Joanne Harris - Runemarks

Sugar-and-Sack was no fool. But he was curious-perhaps more curious than was altogether safe-and he had seen a number of peculiar things, which he longed to try and investigate. It had begun with that girl who knew his true name and her descent into regions where no goblin ventured but into which the Captain sometimes disappeared, returning in a foul temper and reeking of smoke.

Next had come the developments in World Above. In usual circumstances Sugar would have taken little interest in these. Goblins don’t like trouble, unless they are causing it themselves, and the frequent comings and goings on Red Horse Hill-the posses and the parson stirring up the neighborhood-would normally have kept him safely underground.

But this time he sensed that there was something more afoot than the usual tension between Folk and Faërie. There had been rumors-and a horseman, riding hard on a laden steed, galloping back to the Hindarfell. There was a scent too, like incense and burned stubble, and half an hour ago the Captain had returned from one of his forays with a rag around his head and a nasty gleam in his eye, had put his guard on full alert, and had shut himself up in his private quarters, snapping at any goblin who came close.

Sugar knew better than to get in his way. He had done what he always did in similar circumstances: had settled himself in an out-of-the-way place and prepared to acquaint himself with a plum cake, a ripe cheese, and a small barrel of mule-kick brandy that he had stashed there several weeks before. He was just getting comfortable when the sound of voices reached him-and one of them, he knew at once, was Maddy’s.

His duty was plain-to stop the girl. Those were his orders, clear as kennet, orders from the Captain himself-and the Captain had a way of making himself very unpleasant if his orders were not obeyed.

On the other hand, he told himself, anyone who could make Loki nervous would be more than a match for Sugar-and-Sack. The better part of valor, in this case, would be to lie low and finish the brandy.

It was a good plan, and it would have worked just fine, thought Sugar later, if it hadn’t been for his dratted curiosity. The same that had led him to the girl in the first place. And now it got the better of him once again as he crept along in the shadows, trying to hear what the voices were saying.

An argument seemed to be in progress.

It had not taken long for Maddy to discover that the Whisperer was not at all grateful for its release. In the hours after their escape from the cavern, following her own back-trail and carrying the object in a sling made from her jacket, she had many opportunities to curse herself for having succeeded so well.

One-Eye had been right, she thought. The Whisperer looked and felt just like a lump of rock. A chunk of some glassy volcanic stuff-obsidian, perhaps, or some kind of quartz-but looking closer, she could see its face: a craggy nose, a downturned mouth, eyes that gleamed with mean intelligence.

And as for its personality…It was like dealing with a bad-tempered old man. Nothing pleased it. Not their pace, which was too slow, but which became uncomfortable when Maddy speeded up, nor Maddy’s conversation, nor her silence, and especially not the fact that they were going to join One-Eye.

“That war crow?” said the Whisperer. “He doesn’t own me, never did. Thinks he’s still the General. Thinks he can just start giving orders again.”

Maddy, who by now had heard this several times before, said nothing. Instead she tried to concentrate on the path, which was rocky and filled with holes.

“Arrogant as ever. Who does he think he is, eh? Allfather my-”

“I suppose you’d rather I’d left you in the fire pit,” said Maddy under her breath.

“What? Speak up!”

“You heard.”

“Now listen to me,” said the Whisperer. “I don’t think you know what you’re dealing with here. I’m not just a rock, you know. In the wrong hands I could explode like a grenado.”

Maddy ignored it and kept on walking. It was hard going. The Whisperer was heavy and awkward to carry, and every time she thought of resting, she imagined Loki-angry, recovered, and out for revenge-running up the passage after her. She had done what she could to hide her trail, crossing it at intervals with the runesign ýr or doubling back on her own tracks. She hoped it would be enough to delay or lose him, but she couldn’t know for sure.

The Whisperer had not been slow to deplore her compassion. “You should have killed him when you had the chance,” it complained for the twentieth time. “He was helpless, unconscious-completely at our mercy. Failing that, you could have left him, and the fumes would probably have finished him off. But what do you do? You save him. You drag him into the clean air. You tie a rag around his head. You practically tuck him into bed, for gods’ sakes-what next, a glass of milk and a runny egg?”

“Oh, give it a rest,” said Maddy crossly.

“You’ll regret it,” said the Whisperer. “He’s going to bring us nothing but trouble.”

To give the thing some credit, she thought, it had just cause to resent the Trickster. As they moved toward World Above, it treated Maddy to a centuries-long catalog of grievances against Loki, beginning with his adoption into Asgard and the havoc he had wrought there and culminating in his reappearance, some hundred years after Ragnarók and in the most unlikely place-the catacombs of the Universal City in distant World’s End.

“What was he doing there? I don’t know. Up to no good-that goes without saying-and weak from his reversed glam. But just as tricky as ever, damn him, and he must have known I’d be somewhere nearby-”

“Known?” said Maddy.

“Yes, of course.” The Whisperer hissed. “There I was, peace at last, sleeping away the centuries, and what does he do? He wakes me, the bastard.”

“But how could he know where you’d be?”

It gave a pulse of angry light. “Well, given that I’m not what you’d call independently mobile nowadays, I suppose he just searched among the ruins until-”

“Ruins of what?” Maddy said.

“Well, Asgard, of course,” snapped the Whisperer.

Maddy stared. “Asgard?” she said. Of course she knew that the Sky Citadel had fallen at Ragnarók. And she had heard so many stories about the place that she almost felt she’d seen it herself, with its golden halls and its rainbow bridge that spanned the sky.

The Whisperer laughed. “What? Didn’t Odin tell you? The far side of that bridge was at World’s End. The Folk never knew about that, of course. They couldn’t cross it, only ever saw it when it was raining and sunny at the same time, and even then they thought it was a natural phenomenon, due to extraordinary weather conditions. But Dogstar knew-that’s Loki to you-and he found me and brought me to this place, a place at the very center of the Worlds, a place where lines of great power converge, where he bound me with runes and trickery and swore he’d release me-if I gave him what he wanted.”

“I knew it,” said Maddy. “But what did he want?”

Once more the Whisperer hissed to itself. “He wanted his true Aspect back. He wanted his rune unreversed. Failing that, he wanted to use me, to sell me to either the Æsir or the Vanir in exchange for his miserable skin. But he had done his job too well. He couldn’t get me out of the pit. The forces that imprisoned me-forces from Dream and Death and beyond-held me fast, and all he could do was stand guard over me and hope and pray that I never escaped. And so it has been for centuries”-the Whisperer gave its dry laugh-“and if that doesn’t give me a right to revenge, then this New Age of yours is even more pathetic than I thought it was.”