Fic: The Tortallan Delegation's Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
Title: The Tortallan Delegation's Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
Author: Imogen
Rating: G
Summary: Lord Wyldon, Squire Owen, Buri and Kel visit Scanra as part of the peace talks and attempt to make sense of the local culture. Written for the Neglected Country Challenge.
I had a lot of fun looking at pretty pictures and strange cultural practices on the internet while I was writing this, and I added some of the things that inspired me into the story. Feel free to click on the links or ignore them, as you like. To start things off, here are girlyb_icons' amazingly beautiful icons of Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden.
Day One of the Tortallan Delegation’s Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
“This room is for the Lord and the little room is for his man.”
“My thanks,” said Lord Wyldon.
Squire Owen of Jesslaw, the new occupant of the ‘little room,’ nodded politely. He had to look up and up. Their guide, Thorvald Harvaldsson, was taller than Lord Raoul and nearly as broad.
“This room is for the Lady Knight,” Thorvald continued in his heavily-accented Common. “I leave you now to rest. Tonight there is a big feast.”
“Wait,” said Buri. “What about me?”
“Hm,” said their guide.
“Hm, what?” said Buri. “Where do I stay?”
“There was a room; but not now.”
Lord Wyldon, Kel, Buri and Owen stared up at the hulking Scanran. “Well, what happened to it?” Buri said.
“The room was not right.” Thorvald’s craggy face and small blue eyes were unhelpful.
“What was wrong with the room, my good man?” said Lord Wyldon, his even voice masking the touch of impatience in his humourless dark eyes.
“The bed was not the right size.” Thorvald looked at tiny Buri. “She is too short.”
“Too short to fit the bed?” Buri looked caught between disbelief and outrage.
“Yes.”
The Tortallans stood in flabbergasted silence in the torch-lit, dark-paneled corridor of the guest wing. They were four strangers in the huge, cold Scanran palace. How to make such backward logic see sense?
“She is very short, you see,” rumbled Thorvald in his deep voice. “In Scanra we are tall. Our beds are tall to fit tall Scanrans. None of our beds are short enough for her. Where did you find a woman the size of a child?” he said. “She wears her hair in braids like a child, too.”
Owen’s mouth hung open. He shut it, edging away a little from hot-tempered Buri. What if she hit the Scanran? All of the cultural-sensitivity-trainers that the delegation had been briefed by in Corus had agreed that this would be a very bad thing for the talks.
Buri’s eyes were flashing dangerously, but before she could say anything, Lord Wyldon stepped in.
“My good man,” he said with the kind of cold courtesy that made Owen squirm, even though it wasn’t directed his way, “perhaps you have not met a woman of the K’miri tribes of Sarain before, but I assure you that Buriram Tourakom is quite normal in stature among her people.” Owen’s conservative Knight-Master looked saturnine at being forced to defend the honour of the former Commander of the Queen’s Riders: a foreigner, a female warrior, and a staunch supporter of the Queen’s progressive policies.
Buri gave a graceless “Hmph!” and plunged her fists deep into the pockets of her burgundy wool jacket. It was so thick that it made her nearly as wide as she was tall. Kel gazed expressionlessly past the Scanran in a way that suggested that she wanted to gut him with her glaive or that the yellow mountain goats on the wallpaper were very interesting. With her it was hard to tell. Owen intensely admired her facial control and tried to copy her blank expression.
Wyldon rounded on him irritably. “Stop screwing up your face in that ridiculous fashion, Jesslaw.”
“Yes, milord.” Whoops! Owen ducked his head.
“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
It took Owen a moment to realize that the Scanran was laughing; you could hear each syllable coming out in time with the heaves of his massive sides. It was like seeing the walls of a gloomy fortress fall down to show everybody having a picnic inside the courtyard, with lemonade and kites.
“I make you angry,” Thorvald said, his eyes screwed up with laughter. “It is very funny! You see, I make a Scanran joke. You have different jokes in the Low Country?”
The Low Country was what the Scanrans called Tortall. Once again, the Tortallans were speechless.
“Yes,” said Lord Wyldon definitely. “Our jokes are of a different sort.”
“Not that he’d know,” muttered Buri to Kel, eyeing Wyldon sourly. Kel gazed serenely at the torch fixtures. Her facial control was marvelous!
“Maybe you will tell me your jokes then. It is good to laugh,” said Thorvald. “The room is here.” He pointed a craggy finger at the door next to Kel’s room.
“I will bring you to the feast, later,” Thorvald said, his eyes on Buri. He lumbered off down the hall before any of them could think of what to say.
“You know, Buri, I think he was flirting with you,” said Kel thoughtfully. Her hazel eyes were amused.
“That’s ridiculous!” said Buri. “If that’s how Scanran men flirt, it’s a miracle any of them ever get married.” She stumped over to her room. “Flirting!” she growled.
“It’s very strange, this peace business,” Owen reflected. “Two months ago we were gutting any Scanran we laid eyes on, and now we have to be polite to them and listen to their jokes.”
The other three stared at Owen.
“Jesslaw.”
“Milord!” Owen jumped to attention at the ominous sound of his Knight-Master’s voice.
“The bags.”
“Yes, Milord!” Owen grabbed Lord Wyldon’s two and made for the room.
“Owen,” called Kel. He turned around. “You’re not wrong,” she said.
Owen nodded gratefully, and ducked into the room. Time to settle in. If he unpacked quickly, he might have time to write a letter to his secret true love; the loveliest, sweetest girl in all of Tortall.
***
Day Two of the Tortallan Delegation’s Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
“Amazing.”
“Incredible.”
“Smashing!”
“We have nothing like this in Tortall.”
“Or Sarain.”
“Or Yaman.”
The four Tortallans stood huffing out clouds of warm breath into the thin, bitingly cold air. The small yellow sun didn’t put out any warmth at all, but it seemed to try and make up for it with dazzlingly bright light that hurt the eyes. The rays rebounded sharply off the snow-covered landscape, making it painful to look too far overhead, and reduced their shadows to nearly nothing.
All around were huge, magnificent sculptures made entirely of snow or ice. There were people, animals, buildings, fantastic creatures and plants. They sparkled under the northern sun in silent, frozen majesty.
The Tortallans looked around and back at one another, eyes big with wonder. They were wearing a mishmash of borrowed outerwear: none of their winter clothes were warm enough, so the Scanrans had readily lent them some. Kel had a green wool coat with a hood, cheerful yellow mittens and a matching hat. Buri had almost disappeared underneath an enormous oatmeal-coloured scarf and hat and her big burgundy coat. Wyldon had on a big black hat with earflaps that sat draped over his bald pate like a misshapen animal. They all wore chunky felt boots that laced up to the knee over thick woolen socks. Owen liked the geometric patterns of the red and white beads on his boots. He wasn’t so sure about the floppy tuft of wool that was stuck to the crown of his knitted hat or the frolicking reindeer embroidered on his coat. Their party looked uncomfortably overdressed and silly, with about as much style and grace as Corus beggars, but at least they were almost warm.
“Who made them?” Buri said, awe in her voice.
“There is a competition, every year in winter,” said Thorvald. “The artists come with many assistants in teams from all over the country. As soon as the winners are picked, they go home to plan for next year.”
Everyone stood around in appreciative silence, trying to take it all in.
“Is that an ice palace!” said Owen. He pointed excitedly at the middle of the grounds.
“Ja,” said Thorvald. He wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf. There was frost in his eyelashes, but he didn’t seem to feel the cold on his red, wind-chapped skin. “There are rooms inside with ice tables, chairs and beds.”
“Do people live in the ice palace?” Owen said hopefully. It was huge!
“We have a story about King Dorkell the Hairy, who built an ice palace and lived there.”
“What happened?” said Owen.
“His wife and children froze into icicles and he ran away to live with the trolls.”
“Oh,” said Owen, crestfallen. “I guess not then.”
“Owen, come look at the wall!”
It was Kel. Owen crunched over to her, the snow squeaking a little under his boots.
The wall was made of ice sculpted into bricks and it was twice as tall as Owen. It formed a big rectangle that separated the ice gardens from the rest of Hamrkeng: the hulking wooden Royal Palace was behind them, and the city was ahead. You could just see the triangular snow-covered roofs beyond the wall, and the boldly-painted wooden sidings peeking out underneath. The Scanrans liked bright colours for their houses and clothes: yellow, blue and red. It made man-made things stand out cheerfully against the white, grey and brown landscape.
“Look at this,” Kel said.
People had carved their names into the snow-dusted ice, all over the wall. Owen read Björk was here and Askel loves Halldora and Ranulf liks troll-spittle.
“Is that supposed to be ‘likes’ or ‘licks’?” said Owen, puzzled.
“I’m not sure.” Kel smiled. “It looks like bad spelling is the same on both sides of the border.”
Kel’s nose and cheeks were frozen pink-red. She looked good; more relaxed than Owen could remember since the war had started, and she’d turned into the leader of a refugee camp and a war hero.
Owen took off his right mitten and used his belt knife to scratch O. J. into the wall. He handed the knife to Kel and stuck his frozen fingers back into the mitten to warm them up while she carved K. M. underneath his initials.
Kel handed him back his knife and they looked at their handiwork for a moment before exchanging a quick grin of delight. They turned and headed back to the others.
“Why are none of your buildings except the Royal Palace taller than two or three stories?” Buri was saying to Thorvald. She stood near a giant swan, its curved neck gleaming and transparent. “Hamrkeng is the shortest city I’ve ever seen; pretty odd, having a short city, considering that you Scanrans are such a tall bunch,” Buri fired off, daring Thorvald to comment.
Thorvald looked guiltily pleased. It was funny to see such a big, rough man acting like a small boy called out on his mischief.
“This is true,” he said. “But tall buildings trap the wind and block the sun. Also, there is not so much wood to build with in Scanra.”
“Oh! I know this one!” said Owen. “Because of scarce natural resources, and a short growing season due to the cold northern climate.”
Lord Wyldon looked a little surprised.
Buri grinned sardonically. “The boy can be taught.”
“It was one of Sir Myles’ lectures, Ma’am,” said Owen, Kel nodding in remembrance. Owen recalled much of what he’d learned in Sir Myles’ class because he’d had to study so hard. History was a difficult subject for him. Sir Myles always told him that there were no right answers to the questions in his class, which made no sense. There were definitely wrong answers, so there must have been right answers as well. It was very confusing. Kel had always done well, Owen remembered.
“He is right,” Thorvald said. “The jarls who own the forests in the south are very rich from selling wood to make houses and ships. Too rich. Sometimes it is cheaper to buy wood from Galla or the Copper Isles, even though it comes from far.”
Or to steal it from your neighbours, Owen thought, a little uneasily. He’d almost forgotten why they were here.
There were a few other people wandering around the ice gardens, alone and in families, but sparsely; it was the middle of a workday. A young couple and their child were looking at an amazingly realistic tree, with hundreds of glittering leaves.
“Master Harvaldsson, what is it that you do when you’re not being our guide?” Kel said curiously.
“I am a scholar.”
A scholar? Thorvald didn’t look like any of the Mithrans or the University men and women that Owen had seen in Corus. He looked like a soldier or a blacksmith with his size and hardiness, and all that muscle.
“What do you study?” said Kel.
The small girl by the tree-sculpture was wearing bright red mittens. She turned and stared at Owen. Her braids were white-blond and she had big blue eyes.
“Hello, Young Miss!” said Owen cheerfully.
The little girl said nothing in return, but her eyes widened like saucers.
“The dissertation for my Mastery at the Høgskolen was on the symbolism of trees in the war epics of the skalds, during the time of the lineage of Oddr Straw-legs.”
Kel and Buri exchanged a wondering look.
“Is poetry really that popular here?” Buri said.
“Some kinds, very popular,” said Thorvald. “But not this kind, so much. It is written in Old Scanran.”
“Isn’t that… difficult? Studying something that most people don’t know anything about?” said Buri.
“No,” said Thorvald, his craggy face imperturbable. “I have much time to guide foreigners. They are very funny, you know.”
“Oh, we’re just hilarious!” Buri said. “Sometimes we’re even short!”
“Not often,” said Thorvald. “It is very sad.”
“I see what you mean about foreigners, Master Harvaldsson,” said Kel.
“Hey!” Buri protested.
The girl with the red mittens was still staring. Her parents noticed and looked over at their group. The woman wore a cheerful blue woolen shawl with yellow and white embroidery over a dress in the local style. She had golden hair, her daughter’s bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The man’s colouring was paler. He was dressed in plain but good working clothes: a dark blue jacket and brown leggings. They looked like a young merchant couple from the city.
“Fair day to you,” the man called politely. It was the most common Scanran greeting.
“Oh, --ah. Fair day to you,” Owen called back.
The little girl tugged on her mother’s shawl. “Nisse!” she said, looking at the Tortallans.
“Come along, Thora,” the woman said, taking her hand. They strolled off, the little girl still staring over her shoulder at Owen.
“Looks like you made a friend, Jesslaw,” said Buri.
“I hope I didn’t scare her,” said Owen, worried. “They looked nice.”
“She will recover, probably,” said Thorvald. “Your Lord has gone ahead.”
It was true. Lord Wyldon was halfway across the park, immersed in the sculptures.
“Let’s go,” said Buri. “I can’t feel my face. Gods-drattted Scanran winters! And I thought that winters on the plains of Sarain were bad.”
They started walking over to Lord Wyldon. Owen had a sudden thought. “Master Harvaldsson! What will happen to all the sculptures in the spring?”
“What happens to all snow when winter is done?” said Thorvald.
“But… that’s awful! The wall? The palace? Everything?” Owen said.
“It seems like such a shame,” said Kel. “They’re so beautiful.”
“No, no,” said Thorvald. “It is good, you see. When people lick the ice creatures, they have only to wait until the spring thaw for their tongues to come unstuck. Otherwise, they would get very hungry.”
Buri laughed. “That sounds like another Scanran joke to me.”
“Every year there is someone,” Thorvald insisted.
They caught up with Lord Wyldon in front of a magnificent rearing snow stallion that was twice as large as life. Lord Wyldon was eyeing it with an expert’s disfavour.
“Short pasterns,” he said.
***
The Nisse are creatures from Scanran folktales that are similar to the Tortallan Brownie. They act as household guardians; doing chores, but also playing practical jokes. They are known to steal random articles of clothing from the household laundry to wear, because they don’t have any of their own.
Author: Imogen
Rating: G
Summary: Lord Wyldon, Squire Owen, Buri and Kel visit Scanra as part of the peace talks and attempt to make sense of the local culture. Written for the Neglected Country Challenge.
I had a lot of fun looking at pretty pictures and strange cultural practices on the internet while I was writing this, and I added some of the things that inspired me into the story. Feel free to click on the links or ignore them, as you like. To start things off, here are girlyb_icons' amazingly beautiful icons of Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden.
Day One of the Tortallan Delegation’s Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
“This room is for the Lord and the little room is for his man.”
“My thanks,” said Lord Wyldon.
Squire Owen of Jesslaw, the new occupant of the ‘little room,’ nodded politely. He had to look up and up. Their guide, Thorvald Harvaldsson, was taller than Lord Raoul and nearly as broad.
“This room is for the Lady Knight,” Thorvald continued in his heavily-accented Common. “I leave you now to rest. Tonight there is a big feast.”
“Wait,” said Buri. “What about me?”
“Hm,” said their guide.
“Hm, what?” said Buri. “Where do I stay?”
“There was a room; but not now.”
Lord Wyldon, Kel, Buri and Owen stared up at the hulking Scanran. “Well, what happened to it?” Buri said.
“The room was not right.” Thorvald’s craggy face and small blue eyes were unhelpful.
“What was wrong with the room, my good man?” said Lord Wyldon, his even voice masking the touch of impatience in his humourless dark eyes.
“The bed was not the right size.” Thorvald looked at tiny Buri. “She is too short.”
“Too short to fit the bed?” Buri looked caught between disbelief and outrage.
“Yes.”
The Tortallans stood in flabbergasted silence in the torch-lit, dark-paneled corridor of the guest wing. They were four strangers in the huge, cold Scanran palace. How to make such backward logic see sense?
“She is very short, you see,” rumbled Thorvald in his deep voice. “In Scanra we are tall. Our beds are tall to fit tall Scanrans. None of our beds are short enough for her. Where did you find a woman the size of a child?” he said. “She wears her hair in braids like a child, too.”
Owen’s mouth hung open. He shut it, edging away a little from hot-tempered Buri. What if she hit the Scanran? All of the cultural-sensitivity-trainers that the delegation had been briefed by in Corus had agreed that this would be a very bad thing for the talks.
Buri’s eyes were flashing dangerously, but before she could say anything, Lord Wyldon stepped in.
“My good man,” he said with the kind of cold courtesy that made Owen squirm, even though it wasn’t directed his way, “perhaps you have not met a woman of the K’miri tribes of Sarain before, but I assure you that Buriram Tourakom is quite normal in stature among her people.” Owen’s conservative Knight-Master looked saturnine at being forced to defend the honour of the former Commander of the Queen’s Riders: a foreigner, a female warrior, and a staunch supporter of the Queen’s progressive policies.
Buri gave a graceless “Hmph!” and plunged her fists deep into the pockets of her burgundy wool jacket. It was so thick that it made her nearly as wide as she was tall. Kel gazed expressionlessly past the Scanran in a way that suggested that she wanted to gut him with her glaive or that the yellow mountain goats on the wallpaper were very interesting. With her it was hard to tell. Owen intensely admired her facial control and tried to copy her blank expression.
Wyldon rounded on him irritably. “Stop screwing up your face in that ridiculous fashion, Jesslaw.”
“Yes, milord.” Whoops! Owen ducked his head.
“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
It took Owen a moment to realize that the Scanran was laughing; you could hear each syllable coming out in time with the heaves of his massive sides. It was like seeing the walls of a gloomy fortress fall down to show everybody having a picnic inside the courtyard, with lemonade and kites.
“I make you angry,” Thorvald said, his eyes screwed up with laughter. “It is very funny! You see, I make a Scanran joke. You have different jokes in the Low Country?”
The Low Country was what the Scanrans called Tortall. Once again, the Tortallans were speechless.
“Yes,” said Lord Wyldon definitely. “Our jokes are of a different sort.”
“Not that he’d know,” muttered Buri to Kel, eyeing Wyldon sourly. Kel gazed serenely at the torch fixtures. Her facial control was marvelous!
“Maybe you will tell me your jokes then. It is good to laugh,” said Thorvald. “The room is here.” He pointed a craggy finger at the door next to Kel’s room.
“I will bring you to the feast, later,” Thorvald said, his eyes on Buri. He lumbered off down the hall before any of them could think of what to say.
“You know, Buri, I think he was flirting with you,” said Kel thoughtfully. Her hazel eyes were amused.
“That’s ridiculous!” said Buri. “If that’s how Scanran men flirt, it’s a miracle any of them ever get married.” She stumped over to her room. “Flirting!” she growled.
“It’s very strange, this peace business,” Owen reflected. “Two months ago we were gutting any Scanran we laid eyes on, and now we have to be polite to them and listen to their jokes.”
The other three stared at Owen.
“Jesslaw.”
“Milord!” Owen jumped to attention at the ominous sound of his Knight-Master’s voice.
“The bags.”
“Yes, Milord!” Owen grabbed Lord Wyldon’s two and made for the room.
“Owen,” called Kel. He turned around. “You’re not wrong,” she said.
Owen nodded gratefully, and ducked into the room. Time to settle in. If he unpacked quickly, he might have time to write a letter to his secret true love; the loveliest, sweetest girl in all of Tortall.
***
Day Two of the Tortallan Delegation’s Visit to Hamrkeng, Scanra
“Amazing.”
“Incredible.”
“Smashing!”
“We have nothing like this in Tortall.”
“Or Sarain.”
“Or Yaman.”
The four Tortallans stood huffing out clouds of warm breath into the thin, bitingly cold air. The small yellow sun didn’t put out any warmth at all, but it seemed to try and make up for it with dazzlingly bright light that hurt the eyes. The rays rebounded sharply off the snow-covered landscape, making it painful to look too far overhead, and reduced their shadows to nearly nothing.
All around were huge, magnificent sculptures made entirely of snow or ice. There were people, animals, buildings, fantastic creatures and plants. They sparkled under the northern sun in silent, frozen majesty.
The Tortallans looked around and back at one another, eyes big with wonder. They were wearing a mishmash of borrowed outerwear: none of their winter clothes were warm enough, so the Scanrans had readily lent them some. Kel had a green wool coat with a hood, cheerful yellow mittens and a matching hat. Buri had almost disappeared underneath an enormous oatmeal-coloured scarf and hat and her big burgundy coat. Wyldon had on a big black hat with earflaps that sat draped over his bald pate like a misshapen animal. They all wore chunky felt boots that laced up to the knee over thick woolen socks. Owen liked the geometric patterns of the red and white beads on his boots. He wasn’t so sure about the floppy tuft of wool that was stuck to the crown of his knitted hat or the frolicking reindeer embroidered on his coat. Their party looked uncomfortably overdressed and silly, with about as much style and grace as Corus beggars, but at least they were almost warm.
“Who made them?” Buri said, awe in her voice.
“There is a competition, every year in winter,” said Thorvald. “The artists come with many assistants in teams from all over the country. As soon as the winners are picked, they go home to plan for next year.”
Everyone stood around in appreciative silence, trying to take it all in.
“Is that an ice palace!” said Owen. He pointed excitedly at the middle of the grounds.
“Ja,” said Thorvald. He wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf. There was frost in his eyelashes, but he didn’t seem to feel the cold on his red, wind-chapped skin. “There are rooms inside with ice tables, chairs and beds.”
“Do people live in the ice palace?” Owen said hopefully. It was huge!
“We have a story about King Dorkell the Hairy, who built an ice palace and lived there.”
“What happened?” said Owen.
“His wife and children froze into icicles and he ran away to live with the trolls.”
“Oh,” said Owen, crestfallen. “I guess not then.”
“Owen, come look at the wall!”
It was Kel. Owen crunched over to her, the snow squeaking a little under his boots.
The wall was made of ice sculpted into bricks and it was twice as tall as Owen. It formed a big rectangle that separated the ice gardens from the rest of Hamrkeng: the hulking wooden Royal Palace was behind them, and the city was ahead. You could just see the triangular snow-covered roofs beyond the wall, and the boldly-painted wooden sidings peeking out underneath. The Scanrans liked bright colours for their houses and clothes: yellow, blue and red. It made man-made things stand out cheerfully against the white, grey and brown landscape.
“Look at this,” Kel said.
People had carved their names into the snow-dusted ice, all over the wall. Owen read Björk was here and Askel loves Halldora and Ranulf liks troll-spittle.
“Is that supposed to be ‘likes’ or ‘licks’?” said Owen, puzzled.
“I’m not sure.” Kel smiled. “It looks like bad spelling is the same on both sides of the border.”
Kel’s nose and cheeks were frozen pink-red. She looked good; more relaxed than Owen could remember since the war had started, and she’d turned into the leader of a refugee camp and a war hero.
Owen took off his right mitten and used his belt knife to scratch O. J. into the wall. He handed the knife to Kel and stuck his frozen fingers back into the mitten to warm them up while she carved K. M. underneath his initials.
Kel handed him back his knife and they looked at their handiwork for a moment before exchanging a quick grin of delight. They turned and headed back to the others.
“Why are none of your buildings except the Royal Palace taller than two or three stories?” Buri was saying to Thorvald. She stood near a giant swan, its curved neck gleaming and transparent. “Hamrkeng is the shortest city I’ve ever seen; pretty odd, having a short city, considering that you Scanrans are such a tall bunch,” Buri fired off, daring Thorvald to comment.
Thorvald looked guiltily pleased. It was funny to see such a big, rough man acting like a small boy called out on his mischief.
“This is true,” he said. “But tall buildings trap the wind and block the sun. Also, there is not so much wood to build with in Scanra.”
“Oh! I know this one!” said Owen. “Because of scarce natural resources, and a short growing season due to the cold northern climate.”
Lord Wyldon looked a little surprised.
Buri grinned sardonically. “The boy can be taught.”
“It was one of Sir Myles’ lectures, Ma’am,” said Owen, Kel nodding in remembrance. Owen recalled much of what he’d learned in Sir Myles’ class because he’d had to study so hard. History was a difficult subject for him. Sir Myles always told him that there were no right answers to the questions in his class, which made no sense. There were definitely wrong answers, so there must have been right answers as well. It was very confusing. Kel had always done well, Owen remembered.
“He is right,” Thorvald said. “The jarls who own the forests in the south are very rich from selling wood to make houses and ships. Too rich. Sometimes it is cheaper to buy wood from Galla or the Copper Isles, even though it comes from far.”
Or to steal it from your neighbours, Owen thought, a little uneasily. He’d almost forgotten why they were here.
There were a few other people wandering around the ice gardens, alone and in families, but sparsely; it was the middle of a workday. A young couple and their child were looking at an amazingly realistic tree, with hundreds of glittering leaves.
“Master Harvaldsson, what is it that you do when you’re not being our guide?” Kel said curiously.
“I am a scholar.”
A scholar? Thorvald didn’t look like any of the Mithrans or the University men and women that Owen had seen in Corus. He looked like a soldier or a blacksmith with his size and hardiness, and all that muscle.
“What do you study?” said Kel.
The small girl by the tree-sculpture was wearing bright red mittens. She turned and stared at Owen. Her braids were white-blond and she had big blue eyes.
“Hello, Young Miss!” said Owen cheerfully.
The little girl said nothing in return, but her eyes widened like saucers.
“The dissertation for my Mastery at the Høgskolen was on the symbolism of trees in the war epics of the skalds, during the time of the lineage of Oddr Straw-legs.”
Kel and Buri exchanged a wondering look.
“Is poetry really that popular here?” Buri said.
“Some kinds, very popular,” said Thorvald. “But not this kind, so much. It is written in Old Scanran.”
“Isn’t that… difficult? Studying something that most people don’t know anything about?” said Buri.
“No,” said Thorvald, his craggy face imperturbable. “I have much time to guide foreigners. They are very funny, you know.”
“Oh, we’re just hilarious!” Buri said. “Sometimes we’re even short!”
“Not often,” said Thorvald. “It is very sad.”
“I see what you mean about foreigners, Master Harvaldsson,” said Kel.
“Hey!” Buri protested.
The girl with the red mittens was still staring. Her parents noticed and looked over at their group. The woman wore a cheerful blue woolen shawl with yellow and white embroidery over a dress in the local style. She had golden hair, her daughter’s bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The man’s colouring was paler. He was dressed in plain but good working clothes: a dark blue jacket and brown leggings. They looked like a young merchant couple from the city.
“Fair day to you,” the man called politely. It was the most common Scanran greeting.
“Oh, --ah. Fair day to you,” Owen called back.
The little girl tugged on her mother’s shawl. “Nisse!” she said, looking at the Tortallans.
“Come along, Thora,” the woman said, taking her hand. They strolled off, the little girl still staring over her shoulder at Owen.
“Looks like you made a friend, Jesslaw,” said Buri.
“I hope I didn’t scare her,” said Owen, worried. “They looked nice.”
“She will recover, probably,” said Thorvald. “Your Lord has gone ahead.”
It was true. Lord Wyldon was halfway across the park, immersed in the sculptures.
“Let’s go,” said Buri. “I can’t feel my face. Gods-drattted Scanran winters! And I thought that winters on the plains of Sarain were bad.”
They started walking over to Lord Wyldon. Owen had a sudden thought. “Master Harvaldsson! What will happen to all the sculptures in the spring?”
“What happens to all snow when winter is done?” said Thorvald.
“But… that’s awful! The wall? The palace? Everything?” Owen said.
“It seems like such a shame,” said Kel. “They’re so beautiful.”
“No, no,” said Thorvald. “It is good, you see. When people lick the ice creatures, they have only to wait until the spring thaw for their tongues to come unstuck. Otherwise, they would get very hungry.”
Buri laughed. “That sounds like another Scanran joke to me.”
“Every year there is someone,” Thorvald insisted.
They caught up with Lord Wyldon in front of a magnificent rearing snow stallion that was twice as large as life. Lord Wyldon was eyeing it with an expert’s disfavour.
“Short pasterns,” he said.
***
The Nisse are creatures from Scanran folktales that are similar to the Tortallan Brownie. They act as household guardians; doing chores, but also playing practical jokes. They are known to steal random articles of clothing from the household laundry to wear, because they don’t have any of their own.