The Hetairarch glanced over at Haraldr, but the look was idle, uninterested. Nicephorus Argyrus had already moved to greet the Norseman with an effusion that he had shown towards none of the other guests he chattered nervously and flicked his hands about. He waved his arm like a drowning man, apparently trying to draw the attention of his master. ‘His name!’ demanded Haraldr, irritated by his own rising panic. ‘The Hetairarch,’ he answered with a tremulous voice. ‘Who is that man?’ asked Haraldr urgently, his blood icing at the frozen look on Marmot-Man’s dark little face. How could he be Mar? And yet if he was not Mar, who was he? Haraldr had expected Mar Hunrodarson merely to be a more detestable thug than Hakon this man had the noble stature of a king. He had a sensitive, slightly feminine mouth and a high, intelligent forehead the silk-fine hair that swept straight back to his jewelled collar seemed dusted with gold. The Norseman who walked into the hall was a giant, as tall as and even broader than Haraldr, and yet he bore his enormous strength casually and gracefully.
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