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Dublin was even more rowdy than its usual self as Thormod, with Haki at his side, and Tostig and Eric behind them, passed out of the Garrison and headed down into the town. Yule—Midwinter's Night—was being celebrated, loudly and lustily, by the city's inhabitants. Vikings and Irishmen, and the crews of merchantmen from Spain and Venice and the Frankish lands, all of them came together with a roar that spread from the old King's Palace down to the boat strands.

Swells of sound spilled out from the open doors of packed ale-houses. Men staggered along the streets, arms around each other's shoulders, singing tunelessly. Torches spread their uncertain light over the alleys and cast dark shadows where women of the town were engaged in brisk and profitable business.

The little knot of crew from the Sea Swallow stopped at first one ale-house and then another, the group swelling and shrinking as they met shipmates or lost them to more interesting pursuits. Thormod waited for the right moment to detach himself, when the noise was loudest and the others distracted, and he could merely give a nod to Haki that said he had some private business to attend to. Even Haki's presence would be a hindrance to Thormod's plans.

Moving from place to place, drinking slowly enough that his head began to clear again, Thormod struck up a conversation now and then, here and there, with others who, like himself, were drinking alone. Most of the encounters didn't last long: one man was claimed by his fellow crew-members, who'd backtracked when they realized they'd mislaid him; a couple more hurried away when it was their turn with the particular hard-eyed girl who'd caught their fancy. But, at last, Thormod found himself standing next to a lean, dark-haired Irishman who seemed more interested in stealing sideways glances at Thormod than watching the two scantily dressed girls who were twining themselves around some of his friends a few paces away.

Thormod waited a moment or two longer to be sure—as much as a man could ever be sure in such a circumstance. Then, mustering the little of the native tongue he'd learned, he asked cautiously, "Drink with me?"

The man hesitated, casting a look in the direction of his friends, before giving a quick nod. He waved over a harried potboy.

The lad passed a couple of jugs of ale one way. Thormod, slipping the price of them in the other direction, introduced himself quietly. "I am Thormod."

The other man raised his jack a little in salute before he drank. "I am—."

Thormod never did learn his name. Before the Irishman could tell him, a heavy hand descended on Thormod's shoulder and he was spun around. One of the Irishmen's friends—a red-headed, thickset man with a few years and a few inches on Thormod—thrust his ale-flushed face close to Thormod's and spat a question at him. Thormod thought he was asking who he was and what he wanted.

Thormod's drinking companion tried to protest, but his friend pushed him back with one arm, stepping between him and Thormod. He prodded Thormod in the chest, making Thormod stumble back a step, and repeated the question.

Thormod straightened and squared his shoulders, looking his adversary in the eye. "Drink!" He raised his ale jug as evidence and took a swig.

The red-headed man smacked the jug out of Thormod's hand and snarled something that seemed to be about his sort not being wanted there. Thormod briefly wished Jestyn was with him to interpret—though if Jestyn had been with him, there might have been no need to engage strangers in conversation....

Behind the red-headed man, a small crowd of men was gathering, their expressions ugly. Thormod held up his hands, indicating he wasn't looking for a fight—not with those odds, though the urge was strong in him to level a blow at the sweating face close to his. Then the man shoved him again. At that, Thormod lost his hold on his tight-leashed temper and shoved back.

A second later, he was being wheeled outside into the narrow wynd, jostled from all sides. The cold air sharpened his wits, but his hand was already on his blade. Drawing it and throwing off an arm that tried to snake around his neck, he cleared a small space around him—and enough time to send up a shout, hoping a crewmate or two were close enough to hear: "Sea Swallow! Sea Swallow! To me!"

The pack closed in on him again, but beyond the grunting and cursing, he heard an answering call: "Sea Swallow coming!"

For a moment, as he backed towards the wall, he thought help wouldn't come soon enough. One of his foes had hold of his arm, attempting to hook a foot around his legs and bring him down. Another had also drawn a knife and was feinting as Thormod parried, looking for an opening. A third simply flailed wildly with his fists, raining drunken blows with no real aim or force behind them on Thormod's head and chest. Then the press around him shifted and a body forced its way through, turning to stand shoulder to shoulder.

Jestyn. Jestyn's shoulder against his. Jestyn, the last person Thormod had expected to be roaming the streets of Dublin to answer his call. What in the Thunderer's name was he doing there? Conjured perhaps by women's magic, by that thought inside Thormod a few minutes earlier: if Jestyn were here.... Jestyn, who was no fighter, and yet whose shoulder Thormod would rather have pressed against his than any other.

Thormod found quickly enough that he was right about one thing: Jestyn was no fighter and he was soon down on the ground. But he gave Thormod enough breathing space, protecting his flank, that Thormod had time to slash his blade across the chest of the man with the eager fists, making him howl and reel away, before he landed his own thunderous blow to the head of the man with the knife.

Stepping across Jestyn's body to shield it, he heard the sound of more feet and more voices answering, "Sea Swallow coming!" Bodies crashed into his assailants from the rear and the whole knot swung and lurched for a minute or two, curses and grunts rending the air, before the Irishmen broke and scattered, haring off down the wynd toward the boat-strand.

Thormod stood swaying, looking down at Jestyn's body sprawled between his feet. Then he looked at the bloodied blade in his hand. Wiping it hastily on his tunic, he sheathed it and squatted down, hauling Jestyn up by the shoulders and propping him against the wall. Jestyn groaned and Thormod closed his eyes briefly in thanks, even as someone above him said, "I'll fetch water. That'll bring him round soon enough—if the fool's not dead."

Jestyn came fully awake, gasping and spluttering, as Eric heaved the water over his head. Blinking, his eyes unfocused, he reached up a hand uncertainly to his head, where the old wound was bleeding afresh.

Thormod, his hands still on Jestyn's shoulders, gave him a slight shake and spoke out loud the question that had sprung to mind when first he'd felt Jestyn's shoulder against his own. "What in the Thunderer's name are you doing here?"

His voice was hoarse and sharp-edged in his own ears, and he was glad when Haki began to urge them to leave that place. He wasn't sure what more he might have said, unwisely, as the fear and relief in his breast turned to anger. That Jestyn had put himself in harm's way for his sake. That Jestyn might have died....

Jestyn, seeing the wisdom of Haki's suggestion as much as Thormod did, tried unsuccessfully to heave himself to his feet. Thormod put his arm around him to help him up, taking Jestyn's weight against his shoulder. He was aware of Jestyn's greater height, for all his leanness, and the smell of Jestyn's sweat underneath the taint of blood and spilled ale and the alley-stink that perpetually hung over most of Dublin's wynds. Then Haki thrust his arm under Jestyn's other shoulder, sharing the burden.

By the time they staggered into the sleeping bothy, Jestyn had recovered enough to almost be able to walk by himself, though his wits were still mazed and he had muttered something incomprehensible about amber once or twice along the way. When Thormod and Haki let go of him, he stood unsteadily for a moment, before he folded to his knees.

Taking another look at the gash on Jestyn's forehead—the blood had crusted—Thormod fetched a drink of ale and forced it down Jestyn's throat. That seemed to bring back the rest of Jestyn's wits—or maybe only half bring them back, for he gave a stuttered explanation of what had brought him to the wynd at such an opportune moment. He finished by fumbling in the breast of his tunic for the amber talisman and holding it out to Thormod.

Thormod took it, feeling the warmth Jestyn had given to it, feeling Jestyn's life in its liveness. "I'll put a fresh thong on it in the morning," he said, trying to keep his voice level, "but this will serve for now." He slipped the thong over his head and stowed the talisman inside his sark, feeling its warmth now nestling against his breast.

He looked down at Jestyn. It was a pity they were free man and thrall. Well, that could be amended, in time. For now, the task was to turn aside the suspicions of his crewmates as to quite what he'd been hunting alone through the alleys of Dublin.

Which had, perhaps, been right in front of him all this time.