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  Suddenly she became aware of a plump little woman watching her. The woman, wearing a black bergha, had been walking past with some haddock in a basket. Now she stopped in her tracks and stared at Maddy with such furious persistence that Maddy was jolted from her reverie.

  ‘So, madam!’ the woman said. ‘This is where you ended up! Hanging around the Water Rats. I should have known it! Ha!’ And she gave a contemptuous little sniff and forked the sign against the evil eye.

  ‘I’m sorry – do I know you?’ said Maddy.

  ‘Know me?’ said the woman. ‘I should think you do, ye saucy thing. Think I don’t know ye, Maggie Rede?’

  Maddy’s fatigue dropped away at once. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘I called ye by your name, Maggie Rede,’ said the plump little woman vehemently. ‘Ye may hide your head ’neath a shawl now, but I know what you’re hiding.’

  Maddy pulled away her shawl, deliberately showing her face. Her long wavy hair spilled out around her shoulders.

  The little woman’s eyes widened. ‘What? Your hair …’ she faltered. ‘It was— How could—?’ Then she stopped, rubbed her eyes and, with an effort, said: ‘Beg pardon. My mistake.’

  ‘Did you think I was someone else?’ said Maddy, trying to conceal her excitement. Clearly this woman knew Maggie Rede. Maybe she even knew where she was.

  She summoned a casual runecharm. Silver-tongued, alluring Logr took shape between her fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs … er?’

  ‘Blackmore,’ said the woman, still looking bewildered. ‘Mrs Blackmore, so please ye, miss, and – beg pardon, but you’re the spit of her—’

  ‘This Maggie Rede. Who is she? And what exactly did she do?’

  And under the soothing charm of Logr, Mrs Blackmore told her tale: how she had taken the wretched girl in, given her a decent home, fed her, clothed her and tried to bring her up properly; only to be repaid by Lawlessness, ingratitude and deceit. She finished by telling Maddy how the girl had come home one morning, having stayed out all night long, hair cut off like a savage’s, and that terrible ruinmark at the back of her neck – and with a young man in tow, no less; a young man with eyes like a demon’s.

  But there Mrs Blackmore’s knowledge ran dry. She could neither say who the young man had been, nor where the pair had run to; and finally Maddy let her go, feeling at the same time cheered that at last she had news of her sister, but disheartened that such a promising lead had turned out to be a dead end, a light briefly glimpsed, then lost in the dark.

  WAITING BY THE Rhydian Bridge, Ethel was feeling uneasy. There was no apparent reason for this. Bjarkán had revealed no surprises. The bridge, though ancient, was just a bridge. The space underneath the pylons was just a convenient gathering place.

  So what if the Folk of Rhydian were a little distant? What if the steps under the bridge were old and somewhat poorly maintained? The Seeress had stronger nerves than this, and was slightly annoyed that her weaker self – the woman who had once been Ethelberta Parson – seemed to have developed an unacceptable case of the jitters.

  She had been waiting for half an hour when Odin’s Mind and Spirit flew down to join her by the side of the bridge. Over the past few days Hughie and Mandy had been occasional visitors to Lucky’s Pocket Pan-daemonium Circus, but the Trickster had long ceased expecting them to make any kind of valuable contribution. Sometimes they could be lured with fruit, or biscuits, or lumps of sugar; but for the most part they did as they pleased, vanishing for the whole day, then returning as if nothing had happened, cawing in their harsh voices – Kaik. Kaik. Kaik.

  Ethel liked the ravens. They were all she had left of her husband. The Seeress part of her recalled when they had been seldom away from his side, as much a part of Allfather as his blue cloak or his broad-brimmed hat. Ragnarók had changed that, of course, as it had changed so many things. But while Hugin and Munin still travelled the skies, she felt that there could still be hope.

  She reached into her pocket and brought out a handful of raisins. Scattered them onto the floor.

  Ack-ack!

  ‘There you are, my tattered ones.’ She used one of Odin’s names for them, and felt a surge of nostalgia. The ravens pecked at the offering, then pecked at each other viciously.

  When the food was gone, they shifted back into their human Aspects and perched – Hughie on the left, Mandy on the right – on the two large ironwork pineapples that adorned the bridge’s railings.

  Ethel watched in mingled amusement and irritation. ‘Where have you two been?’ she said.

  Hughie shrugged. ‘Ach, here and there. World’s End. Dream. The usual.’

  ‘Any news of him?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll know more in a little while.’

  ‘And the Rider of Carnage?’ Ethel tried to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  ‘We’re workin’ on it. Give us time.’ Hughie gave a massive yawn. ‘It’s no so easy, hen, ye know. It’s no like the auld days. Things have changed.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Seeress. ‘But time is short. And we have the small matter of a prophecy to fulfil.’

  ‘Well, have ye considered,’ Hughie said, ‘that the prophecy may well be fulfilled whether or not we do anything. I mean, it depends if ye take the view that everything is predetermined, therefore it disn’ae matter what we do, or do ye subscribe to the theory that all actions are governed by cosmic free will?’

  He paused, having noticed a raisin that he and Mandy had overlooked. Shifting to his raven form, he hopped down from his perch and pecked it up. Then he shifted Aspect again, and came to stand by Ethel’s side.

  ‘I miss him,’ she said.

  ‘I know ye do.’

  ‘The prophecy doesn’t make it clear. Are we doing the right thing?’

  Hughie put his hand on her arm. His silver rings gleamed in the lamplight. ‘Only time will tell, hen. Only time will tell.’

  Suddenly Mandy, who still looked strangely birdlike in spite of her human Aspect, crawk-ed.

  ‘What’s that, Mand?’

  Ack-ack-ack. Crawk.

  Hughie, who seemed to understand Mandy’s language no matter what, listened, head cocked to one side. He frowned in concentration.

  Mandy spoke again. Crawk. Her voice was harsh and urgent. Crawk. Ack-ack. Crawk. Ack-ack.

  Hughie looked back at Ethel. ‘Mandy says it’s time,’ he said.

  Ethel nodded reluctantly. ‘It seems like such a risk,’ she said. ‘And we could still lose everything …’

  He shrugged. ‘When ye’re playing for everything, ye have tae risk losing everything.’

  She smiled. ‘You even sound like him now. Is he certain of this? Is he safe, at least?’

  Hughie shrugged. ‘Be sure of this: wherever he is, the Auld Man’s where he wants to be.’

  And with that, he resumed his raven guise, and both of Odin’s birds were gone in a flurry of wings into the mist that poured from under the Rhydian Bridge.

  CAPTAIN CHAOS’S CARNIVAL of Confusion had proved to have several more tricks hidden behind its red curtain. While Freyja alternately fanned herself and indulged in mild hysterics, the artistes of Lucky’s Pocket Pan-daemonium Circus, shamed at the failure of one their own, now tried to redress the balance.

  Never had they encountered such a demanding audience; never had they experienced such humiliating defeat. Æsir and Vanir both shared in Freyja’s mortification, and even the demons were keen to prove that their side was the strongest; with the result that Captain Chaos – his grin now broader than ever – was almost overwhelmed with folk ready to rise to the challenge.

  The best in the Nine Worlds, or your money back! That had been the wager; and the scatter of coins on the little stage had now become a carpet – a sliding, chinking carpet of wealth that made the Trickster’s eyes shine.

  The trouble with glamorous money, of course, was that it attracted attention. It cost them glam to summon and, in a few hours, reverted back to the stuff from which it had been made: du
st, sand, ashes, stones. To use it meant risking exposure – maybe even arrest – which was why the gods had had to resort to working their way along the Roads.

  If they won this wager, then they could pay their way to World’s End without ever having to work another stroke – which was why, even now, Loki hadn’t given up on the chance to win his money back.

  After Freyja, the gods had discussed who should take the next turn.

  ‘I will,’ said Sif with a grunt, assuming her Battle-Sow Aspect. Freyja’s lacklustre performance had filled her with the utmost contempt; and although she deeply resented the role, she also knew that, as Queen of the Pigs, she had no equal in the Nine Worlds in majesty, muscle and appetite.

  The bet was duly made. The fee, which had doubled since Freyja, was paid, and Petula, Queen of the Pigs, took the stage to cries of encouragement from the crowd. Loki introduced her with his usual panache, and never before had Petula been so regal, so hairy, so pink or so stout; never had she eaten so many jam tarts at one sitting, or shown such exquisite pointe-work from her gleaming trotters.

  Captain Chaos watched in silence. Then, as the audience howled for more, he introduced his second act: Olivia the Oliphant, the Oligarch of Oliphants, her trunk like that of the World Tree, her appetite unquenchable. The stage was too flimsy to bear her; instead, she heaved her way through the crowd like a landed whale, pausing only to devour thirty-nine trays of Fat Boys, a dozen barrels of ale, a whole spit of roasted chickens and a small child from the audience – retrieved at the very last moment from between Olivia’s toothless jaws, to riotous applause from the crowd.

  The decision was (almost) unanimous. Captain Chaos acknowledged the merit of the challenger, but the winner was clearly Olivia, and Loki was left to pay the bill for all that she and Sif had consumed (a sum that amounted to rather more than even he cared to wager).

  Next came Bragi, the Human Nightingale, paired with Linni, the Human Lark. Bragi played his guitar and sang so sweetly that the audience wept; but when his rival took to the stage (Linni was a beautiful woman with the runemark Sól, reversed, on her breast), some of the more susceptible audience members actually died, and even Skadi shed a tear (a thing Loki had believed impossible).

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ wailed Bragi. ‘I told you before. The strings are worn—’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ snapped Heimdall, striding up to take the stage. ‘My name is Hawk-Eyed Heimdall, and I’ll wager I can outshoot anyone you care to name.’

  But the Captain’s champion was Eagle-Eyed Sam, and in spite of being almost perfectly matched, Heimdall failed – and lost the bet.

  One by one, the gods tried their luck, and one by one, they were outclassed.

  Njörd, the Man of the Sea, who bet that he could out-swim any man alive, lost a race against Freddy Finn, the Human Fish.

  The Wolf Boys and Fenris lost against an act called the Mighty Cerberus.

  Even Angrboda failed to out-charm Sassy, the Snake Charmer.

  Enough was enough, Loki thought.

  No, he wasn’t backing out. He’d lost too much to stop playing now. He’d wagered their horses, their wagons, their food; and his only hope was to win them all back before his people had to move on.

  But what was he to play for? He’d already lost everything. Nothing remained – not a coin, not a rag, not even the shirt on Loki’s back.

  Still, this next encounter, he thought, was one that they were certain to win. Beauty, Loki told himself, was surely just a matter of taste. And animal acts were always notoriously unpredictable. But in a simple test of strength – no tricks, no blarney, just sheer brawn …

  What could go wrong? Thor was quite simply the strongest man in the Nine Worlds. Even with a reversed rune, he could certainly knock the stuffing out of any of Captain Chaos’s crew. It was therefore with a jaunty (if somewhat premature) sense of victory that Loki now sauntered onto the stage and, without even bothering to build up the crowd with his eloquence, announced the mighty Thunderer.

  Captain Chaos seemed impressed. He too announced his champion. The Man of Steel faced the Thunderer in front of the scarlet curtain.

  The test was a familiar one. Maddy would have recognized it from Fair Days all over the North. A bell at the top of a painted pole attached to a simple counterweight. On one side, a pulley and chain, allowing the weight to move smoothly up and down the pole. On the other, a rubber pressure-pad. The test was to hit the pad hard enough to send the weight rattling up the chain fast enough to strike the bell. A wooden mallet was provided for the purpose.

  Loki took one look at the mallet and laughed. ‘The Man of Thunder would splinter this to smithereens with a single blow,’ he said to Captain Chaos. ‘Lucky for you that he brings his own tools …’ And he indicated Jolly – in his Aspect as Mjølnir – tucked neatly under Thor’s arm.

  This was what made the bet safe, he thought. Thor, with his hammer, Mjølnir, had no equal in the Nine Worlds. And although it was now clear to the Trickster that Captain Chaos was not what he seemed, he felt certain that, in this case, their champion was unbeatable.

  For a moment Captain Chaos seemed just a little hesitant. He narrowed his eyes at Jolly, and muttered a little cantrip. Then his grin returned and he said: ‘I don’t see why not, friend. As long as my man can do the same. As it happens, he too prefers to work with his own instrument.’

  Loki, who knew for a certain fact that nothing was stronger than Mjølnir, waved a hand in approval. The Man of Steel was big, of course – perhaps just a shade taller than Thor – but size wasn’t everything. To start with, he was left-handed, while Thor favoured his right hand, which gave him a slight advantage. Plus, of course, Thor had the strength of a hundred men, and Mjølnir. There was no way that he could lose – which was good, because this time the gods had nothing left to stake.

  They flipped a coin to see who went first. Thor won.

  He pushed up his sleeves. Lifted Jolly. Struck the pad. The weight rattled halfway up the pole, then fell back into place with a crash.

  Captain Chaos shrugged. ‘First time. We’ll make it the best of three, shall we?’

  The second time, Thor hit the pad with every ounce of his considerable strength. The weight rattled busily up the pole, almost – but not quite – touching the bell.

  A long sigh came from the crowd.

  ‘Better,’ said Captain Chaos. ‘We’ll give you another try. It’s fair. You’re maybe not used to our machine.’

  Thor gritted his teeth. Tightened his belt. Flexed his muscles. Cracked his knuckles. Rubbed dust into his sweating palms to make sure Mjølnir’s shaft didn’t slip. Raised his mighty hammer high and brought it down with awesome strength.

  The counterweight rattled up the chain – fast, then losing momentum. Only five more links to go – four – three – two – one …

  All the gods held their breath.

  Ting!

  The weight just kissed the bell.

  A dropped pin would have made more sound.

  But Thor had beaten the machine.

  The crowd applauded. Thor made a bow. Loki wiped the sweat from his eyes. And then it was time for the Man of Steel to take his turn at the challenge.

  Loki watched with a little smile. Gods knew who this Man of Steel was, but it went without saying that he was no match for Thor. The hammer he had brought onstage was slightly larger than Jolly, but Loki was feeling on top of the Worlds, and he simply applauded the Man of Steel as he took his turn with the machine.

  The gods and their allies in Chaos had crowded round the Trickster.

  ‘This had better work, you,’ said Heimdall, between his golden teeth. Loki noticed that Heimdall was looking rather pale, and grinned.

  ‘Relax. You worry too much,’ he said. ‘There’s no way he’ll beat the Thunderer.’

  ‘He’d better not,’ growled Skadi. ‘Because if he loses, we all lose. You especially, Dogstar.’

  Loki made a dismissive noise, noticing that Skadi too was looking
a trifle out of sorts.

  ‘You worry too much, all of you. Your faith in me is awesome. Now just lie back. Enjoy the show. This is going to be lots of fun.’

  The Man of Steel raised the hammer high.

  The crowd held its breath …

  The hammer crashed down. The chain rattled up the pole so fast that even the Watchman’s eye couldn’t follow it. The bell gave a resounding clang – and then, as if that wasn’t enough, shot right off the top of the pole towards the underside of the bridge.

  There came a distant metallic sound as the bell struck one of the bridge’s struts, then, a few moments later, a splash as it fell into the river. The crowd applauded like crazy; gold coins showered onto the stage and Loki went pale to the roots of his hair.

  Skadi gnashed her teeth.

  ‘Oops …’

  ‘Tough call,’ said Captain Chaos.

  For a moment Loki considered flight. In Wildfire Aspect, he could probably make it to the top of the bridge before the gods caught up with him. But Ethel was there, with the wagons; and if she didn’t stop him, there was Njörd, in his sea-eagle Aspect, and Heimdall, in his bird guise; not to mention the wolves and Skadi, all of whom would be more than happy to take their frustration out on his hide.

  Heimdall gave Loki a derisive glance. ‘Well, that was lots of fun,’ he said. ‘Just the look on your face right now nearly makes up for the fact that you’ve lost all our travelling gear on a bet!’

  But Loki wasn’t listening. He suddenly felt incredibly weak. He must have over-stretched his glam, because his legs wouldn’t hold him. He sat down on the edge of the stage, feeling worse than ever. His head hurt; his vision swam; his signature looked so faint that even Thor, who had left the stage with the intention of breaking every bone in Loki’s body, thought better of it and sat down too.

  Come to think of it, thought the Thunderer, he wasn’t feeling too perky himself. It wasn’t often that he missed a chance to use his fists on the Trickster; but really, the little guy didn’t look good. Thor hoped it was nothing catching.