After filling his belly with roast pork and barley bread, Hamnet went up to one of those bedchambers. He made sleepy, lazy love with Marcovefa. Then he slept. Nothing bothered him till morning. If he hadn’t had somewhere else to go, he might have been tempted to stay in quiet, forgotten Gufua.

AS THE ROAD came out from behind a stand of trees, Trasamund pointed. “Somebody up ahead of us.”

“Well, so there is,” Hamnet said. “What about it? Are you worried about one man? Let him worry about us.”

“I’m not worried about him,” the jarl replied with dignity. “A bit surprised to see him, is all. Not many people on the road these days, or so it seems.”

“Would you go traveling if you thought the Rulers would kill you or ordinary bandits would knock you over the head?” Hamnet said.

“If I had to,” Trasamund said stubbornly.

“This fellow has to.” Marcovefa sounded as certain as only she could.

“Who is he? You sound as though you know,” Hamnet said.

“A traveler.” Maybe Marcovefa was being annoying on purpose. Or maybe whatever told her what she knew about that man also told her to keep it to herself. Hamnet shrugged. If they caught up with the stranger, he’d find out then. And if they didn’t, the fellow didn’t matter.

They were gaining. Hamnet needed a bit to be sure, but eventually had no doubt. Neither did the lone man. He tried to get more out of his horse, but it seemed to have nothing left to give. Either it was a horrible screw to begin with or he’d already ridden it into the ground. By the way it carried itself, Hamnet guessed the latter.

“Bugger me with a thornbush,” Trasamund said after a little while. “I know who that is.”

“So do I.” Hamnet Thyssen clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I didn’t want to say anything. I kept hoping I was wrong. Well, no such luck.”

Marcovefa raised an eyebrow. “After everything that happened, you still believe in luck?” Hamnet had no answer for her.

“We ought to—” But Trasamund broke off, shaking his big, fair head. “Who the demon knows what we ought to do?”

A little more time went by. The man in front of them turned in the saddle and shook his fist. “Weren’t you satisfied in Nidaros?” he shouted furiously. “Do you have to follow me and gloat, too?”

“We didn’t,” Hamnet said. “Only a . . . chance meeting, Sigvat.” He wouldn’t look at Marcovefa. He’d talked about chance to the tapman in Gufua, too. But it was as dead a word as luck. And he’d never imagined calling the Emperor—the former Emperor, now—by his bare, unadorned name.

“Likely tell,” Sigvat jeered. “Well, if you want to kill me, I suppose you can, but I’ll make the best fight I’m able to.” He started to draw his sword.

How many times had Hamnet wanted to kill him? He’d thought he had plenty of reason to do it, too. Sigvat was right—it wouldn’t be hard. But what was the point now? “Go your way,” Hamnet said. “If I never see you again, that will suit me well enough. You might want to take the south fork, not the one that runs southeast. I’m bound for my castle, and I don’t promise you a warm welcome if you turn up there.”

In a low voice, Sigvat said, “I heard Skakki was heading straight south.”

“Too bad,” Trasamund said. “And you made more enemies than just our lot, you know.”

Sigvat’s mouth twisted. “I did what I could.”

“To make more enemies? I believe that,” Hamnet Thyssen said.

“You wouldn’t have dared talk to me that way when I was on the throne,” Sigvat said, flushing angrily.

“The demon I wouldn’t,” Hamnet retorted. “I tried to tell you the Rulers were more trouble than you thought, and I was cursed well right. But you didn’t want to listen, and finally you flung me in your dungeon so you wouldn’t have to. That didn’t make me wrong, though. You found out. Too bad you managed to run from Nidaros after the Rulers beat your armies. I was hoping they’d pitch you in there so you could see what it was like.”

“We’d never had an invasion like that. I thought you were exaggerating things to make yourself seem more important,” Sigvat said.

“You would have done that,” Marcovefa said. “So you judged Hamnet from yourself.”

By the way Sigvat scowled at her, that shot struck too close to the center of the target. “I turned out to be wrong,” he said. “But I thought the chances were good that I was right.”

“And so you almost pissed the Empire straight into the chamber pot,” Hamnet said. “If not for Marcovefa, you would have. No wonder the Golden Shrine didn’t think you measured up.”

“I wouldn’t have believed that, either, if I had any choice,” Sigvat said.

“You have none. None at all,” Trasamund said. “That is not a judgment from man. It is a judgment from God. Everyone who was in your throne room knows it.”

Sigvat wanted to call the jarl a liar. The urge was written all over his face. Only one thing stopped him, Hamnet judged: Trasamund was obviously telling the truth. Instead, Sigvat said, “Go ahead and mock. I hope it makes you happy.” As obviously, he hoped anything but.

To Hamnet, Trasamund said, “We ought to knock him over the head. He’s too stupid to learn anything from all the mistakes he made.”

“If the Golden Shrine had wanted him dead soon, it would have taken care of things,” Hamnet said. “This is worse. He was the Emperor of Raumsdalia. Now no one will hearken to him for the rest of his life, however long he lasts. If he doesn’t learn that much, he won’t live long. But I won’t stain my hands with his blood. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not worth killing.”

Sigvat went from red to white. “Curse you, Thyssen,” he whispered.

“You can’t,” Hamnet said matter-of-factly. “You’ve already cursed yourself. Nothing you throw at me will bite.” He gestured to his companions. “We may as well ride on.”

“What if this—thing—tries to shoot us in the back?” Trasamund said. “He’s got a bow.”

“He won’t. He can’t.” Marcovefa sounded sure, as only she could. Hamnet believed her. Sigvat’s grimace of impotent fury said he did, too.

They rode past Sigvat. Hamnet didn’t look back. No arrows came hissing after him. He never saw Sigvat, once the second Emperor of Raumsdalia of that name, again. He never heard that anyone else did, either.

A STONE KEEP warded by a wooden palisade. Fields and orchards around it. Woods of oak and elm and ash and hickory and chestnut off to the east, where Raumsdalia’s border petered out. Hamnet pointed toward the keep. “Hasn’t changed much since I went away,” he said.

“Did you expect it to?” Trasamund asked.

“You never can tell,” Hamnet answered. “If we’ve seen anything the past few years, we’ve seen that.”

Farmers weeding in the fields looked up as the travelers rode by. Not many folk came this way, as Hamnet had reason to know. One of the peasants called, “That you, Count?”

“I think so,” Hamnet said, which made the fellow grin.

“You take care of whatever you needed to do out in the world?” another farmer asked.

“Most of it. For a while,” Hamnet replied.

The man nodded. “About what you can hope for.” He went back to weeding.

Marcovefa eyed Hamnet. “Yes, this is your country. These are your people.”

“I never tried to tell you anything different,” he said.

A shout rolled out from the palisade: “Who comes?”

“Hamnet Thyssen, with friends,” Hamnet answered. “Is everything well, Gris?”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” his seneschal said, and then, not to Hamnet, “Open the gates, by God!”

They creaked open. They’d creaked before Hamnet rode away, too. His retainers stared at his companions. “Are those what they call Bizogots?” a man asked doubtfully. He might have been talking about glyptodonts or other beasts he didn’t look to see in this part of the world.

“We’re Bizogots, sure enough,” Trasamund rumbled. Marcovefa stirred, but she didn’t argue. Her folk sprang from the Bizogots, even if they didn’t think of themselves as belonging to them any more. Mischief in his pale eyes, Trasamund went on, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a Raumsdalian.”