steam in the first place is kind of on the edge of town, so the tunnels are probably pretty extensive. I think the tunnels might have been here before the steam pipes, actually, though I don’t really know the history that well.”

The throb in my finger was getting worse, and I wanted to get out of there before the Refurserkir arrived. The throb where my finger had been. God. I was starting to feel a little lightheaded, too. Probably just the drugs and alcohol kicking back in, the ormolu wearing off. But what if I was losing too much blood? We had to get out of here.