Skammkel rode along the Ranga river, collecting sheep as he went and stuffing them into his knapsack. It was tedious work, but a good excuse for rambling along farm boundaries, spying on his neighbours and generally looking for trouble.
On this particular trip, he didn’t come across any random showdowns or outlaws fighting draugr, but he did catch a glimpse of something shiny on the ground. To any self-respecting saga villain, that is the next best thing.
Racing forward, he found to his disappointment that it was only a butcher knife, slightly the worse for wear, attached to a simple belt. Skammkel nearly dropped it, but then stopped, peering at it more closely. Then he shoved it into his knapsack, ignoring the indignant bleats of the sheep.
“Do you recognize these?” he demanded, thrusting them under Otkel’s nose.
“Please don’t shove butcher knives in my face,” said Otkel, taking them and sniffing at them curiously. “And yes, these were Melkof’s. Wonder how he’s doing.”
“Do you know where I found them?” prompted Skammkel.
“At a guess, on Melkof?”
Skammkel shook his head impatiently. “On your property. Quite near that old storage shed – you know, the one that mysteriously burned down.”
Otkel took that in. “So. We should probably show that to somebody. Wait, why were you on my property? Not that I mind, but…”
“No reason,” said Skammkel, stifling a sheep behind his back. “Let’s get some other people to identify them, and then we’ll have proof of who burned down your shed.”
The entire staff of Otkel’s farm agreed on who the knife belonged to, and Otkel admitted that things looked serious.
“So what are you going to do?” Skammkel nudged him. “Take it to the authorities.”
“It’s not really proof proof,” said Otkel. “Melkof could have dropped it any time. Even if I’m pretty sure he did it, it won’t hold up at the Thing.” He considered for a moment. “I know. I’m taking it to Mord Valgardsson – he’ll know what to do.”
Mord examined the belt with his bleary eyes and nodded. “You’re right, Otkel – this, in and of itself, proves nothing. Nonetheless, we shall persevere. Do you think – ah – any of your belongings might have, shall we say, gotten up and wandered to Hlidarendi?”
“That’s a very big question,” said Skammkel cagily. “About a very big man.”
“Indeed,” sighed Mord. “However, I’ve heard a tale or two come out of Hlidarendi in recent weeks, and – shall we say – there may be more information available, for those intrepid or opulent enough to seek it out?”
“What?” Otkel blinked.
“Pay me,” clarified Mord. “Hard, cold silver.”
“Is three marks enough?” Otkel counted it out, stood awkwardly as Mord failed to reach out and take it, then gingerly placed it on the ground.
“Splendid,” smiled Mord. “I’ll deploy my irregulars.”
“Your what?”
“My crew of backpackers,” said Mord, fiddling with his mustache. “What, you thought all these backpackers wandering around were just part of the scenery? No, they work for me, and I’ll have them do the rounds. They’ll hand out little trifles here and there, and in return -”
Here, he looked over at the other two.
“If you found yourselves in possession of stolen goods, what would you do with them?”
“Baaa,” said Skammkel.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Skammkel hastily, adjusting the straps of his pack.
“Well, I’ll tell you. If you keep stolen goods in your house, someone will notice them sooner or later, hmm? So what does an intelligent person do?”
Otkel scratched his chin. “Keep them… outside of the house?”
“That’s what Gunnar of Hlidarendi would do, yes. But a real master thief, one with a real eye for stolen property, you might say – she’d split up the goods, whatever they were, and she’d send them all to different places, maybe even try to get a bit in each house in the neighbourhood, so no one would be in any position to point fingers, hmm? And how would she get them in each house? Break in and slip one into every pantry, like a cheese elf? No, she’d disguise them as best she could, and hand them out openly as gifts, hoping they’d be eaten before anyone thought to look too closely. Not that anyone examines homemade fermentation products too closely, ha-ha! Which is where the Hof Irregulars come in.”
He clapped his hands together with an air of finality. “Dismissed. I’ll see you gentlemen in a fortnight.”
Two weeks later, the backpackers trickled in, oozing jams, jellies, and pickles from all pockets. Every single one of them had at least one or two slices of cheese, and they sang Hallgerd’s praises for her generosity.
Smirking, Mord put the cheeses in a sack and walked over to Kirkjubaer, alone. “I need to see Thorgerd’s cheese mould,” he whispered, and Otkel led him to the kitchen, excited.
The pair sat down at the kitchen table, working for what seemed like much too long on a two-dozen-piece puzzle, but it paid off richly. Mord flipped the full mould upside down, lifted it gingerly, and there before their eyes was a whole cheese, with ‘Property of Thorgerd’ inscribed on top. Otkel thumped the table and swore.
Mord just got up. “I believe my duty is done,” he nodded.
“You’re not helping with the court case?”
“I think not,” said Mord, and slipped out the kitchen door, leaving a trail of ill-luck in his wake.
Kolskegg shook Gunnar’s shoulder. “You can’t just pretend this isn’t happening. The whole district is gossiping about it!”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Gunnar, “The whole district is right. So what do you want me to do? Confess publicly? Would that help?”
“Offer to pay Otkel for his stupid cheese.”
“So, confess publicly.” Gunnar thought it over, then made up his mind. “Which is still better than ignoring the situation. You’re right.”
The brothers grabbed Thrain and Lambi, making it the original party that rode once more to Kirkjubaer – along with eight henchmen, making them a dozen in all. You never knew.
Skammkel, hanging about Otkel’s place as always, spotted them far off and inserted himself neatly into the situation.
“Two brains are better than one,” he reasoned to Otkel.
“I’m right here,” said Hallbjorn.
“Exactly,” nodded Skammkel. “Just say what I tell you to say, and everything will be fine.”
“Sure.” Otkel waved to Gunnar, who was now within earshot. “Nice day, Gunnar. Where ya heading?”
“Your place,” said Gunnar. “I’m here to offer to pay for your cheese, and all the fire damage. Although, I want to clarify that I had nothing to do with it – it was all my wife and that slave you pawned off on me.”
“Sounds about right,” said Hallbjorn, exchanging a nod with Kolskegg.*
“I think we should let a jury of our peers decide on the amount,” continued Gunnar.
“That’s not fair!” Skammkel burst in. “Everyone likes you, and no one likes Otkel.”
“Valid point,” said Gunnar. “How about I pay you double the damage then, and we shake on it, and are besties forever from now on?” He smiled hopefully.
“I agree,” began Otkel, but Skammkel kicked his shin. “That’s ridiculous! Otkel is the wronged party here. How is it fair for you to decide the compensation?”
“Yeah!” said Otkel.
Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “Are you just doing whatever your friend says, because you inexplicably think he’s a genius?” he demanded. “Because you have no idea what his real motivations might be.”
“Oh shit, that’s true,” said Otkel, and turned to Skammkel. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him you want to escalate this to Gizur the White and Chief Geir,” said Skammkel. “Don’t you want to be like your hero uncle, Hallkel?”
“What did he do again?”
“Killed some guy, Grim or something. I dunno, it’s your backstory. Don’t you want to live up to his example?”
“You bet!” said Otkel. “Wait, how is asking Gizur and Geir what to do comparable to killing a guy?”
“It’s standing up for yourself,” pointed out Skammkel.
“I guess.” Otkel turned back to Gunnar, who was tapping his foot briskly – a remarkable feat, since he was on horseback. “I want some time to consult -”
“Gizur and Geir. I am literally right next to you,” said Gunnar. “And you’re going to regret this. Not even a threat – an observation.” In the afterglow of that line, he turned and rode away, his entourage following and golf clapping.
“You are a dumbass,” said Hallbjorn. “He offered you double the money. You think you’ll get that now?”
“He’ll get honour,” said Skammkel.
“Shut up, Skammkel. Otkel, you’re lucky Gunnar’s a nice man. All things considered, you’ll probably get paid at some point – but I suggest you get your ass right to Gizur and Geir, and do exactly as they say.”
“You’re right. Bring me my horse.” Otkel rubbed his eyes. “Being near-sighted in mediaeval times sucks.”
“I’ll walk you to the main road,” offered Skammkel, taking the bridle. As soon as they were out of Hallbjorn’s sight, he turned and smiled his greasiest smile. “It’s really hard for you to travel with that myopia, huh?”
Otkel just groaned.
“Tell you what, buddy,” said Skammkel. “I’ll ride over for you, relay the message, and tell you exactly what they say.”
“You’re a true friend,” said Otkel gratefully. Handing over his horse, he stumbled back home.
“What the Hel,” said Hallbjorn, at once.
“Skammkel offered to go instead of me.” Otkel threw his arms wide, grinning. “What a guy!”
“You have to stop trusting that Skamm artist,” said Hallbjorn, disgusted. “This kind of thing is serious, you know. It could end up causing multiple deaths. Look at Bergthora’s bad manicure a few years back.”
“You’re just scared of Gunnar,” sneered Otkel, raising up his walking stick. “Ooooh, Gunnar’s halberd! So scary! Woooo!”
“You’ll see that halberd up close and personal one day,” snapped Hallbjorn, and both stormed off in a huff.
* Sidekicks are in a thankless line of work, and quality respects quality.
Saxo Dramaticus 