“Ruaridh Ua Birlinn, what can you tell me about him?” asked Iamerge.

Jim took a swig of his ale and then thumped it down on the bar, “Ruaridh is a fine fellow.  As it turns out he’s a better trader than his father.  He runs his business tight like he used to run the ships for his Da.”  Jim picked up his ale and looked at Iamerge as he took another drink.

“Just that?  A better trader than his father?  Runs a tight ship?  You aren’t telling me much, what about the man.  What’s he like?

Cooper chuckled, “Well, I knew his Da, Rod Ua Birlinn.  Let’s just say that Ruaridh is no Roderick, but that might be age.  Might be, but I think it is more like that he takes after his mother.”

“So, its a debt I’ve come to claim.  A deal was struck a long time gone and with the father.  What are my chances, collecting from the son?  If I’m to have aught to pay back your kindness it will come from that.”

“Oh you’ll likely have no trouble.  And as to my fee, I told you, I like to know what’s what, if you’ll tell me what I don’t, I’m more than grateful.  Right now, I’ve told you that Ruaridh ain’t Rod, and that the worst of him might come from Mongfind, the mother.  A boy always wants to live up to the the father and Ruaridh is no exception, he’s a good Celt, open-handed.”

“So avoid Mongfind.  Fair enough.”

“Avoid letting the woman into the business end.”  Cooper shivered and looked back to his ale, “So that’s what I know, now tell me what I don’t know my good friend Iamerge, who looks like a monk but isn’t.  I can tell there’s a story and I’ll hear it.” Jim winked and nursed his ale.

The Rus and the Ice Folk

Ours is a cold hard world of red rock and ice.  But better to rule in Hell… much worse to serve there.  So we thank the gods of ice and fire that we are not the ice folk.  They are our subjects, our prey.

We have the magic of iron.  We have the slavers chains.  We have the branding irons.  But we have a fear of them ever rising against us so the only answer is to keep them crushed to the ground.  This we do with our ice ships and our contempt for them.  The best and the brightest we cull and sell to the south.  The strong we use in our households and mines, under close watch, lock and key, and the whip. The devious and sly we use against their own folk.

Through their labors we live well enough.  It is ironic that once we had left the Gaellic chains behind it was the ice folk who led us to this place.  They hunted and fished, feeding and clothing us, they even took a turn in the mines and gathered the thin timber on the spine of the world with us.  They prefered the ice while we exploited the red rocked scab.  Then, when wood and iron had made us stronger, we took from them what they would have freely given.  And then we took their freedom.

Our is a cold hard world, we Rus who live near the endless ice.  Some say that we serve to keep their blood lines fresh.  Some even say the slaves we take live better with us as thralls than they would on the ice.  Easy to say as the master.  Tis better to rule in Hell than to serve in heaven, or so said the Devil and so say the Rus, finding our place in this cold hell.