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best hope for stabilizing what they called the barbarian territories. From what Freya knew of Etainen, he wanted to forge alliances with Rome, thus she was doubly surprised Etainen would speak so to the general. Although he had said “not yet Rome,” Remi might as well be Rome, considering he’d be marrying her tomorrow.
    “Must you Romans always travel in groups of six?” Etainen muttered under his breath. Freya didn’t think he noticed he’d said it out loud. What was it about Romans traveling in groups of six? Freya hadn’t counted them before, but come to think of it, they did. Ulf had told her Siegfried avoided the number six to the point of not even allowing gold to be loaded onto his ship in bags of six. Ugh. Etainen couldn’t possibly have anything in common with Siegfried.
    “Etainen, this woman’s crimes—”
    “I heard her crimes, Pompey” Etainen said. “I witnessed the entire altercation.” His voice was low, surprisingly filled with warning.
    “There is more,” the general said. “She paid a seafarer for information about Siegfried the Fox.”
    Think fast, and not about exploding the Roman’s blood in his veins. Not only is he a general, but he is Pompey, the highest-ranking Roman sent to attend the wedding.
    “Oh, poor Ulf.” Freya fell easily into the familiar role of a fool that she’d used to dupe others in the past. “I can explain this, if you’ll just set me down. My shoulder is really hurting. All those muscles being pulled. What if one arm is longer than the other now? Then I’ll be lopsided, and people will say, ‘Oh, there goes that poor, uneven woman with the stretched arm. Say, lopsided lady, can you use that arm to reach under a floorboard and find my necklace?’ That could be useful, but—”
    General Pompey gave her a shake, shutting her up. The drizzle turned to a light rain.
    People moved aside as Etainen slid from the saddle, landing gracefully on his feet. He was lithe, his muscles lean, not a bulky man at all. Most notable were his canny eyes, studying her.
    “An explanation first,” the general said, “No more of this nonsense about being lopsided.”
    “Ulf didn’t want to…cast aspersions on my virtue. I don’t know why he thought that would be a better lie. Although my father might do worse than cut off an arm if he discovered the truth. So, he probably thought you were the lesser threat. My father is as scary as a woman on her cycle with bad cramps. When he gets angry, he looks just like those paintings of Woden fighting with that sea wyrm, Jormungandr. Well, more like Jormungandr, than Woden. Except he’s not scaly and doesn’t have fangs. But he should.”
    Another shake. “I don’t care what your father looks like. I should spare myself the trouble and kill you now. Do you ever shut up?”
    “Let her finish,” Etainen ordered.
    Ordered? Definitely. There was no question mark at the end of that statement. In the stories Freya wrote, her hero ordered Swan to do all kinds of things in just such a tone.
    Freya quickly made an excuse. “Whores. We’re whores. I wasn’t saying ‘Siegfried the Fox.’ I was using our code…” What sounds similar to Siegfried the Fox? “Set free the cocks. That’s what I said. Ulf sets up arrangements for Hedwig and me. That’s our code—though not very subtle—for Ulf to tell us where we’ll be trysting. If you noticed, I overpaid for both items, the box and the necklace. We have to give Ulf a cut.”
    “There’s your answer, General. Poorly planned prostitution,” Etainen said.
    “And alliteration,” Freya added, but no one looked amused. People usually were not when she muttered this sort of thing in bad situations.
    “That’s probably the most suspicious thing I’ve heard,” Pompey declared.
    “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Freya blurted.
    Oops.
    “Men.” Pompey waved at the Romans. “Take this whore to the dungeons. Question her.”
    The light rain became a steady