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annexes and barns and stables.
    As they advanced along a crumbling stone wall, Leifr could see
    that Dallir was more nearly a ruin than it was a working homestead.
    Portions, if not all, of each building had fallen into unclaimable ruin,
    although use of the building continued with stolid determination to
    endure until the structure finally collapsed entirely. A sullen red
    light burned in one end of a sagging turf barn, and a few sick sheep
    stood listlessly in a muddy pen.
    As Leifr and Gotiskolker crouched beside the wall among the
    nettles and thistles, a ragged figure carried a milk pail and a guttering
    horn lamp toward the main hall. An annex door opened briefly, casting
    a slim wedge of light into the gloom, then vanishing quickly.
    Gotiskolker nudged Leifr sharply. “That’s the kitchen. Fridmarr
    would never use the front doors. Go on, and good luck to you.”
    “I’m sure I’ll need it. Who will be there that I should know by
    sight?”
    “Just Fridmundr, Snagi the house thrall, and Thurid—you’ll
    know him by his thin hair and his arrogant clothing. His headgear is
    typical of Djarfur district, but you’d know nothing of the dress
    customs. Pretty vain and foppish, but some good wizards have come out
    of Djarfur.”
    Leifr shook his head, which was suddenly filled with images
    of blue and yellow Djarfur hats, with red tassels and crowns shaped
    like a horses’ nosebags. “Red tassels!” he exclaimed in amazement. “If
    this is an example of how that precious carbuncle works—” He made as
    if to tear the string off his neck.
    Gotiskolker fastened his claw in Leifr’s arm. “It will tell you
    other things. You’re not losing your nerve, are you? I hope the Rhbus
    weren’t malicious enough to send me a coward.“
    Leifr jerked his arm away. “If this doesn’t work, you old barrow
    robber, I’m going to come after you and break your other arm and
    maybe your neck.”
    Gripping his sword hilt, he stalked toward the annex door, his
    heart thudding. He nearly leaped out of his skin when a pair of small,
    scruffy-looking dogs suddenly erupted from under a broken cart with a
    vociferous uproar of barking. Sniffing suspiciously at his heels and
    growling and whining worriedly, they scuttled away in craven terror
    when Leifr stamped his boots at them. Unfortunately, they took a
    defensive position on the stoop, growling, bristling, and showing their
    teeth. Leifr hesitated, eyeing the porch window, where it was considered
    more polite to knock, and watching the dogs, whose belligerence
    increased with his hesitation.
    Suddenly the door opened, and the dogs scrambled inside,
    still growling, with their tails curled between their legs. A ragged
    individual leaned out to peer into the darkness at Leifr, calling out in a
    nervous, cracked voice, “Who’s there? Answer up quick, unless
    you’re a draug or a Dokkalfar. Once the sun goes down, I don’t
    open this door for anybody.”
    Leifr came forward a few more steps, unable to think of any
    appropriate words for a returning prodigal. The bright eyes of the
    doorkeeper peered sharply at him around the edge of the door.
    “Well, speak up, or I’m going to shut the door and let the
    Dokkalfar and trolls have you.” He started to suit his words with the
    appropriate action.
    “Wait,” Leifr said, pulling off his hood in a gesture of peace.
    “I’ve come a long way to get here. I heard that Fridmundr— my father
    —is dying. I don’t know if I’m welcome or not, but I’ve come to see
    him for the last time.”
    The door was snatched open wider, and a tall, glowering
    individual thrust the first speaker aside and surveyed Leifr from
    head to foot with mounting suspicion and scorn evident in the harsh
    glitter of his eyes. With his nose thrust forward like the prow of a ship
    penetrating enemy waters, he swiftly peered around the farmyard to see
    if Leifr had any cohorts lurking avariciously in the shadows, then
    turned on the ragged fellow who