CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Moaning betrotheds did not trouble him as a rule but how Thor-toed fine was this, rolling home from a noggin, or two of ale—all right, three—at Ari’s house on the mountain, to find Snotra gagged by the fire? All right she wasn't gagged exactly. No. Snotra was not exactly the sort you would gag. Feel like it? Yes. Do it though? No. Not without hellish repercussions. From her and her old goat of a father.
A peace he had not felt in weeks, becalmed his veins. His body too, which was why the first few steps of the ladder presented such a problem, it took three tries to find the bottom rung. And five, the one after, with all the dignity he could muster of course, first glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was not observed. By Snotra most of all.