PART THREE
My Dear Cousin, Loptr has grown much since I have written to you last. He very much enjoys reading dark novels, though I do tell him it is healthy to get the air every now and again. It is not that he shuns the company of others, but that they shun him. Having the body of a doll is hard for him; I have ordered my other children not to speak of him as a thing, inanimate and unfeeling, but they ignore him much of the time when I am not there to oversee their actions. I am afraid he is lonely, Brokkr. I do not know what to do. Laufey is no help—he has grown distant, these past years. It is strange—once we were to each other as two halves that have once met never to be parted, friends in all things even as our love grew with our kingdom—but ah, we have no kingdom any more, only fragments of splintered, beaten men that give us loyalty only through desperation; much of the outlying clans have abandoned us entirely.
I do not mean to give you only bad tidings. Loptr and I were talking only yesterday of the intricacies of the forge; he has never seen fire, you know. It is these people of the ice, they treat it as though it is such a deadly enemy it is almost amusing. I have never minded cold, Brokkr, but I miss the sight of fire.
Oh—I have almost forgotten to thank you for the paintings you sent me to my request. Prince Loki is indeed beautiful, he looks almost like my own Loptr would, I believe, if he had a face—yet I am not sure, as I have not seen his smile. That is the most important thing; he must have the correct smile. Brokkr, you have served me well all these years, both as a confidant and as a link to the world outside—these days it is hard getting any of my orders obeyed; I swear no one does anything but the simplest things on my command anymore, they are always looking to my husband. You told me once to think deeply before I married outside of my own race: but what is that to me? I am already split between races. Yet now I begin to wonder if you had not been right with all your dire warnings. I do not feel as though I am happy. Sometimes I wonder if I have ever been happy.
I have a small favor to ask of you; nothing too strenuous for a man of your great cleverness—yes, that is flattery, you fool, and do not protest—a very small matter, and yet important to Loptr and myself. You see, we have been wondering if this isolation which he feels is not due to the lack of a face from which to speak and put others at ease—a painted one is just not the same; it does not have the ability to move, which is of the utmost importance. It is because of this which I have written to you. Of course, you will be paid handsomely in compensation. Here, I will spell out the venture: the As Prince Loki is said to be of exceeding cleverness, but with an unruly tongue and a mind which casts its ambitions above its abilities; he is also a gambling man. Well; we will take this for the boon it is. Make you, perhaps, some trifling thing, fair to look upon, which you will then contrive to sell to Loki by terms of a bet which you will arrange for him to lose. Do make it that the price will be his head in gold.
Now comes the entirely clever part. Loptr thought it up himself, and he had the most wicked glint in his eye—I swear, that boy will come to a bad end someday—once bet has been lost, take his words at their literal meaning and claim from him his head—in this way you will be above claims of murder; be sure to have witnesses present. If you bring me his head I will be forever indebted to you, and Loptr will indeed be eternally grateful. Perhaps when next you visit you will be able to meet him at last face to true face. I understand, of course, if you do not wish to carry out such a burdensome task—in that case, I will find my means elsewhere; but rest assured I will have the young Prince’s head for my child.
Your loving cousin,
Farbauti
(and no, for the last time, tell your brothers they do not have permission to read our correspondence.)
Brokkr stared at the paper in his hand. Somehow it seemed as though it should burn with hot coals, with what was contained within; and yet somehow, it was as steady and cool as stone untouched by sunlight. He smoothed it down abstractedly. Farbauti’s eccentricities—her madness—had never stopped him from giving his cousin what she desired, but this was a step he could not believe she had crossed. To plan murder—and for such a grotesque cause— cold fingers traveled down his spine, and he shuddered. He stood up from his table by the fire and began to pace, sliding his fingers along the edges of each chair and table he passed. He knew well Farbauti’s stubbornness, and his mind turned to what lengths she might go if denied in this. And yet what could he do? She was a Queen; he, though quite rich and influential, renowned as a master craftsman, was not; any word spoken against her carried not only the weight of family but of world. No—he must solve this another way.
Crossing once more to the table, he looked on it again, reading the letter over and over, sick but determined, until he had conceived of a workable plan. It would need the unwitting help of others—his brothers would lend their hand, of course, but they needed a rival… Brokkr grinned. Yes, he thought, this could perhaps turn out to be an amusing business all around.
The prince Loki was as haughty as they said; pale and dark-haired, with a face so flawless and cold that Brokkr could understand the Queen’s obsession. He conducted all their dealings with an air of superciliousness, the arrogance of youth combined with that of a spoiled prince. But it was true, entirely true, that he was clever; the bet was not such a sure thing as Brokkr had counted on; in the end though, the gathered crowd voted as they should, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Loki shrugged at the outcome, reaching behind him for the waiting pile of gold, when Brokkr stopped his hand. “I think it is time you made your payment.”
Drawing up to his full height, Loki glared down at him with silent fury. When he spoke his voice was clipped. “And so you see the gold beside me. The weight of my head, as promised.” He bowed mockingly, and Brokkr felt any sympathy for the man’s coming punishment dry up. He inspected the bag for more than a few minutes, winding the prince up into an agony of impatience before speaking, turning out its contents and looking it over as if he thought he might have been cheated, watching the boy’s face grow redder with every action. Finally, he set the bag down, and became serious once more. “It is indeed the weight of your head in gold. But as I recall, your exact wording was that you bet your head.” Nodding towards his brother, who came up promptly with the scroll bearing the record of the bet, he opened it to point at the small black letters.
Loki stared at the parchment, speechless. “That is the accepted phrase for such transactions—it is not meant to be taken literally!”
“And yet these are the words, as written, to witnesses,” Brokkr returned, unmoved. “It is entirely within my rights to take such a contract at face value; so, I will claim my price. Your head.” The gasps of shock in the surrounding crowd were not entirely feigned—though they had been briefed about the plan, all under the pretense of “knocking the prince down a peg or two” and a bit of good fun, it was still amazing to hear anyone claim the prince’s life so brazenly. Brokkr himself could hardly believe he had spoken with such unwavering confidence. Now was the time for Loki to live up to his name and show a little of that vaunted cleverness.
Sure enough, trapped by his own signature, eyes darting about, Loki’s mind was working quickly. Suddenly he straightened up, and an easy grin slid onto his face; it made him look almost menacing, and Brokkr thought at once that the Queen would not have been happy with his head even if she had got it. “Literal you make my words; then allow me to counter. I said you could have my head; I never said you were entitled to my neck.”
Brokkr inclined his head. “That is indeed true.” He paused, speaking now to the crowd. “Is there no way I could cut off the head without touching the neck? Hmm?” He looked round at the crowd, who screamed out their various and conflicting opinions.
“Hardly,” Loki said. “Now, either take the gold, or forfeit the prize.”
Brokkr smiled. “By your own admission, and the agreement of all present, I can do whatever I like to your head as long as I do not touch your neck.”
Again showing slight signs of nervousness, Loki swallowed, but his voice was even. “Entirely true—but you cannot kill me.”
“Unfortunately not,” Brokkr answered mildly, and got a chorus of laughs in return. “Barring that, I’ll just have to seal that clever mouth of yours.”
“What—?” Loki began, but when he saw the awl and the thread, then comprehension dawned. Brokkr’s brothers came up on either side of Loki and gripped him tightly by the arm. Loki glared at them then spoke to Brokkr coldly. “I won’t run.”
“I know you won’t,” Brokkr answered. “It’s for when you start thrashing.” At that, the blood drained from the prince’s face. He nodded once. “Very well,” he said, accepting it with as much dignity as he could muster. “Get on with it, then.”
He screamed, of course, and thrashed; no amount of royal blood could make a body immune to pain and fear. But when it was all over he took only a few minutes to pull himself together; then, with blood still streaming from his sewn mouth, he gathered up the gifts Brokkr had made in his arms, gave a composed nod in his direction, and walked almost steadily from the yard.
There was a long, horrified silence, before the tension was broken with a slap on the back. “Can you believe it?” Eitri joked. “We laid hands on the prince of Asgard and we’re still alive!”
Brokkr chuckled darkly. “For now, at least.” He shook his head. “Once the word gets out, who knows. Come on—I need a drink.”