“It does pleasure to meet you, Highness Morgan.” Qina crossed her arms before her chest in a gesture Morgan didn’t understand. Was she bowing, or did it mean something else? He was still dizzily full of juniper-scented ale and seemed to have missed his chance to flee, so he gave her a sickly smile and nodded and mumbled the sort of thing he did when he was talking to people he didn’t know but his grandparents were watching.

Little Snenneq did not look particularly awed to be meeting a prince of the High Royal Household, but crossed his arms the same way Qina had, bobbed his head like a quail, and announced, “Ah, of course. This is a momentous meeting.”

Morgan had no idea what that meant either. As Binabik spoke rapidly in the troll tongue to the new arrivals, the prince cast his eyes desperately toward the alehouse door, hoping one of his friends might come out to look for him. He felt a small, cool pressure on his hand and looked down to see that Qina had removed her glove and was squeezing the tips of his fingers. “Hmmmmm . . . ?” he said, rather helplessly.

“I taught to her the handclasp of friendship that you utku— ‘lowlanders’ as we say in Yiqanuc—are using,” Binabik explained.

“Friendship and thank you,” she said, still holding the end of his hand in her small, solid grip. “For showing to Little Snenneq more of this place. Because of my wearying now, it is kindness and you are showing to be a true primp.”

“Prince,” said Binabik gently.

“Prince,” said Qina, blushing a little and finally letting go of his hand. “You are a true prince.”

Escape impossible and all other resistance now thoroughly dismantled, Morgan could only wait as the young troll woman rubbed cheeks with her betrothed, then followed her father back down the long street in the direction of Elvritshalla Castle, the massive white wolf pacing beside them. Loiterers who might otherwise have been calling abuse at the trolls took one look at Vaqana and slipped away.

Morgan was not entirely certain what had just happened, but he was already wishing it hadn’t.

“And so we will entertain ourselves like true Rimmersgarders now, eh?” announced his new companion, his grin so wide it seemed to squeeze his eyes shut. “The prince and Little Snenneq! Bring out ale and stinking fish!” Then, as they made their way back inside, the troll suddenly said, “My someday father-in-law is a very good man.”

The prince did not reply. Most of the alehouse denizens had looked up when they pushed open the squeaking door, and many of them looked displeased by his new companion.

“Because I told him it was needed for you and I to meet,” the troll went on. “I am going to help you, you see.”

“Help me?” By the love of all the saints, Morgan wondered, how far back into this poxy place were his friends sitting? Surely he hadn’t traveled such a distance on the way out. “How are you going to help me?”

“As I told my father-in-law to-be, the Singing Man Binabik, I will help you to find your destiny, just as he was doing for your illustrious grandsire, the king Seoman.”

The prince made a firm decision to ignore everything this little moon-mad creature said from that point onward. Also, his grandfather’s tiny friend Binnywick had deliberately picked Morgan out for this suffering, and he would neither forget nor forgive.

Olveris was right—little people can’t be trusted.

“And who is your new companion?” asked Porto when Morgan finally discovered the table in the opposite dark corner from the one in which he’d been searching. The old knight squinted. “He has not the look of the Rimmersgarders I’ve seen. One of their country cousins from up north?”

“This is . . .” Morgan couldn’t precisely remember. “Snow-Neck. Or is it No-Neck . . .?”

“Snenneq,” the troll said. “Little Snenneq, they are calling me, because it was also the name of my father and grandfather.”

Astrian was plainly delighted to meet someone shorter than he was. “No-Neck it is! And what will you have to drink, Sir No-Neck? Some milk, perhaps? With a bit of bread dipped in it to suck upon?”

Snenneq smiled a polite, yellow-toothed smile. “Not a child. I am Qanuc.”

“No-Neck the Ka-Neck!” Astrian crowed. “You must join our merry band!”

Even Olveris grinned at that. But not everyone in the dim alehouse was as happy. Morgan could hear more than a few angry words from the surrounding tables about the troll’s presence.

“They think they can go anywhere,” someone complained.

Why am I lumbered with this little goblin? Morgan wondered. Probably get me beaten half to death by these bearded ice-bears. He couldn’t completely remember what other wrongs had been done to him today, but he felt certain that this was only the most recent of many. “Give him something to drink, Porto, and for God’s sake be quick.”

The old knight poured a bowl for the new arrival, but stared at Little Snenneq so intently that he spilled more than he poured. Sir Olveris watched mournfully as it puddled on the splintered table. “I’ve seen your kind,” Porto said at last as he pushed the ale toward Snenneq. “Trolls. Your folk met us on the road back from Nakkiga.”

It was obvious many people in the ale-house were listening, because a fresh round of whispers began at this word, although not so obviously hostile this time.

Snenneq nodded. “True. Our Herder and Huntress had sent them to help the fighting against the Hikeda’ya, but they came after the siege was ending.”

“Hikadikadik. Says No-Neck from Ee-Ka-Neck,” said Astrian, a bit too loudly. He was unusually drunk. “And why would they send such as you to fight the Norns?”

Little Snenneq looked at him and smiled again, although it vanished more quickly this time.

“Never doubt them,” said Porto, the fumes of reminiscence beginning to rise from him. “The little troll-men fought fiercely in Erkynland. I saw them there, in battle.”

Olveris rolled his eyes, but Astrian sat forward. “Truly?” he asked. “Did they run among the White Foxes, kicking their shins? Or perhaps hid in the Norns’ saddlebags and then sprang out to attack?”

“I made that joke about you, Astrian,” Morgan complained. “About kicking the shins of your enemies. That’s mine.”

“Ah, but about me it is merely comic exaggeration,” the knight said. “My question to this fellow is an honest one.”

“There were times that the winds blew so hard and the snows fell so thickly on the Hayholt from the Storm King’s magic that we could see nothing,” Porto said, ignoring Astrian and warming to his tale. “But those little fellows—well, they could find their way through anything . . .”

“Then why can’t they find their way back to the place they came from?” brayed a very large, bearded Rimmersman at a nearby table. His friends laughed loudly, toasting him with their slopping bowls. “We have no need of them here.”

Little Snenneq smiled again, but there was something quite different in it this time, a certain hardness to his eyes that Morgan recognized. Astrian got that look sometimes when he was in his cups and angry. Morgan’s grandfather Simon wore it sometimes as well, usually when someone spoke about the strong taking cruel advantage of the weak.

Morgan was suddenly wondering whether it might be time for their little party to move on.

The big, bearded man was sitting down. Little Snenneq waited patiently at the man’s elbow until he was noticed.

“What do you want?” the red-faced man demanded. He put down his bowl, his fingers already curling into fists.

“I am hoping that you now will play a game,” said Snenneq mildly. “With me.”

The man goggled at this small, black-haired interloper. “Game? What does that mean?”

“Are you wrestling with just arms and hands here?” asked the troll. “So I think.”

Morgan did not remember everything his grandfather had told him about the troll-folk, but he thought he would remember if they had been gifted with superhuman strength, or if they could grow back an arm once it was ripped off, as a lizard could grew a new tail. “Sno . . . I mean, Snenneq,” he called. “Why don’t you come back to the table—?”