“Come now, my prince,” Astrian urged. “Leave the old beanpole Porto to his rest and his dreams of faded glory. Drink up!”

“Right, then.” Morgan lifted the bowl high. “A toast to St. Gutfrida, may she watch over all tradesmen.”

“Travelers, not tradesmen,” Olveris said. “You will have to drink another if you’re not careful.”

“There are surely worse fates,” said Astrian.

“So. A toast to St. Gutfrida, may she watch over all travelers.” Morgan brought the bowl to his lips and downed the whole thing, although there was a bit of choking and spluttering at the end that Astrian tried to convince him would necessitate yet another bowl. “No, by God,” the prince said. “Now it’s your turn. I am going to piss.”

“Not here,” said Sir Porto. “Begging your pardon, Highness, but not here, if you please.”

“What, do you imagine I am some Thrithings barbarian?” Morgan rose, not without a bit of work, and staggered toward the door of the ale hall. It was strange how quiet this and the other taverns were today, the drinkers silent and almost sullen. It was not as if the duke’s death had been a surprise, not at Isgrimnur’s advanced age.

As he passed the innkeeper’s daughter, a buxom young woman who looked as if she knew a few interesting things, Morgan spun to watch her walk. This maneuver did not turn out well, and he had to grab at a table for support, vexing a group of men sitting there. “My very deepest apologies,” Morgan told them, and bowed, which did not turn out much better than the spin. By the time he had reached the door he had caromed off more tables, as though someone was using a prince to play ninepins.

Damned Frostmarch baron, he thought, more than a bit dizzy now. Tell me about my own father, why don’t you? Oh yes, can’t shut him up. But was he there? Did he hear my father moaning and weeping in his last fever? See the look of fear on his face . . . ? Morgan shook his head, trying to rid himself of the evil memories that had settled on him like snow sifting down from the gray sky, but memories did not melt as swiftly as snowflakes.

It was a great relief to empty his bladder against the outside wall of the alehouse, but Morgan could not escape the feeling he was being watched. He turned and found a hairy white monster staring up at him, fangs gleaming, red tongue lolling.

He did not even realize that his knees had buckled and that he was now sitting on the slushy ground until the little man standing beside the wolf extended a hand to him. “Vaqana is not a danger,” he said. “She did not mean to be frightening.”

Which was easy enough to say, but a little harder to believe, at least for Morgan as he stared at the wolf’s powerful, grinning jaws just inches from his face. “You’re that troll,” he said at last. “Grandfather’s friend.”

The little man nodded and smiled. “Binabik, I am being called—yes, a troll. And your grandfather’s friend, yes, and forever. And you are being Prince Morgan.”

“Believe so. Are you sure he won’t bite?”

“He?” The troll looked around. “Ah, it is Vaqana you are meaning. She. No, she will not bite.” He looked up. Several locals were watching their conversation, and not all of them looked particularly friendly. “She will not bite unless I am telling her, Bite,” the troll corrected himself.

Morgan ignored the offered hand and climbed slowly to his feet, just in case the wolf was not as committed to pacifism as her master. He noticed that he had not done up his clothing quite as well as he’d thought, and paused to remedy the situation, grateful he had not pissed himself completely at the unexpected sight of the white wolf. He felt quite sober now. Terror might have been the cause, but he told himself it was the cold wind. Living in such a chilly, gray place, it was a miracle these Rimmersgard folk ever chose to be sober.

Finished with the laces on his breeks, he regarded the troll and the grinning wolf. “Umm,” he managed at last. “Ah. I have to go back to my friends now.” He knew he should say something else, because his grandparents were bound to hear of the meeting, so he added “I give you good day,” with all the drunken articulation he could muster. But the little man would not stop staring at him. The troll’s eyes were brown and quite disturbingly intent.

“I was seeing you in the church earlier, when they spoke for Duke Isgrimnur,” Binabik said. “You had a look of sadness, was my thought. Were you knowing that good old man well?”

Oh, God save me, Morgan thought. He knows I’m drunk, and he’s forcing me to talk to him on purpose. “I never met the duke before the day he died,” he said. “No, once, I think, when I was a boy. He was big, and he had a loud voice.” Unlike the lie he had told about his father, this was true: Morgan had not accompanied his grandfather on his last trip north, and almost all his knowledge about the Duke of Elvritshalla came from his grandfather’s long and doubtless exaggerated stories.

Binabik’s smile was wider this time. “Loud voice, with certainty! Like a great ram bellowing at his rivals. But there was being more to Isgrimnur. Much more.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Morgan wanted only to escape back into the lamplit dark and the company of ordinary people—and ale. Why did everyone insist on talking to him about dead people today? “Still, I should find . . .”

“My family and I have been walking about the city in this evening, once the duke’s funeral was ended,” said Binabik. “Your grandmother the queen had worry that we would be abused by the people here, because for long years these folk and mine were being each other’s enemies, and still there are many Croohok—Rimmersmen—who are not liking to see trolls. But I like learning always, and seeing and doing is being the best way for that learning. Are you not thinking the same?”

“Huh? I suppose. Yes.” Morgan was a hair’s breadth from turning his back and going inside. “Yes, learning . . . is certainly good.”

“I am glad we have agreeing,” Binabik said, nodding and smiling. “Because here is coming my daughter Qina and Little Snenneq, her nukapik—her ‘betrothed,’ you would be saying. Qina has a weariness of the city now and would return to the place where we sleep, but Snenneq still has a desire to learn more of Rimmersgard ways. It would be a kindness for you to show him something of this place.”

“Show him . . . ?”

“Yes, Prince Morgan, this place where you and your friends are resting and eating would be something he would like, I think. Little Snenneq is loving to join in such pastimes, and is considered very skillful at singing, games, and contests.” Binabik must have seen the expression of horror on Morgan’s face, because he quickly added, “You are not to be fearing. Snenneq has coins of his own.”

“But . . .”

“Ah, and here they are coming to us now.” Binabik turned and waved to a pair of figures approaching through the narrow, night-dark street. Both were dressed in thick hide jackets and both seemed small to Morgan, although one was much smaller than the other—the troll’s daughter, he guessed: he could tell by the curve of her hips and an indefinable something in her round face that the smaller one was female.

Morgan had seen dwarfs in Erchester and occasionally the Hayholt, mostly with troops of traveling players, but trolls seemed to be different. They were stocky and short-legged, but otherwise their proportions were more like that of other folk. The troll’s daughter had a pretty face with almond eyes and smooth tan skin, and she was even shapely, as far as could be told under such heavy garments, but she stood no higher than Morgan’s own little sister Lillia. By contrast, the top of the young male troll’s thatch of black hair reached almost to Morgan’s breastbone.

“Ah, Qina my daughter, you are here!” said Binabik. “Come and greet Prince Morgan. And this fellow is being her friend Little Snenneq.”