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"And this," said Freya in his ear, "is me telling you to put the gun away or you'll be the one singing soprano."

She'd crept up behind him silent as a panther, and her hunting knife was between his legs. Backdoor didn't realise it at first, until she nodded her head downward and he followed her gaze to find the blade poking out from under his crotch.

"You wouldn't," he breathed.

"Try me."

Backdoor went up on tiptoes, and the knife rose with him, blade keeping light contact with the zipper of his trousers. He searched Freya's face, and something there told him she wasn't fooling around. He hesitated. Then I felt the pressure of gun against genitalia ease. He raised the pistol with his finger outside the trigger guard, showing Freya he meant no harm.

"I'd never really have done it," he said. "I was only bluffing."

"That makes one of us," she replied. She withdrew the knife.

"But the fact remains, I'm not what Gid says I am. He's lying."

"For what it's worth, I agree. Not about the lying, but I think he's mistaken. You're not acting like someone with something to hide. Your declarations of innocence have the ring of truth."

"There," Backdoor said to me, and to everyone else. "One of the Vanir believes me. I reckon that's enough to clear my name." Smug triumph was written all over his face, which made me yearn even more to plant a fist in it.

I probably would have, but Freya saw what was brewing and held up a hand to me like a policeman stopping traffic. "Gid. Back down. You've embarrassed yourself enough as it is. No need to add idiocy to the list of offences."

"But -"

"It is the All-Father's funeral," she said tightly. "You shame his memory with these boneheaded melodramatics of yours."

"But Backdoor -"

"- deserves the apology he's asked for. Give it to him now." She leaned close and whispered so that only I could hear: "One pair of balls is much the same as another to me. I don't value yours that highly."

She wasn't joking. The knife was still in her hand.

"Backdoor," I said. "Sorry." I didn't mean it.

He shrugged. "Bygones." He didn't mean it either.

"I jumped to conclusions." I still think you got Chops and Baz killed.

"Easily done. We're under stress." You fucking wankstain.

He moved off. I'd be watching him closer than ever from now on. He knew that. I'd make sure, too, that I never turned my back on him. And he'd damn well better make sure he never turned his back on me.

Slowly the crowd started to disperse. The pyre was a heap of blackened, twisted wood, licked here and there by pale flame. What was left of Odin lay amongst it, indistinguishable.

I turned to Freya, who was sheathing her knife.

"Okay, maybe I could have timed that better," I began, "but..."

"Don't expect forgiveness," she said, head averted from me. "I'm not that kind of deity."

"I've never assumed you are. Still, you stood up for me just now. That's something."

"No. I helped you out only so as to end an impasse and defuse an awkward situation. Don't read anything more into it than that."

"You saved my bacon - by threatening to cut off his."

"Humour won't redeem you," she said, stony-faced. "Especially when it's as inappropriate as yours always is. Do you not appreciate the seriousness of our predicament? Odin is dead. We've lost our leader. And Loki will have plenty more surprises up his sleeve."

"More Thunderbirds-type machines like the tank?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. And without Odin to marshal us, exhort us, maintain morale and focus when the going gets tough -"

She was interrupted by a cry.

Someone nearby had just collapsed. Heimdall. Grief-stricken, it seemed, just as Frigga had been. He rolled on the ground and his hands were pawing at the sides of his head. It looked like he was tearing his hair out.

Then I realised. Not grief. Agony.

"My ears!" he gasped. "My... they... aaaarrrghh!!"

I frowned at Freya. Her expression was as perplexed as mine.

"I can't hear a sausage," I said.

"It's coming!" Heimdall yelled. Blood