The White Raven

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I thought it unlikely, for he knew I wouldn’t bring the holy spear with me. Better for Finn to go with Kvasir and Thorgunna, who were taking Olaf to buy him new clothes.

‘You might need someone to help you string Martin up,’ Finn growled moodily, ‘while you use the Truth Knife on him to get what he knows. He is no stranger to it, after all.’

I shook my head, while the flash of memory, like lightning on a darkened sea, flared up the scene – Martin, swinging like a trussed goose from the mast of Einar’s Elk, spraying blood and green snot as Einar hacked off the monk’s little finger and threw it over the side. Einar’s magic Truth Knife, which, he told victims, knew when someone lied and would cut off a piece every time they did. It was now sheathed in the small of my back and I had used it once or twice myself. Most did not keep their secrets beyond two fingers.

Shrugging at my folly, Finn strode off after Thorgunna, Kvasir and Olaf, leaving me with Jon Asanes, who rolled his eyes towards the sky.

‘I have not seen Finn for some years,’ he said. ‘He seems even wilder than he was before.’

‘As you say,’ I countered, ‘you have not seen him for some years. You have just forgotten how he is.’

Even though I knew it was a lie.

We were silent, pushing through the throng on the wooden walkways of the city while the sky pewtered and the rain spat itself to sleet.

‘You seem… older,’ Jon Asanes said eventually, as we stopped to watch an army of carters manhandle a huge brass bell, almost as big as a small house, destined for the kreml