“You’re being quiet again, Ian,” Marta said, from her usual seat opposite him in the coach, knee to knee. “And you look sad.”
“No, not sad.” He shook his head. “I was just thinking about rivers.”
“Now, there’s a deep subject,” Ivar del Hival said. “And a wide and wet one, as well.”
Ivar del Hival had taken Arnie’s usual spot in the coach with them, while Arnie took a turn in the servant wagon, where he seemed more comfortable. Ian didn’t think it was the issue of status, but it was that the servants, both human and vestri, talked more, and Arnie was, above all, a good listener.
Marta arched an eyebrow. “So? What were your thoughts about rivers?”
“Nothing important,” he said idly, watching a small barge, piled high with boxes and bags, making its way downriver, staying toward the center of it, apparently without any effort.
“Oh,” she said, her voice cool. “Well, perhaps you will have something important to say to me at some point, perhaps.”
When he looked again, the barge was gone.
Local guards, none—as far as Ian could tell—a Tyrson, went through a brief, clearly pro forma conversation with Aglovain Tyrson. It concluded with a handshake and a nod, and then the simple pole blocking the already lowered drawbridge was withdrawn, after which the party was permitted to enter the castle grounds. By the time that the carriage wheels had ground to a noisy halt—the road to the stables was made of flat stones covered with a thin layer of sand, a loud combination—and the passengers disembarked, a welcoming party was already assembled.
The group was led by a broad-shouldered man in crimson tunic and leggings, a short yellow cape thrown across his left shoulder with what looked like practiced casualness.
His smile—white teeth in a salt-and-pepper beard that was barely a finger’s width around his broad jaw—was proper, but not overly friendly, until he turned from Aglovain Tyrson to Marta.
“Marta, my dear,” he said, stepping forward and taking both her hands in his, “how good to see you again. Not since the Seat; really, you should favor us with your elegance and your smile more often.”
He gave Ian a dismissive glance, then turned back. “And you must be this good fellow who claims to be the Promised Warrior.” His smile wasn’t insulting, not really, but the way he held up his hands, palms out, was a bit much. “News travels quickly, even more quickly than your fleet horses and swift carriage—please, please do not strike me with that spear, as it is not the act of a welcome guest, and welcome guest you surely are, even though it is but for a brief time.”
“Pel,” Marta said, her words light but with a serious undertone, “I have the honor of presenting Ian Silver Stone, a warrior of some great accomplishment, and the herald of an Old One known as Harbard.”
“Ah, yes, Harbard the ferryman, yes, yes, yes, the fellow who is kind enough to watch over a no-doubt-busy crossing over the noisy, nasty Gilfi river,” he said. “But you are quite right, my dear, I forget my manners.” He turned and faced Ian, all playfulness gone from his manner as he drew his heels together, rested his near hand on the jeweled pommel of his sword, and made a quick, proper bow. “I am Count Pel Pelson,” he said, “your grateful, albeit momentary, host. You honor my home, Ian Silver Stone.”
Ian bowed, careful not to lose his grip on Gungnir. It was easy to imagine the spear falling among a crowd, each touch a burning, each spastic movement in response kicking the spear over to another, until—
Stop it. It had become an obsession with him, and one that did him no good.
“You’ll pardon the countess for not greeting you, I hope,” the count said. “She is due any day, and the glum little vestri midwife has ordered her to her bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marta said, concern in her voice. “Do we have enough time for me to at least pay a quick visit to her bed?”
“How kind of you.” The count smiled. “Well, of course we do. Your goods can quickly be loaded aboard your barge, but not quite instantly. She’ll be happy to receive you, I’m sure.”
He beckoned to two of the young women in his entourage. They were dressed in identical short plaid skirts topped by white blouses. The outfits were something like that of a Catholic school uniform—save for the minor detail that the blouses had the sort of sewn-on bib thingee that Ian still couldn’t think of a name for.
But their legs were clearly shaved, and bare to sandals, and each had her hair swept up in a complex sort of bun secured by jeweled prongs.
No, definitely not Catholic schoolgirls.
“Please, my dears, take the margravine up to see your mother—and quickly, quickly, if you please. She must not be delayed.” He watched them go, then turned back to Ian, his hands spread and his head tilted in a clear request for permission, although Ian didn’t have the slightest idea what he was asking permission‘ for.
An awkward silence hung in the air for a moment until Ivar del Hival gave Ian a slight shove from behind, which the count clearly took as a sign that it would be safe to take Ian’s arm, which he did.
Using Gungnir as a walking stick in his free hand, Ian walked with the count across the paved assembly yard, toward a stone path that led around the residence, rather than toward it, the rest of both Ian’s and his own entourages following in their wake.
“Your barge waits below,” the count said. “I hope you will understand that I would very much enjoy your company this evening, but more… vigorous ones than I have sent word that it would be unwise were I to slow your progress to the Table and the Seat.”
“Thank you.” Ian nodded. “I’m grateful anyway.”
“Oh? You are? How nice.” The count nodded, as though pleasantly surprised. “I would accompany you to the Seat, but it would be awkward.” The count released Ian’s arm for a moment, and tapped his right hand against his left hand. “Those of us who can still fold our hands together generally don’t take our chairs at the Table on matters of war and peace. The large band of Tyrson brothers seems to resent it, and I can tell you in truth that I’d not want to irritate many of them.”
The index finger of his right hand looked like it was more weighted down by than wearing a large gold ring featuring an inset dark-green flat-cut stone. The ring reminded Ian of the high-school class ring that he had wanted, and that he had been fool enough to mention to his father that he was thinking of getting—with his own money, of course.
Frippery, Benjamin Silverstein had said, nothing but frippery, knocking his own Harvard Law School ring against the supper table with each syllable. It was a heavy ring, deeply engraved, the smooth red stone centered on it inscribed with a golden scales of justice.
That symbol had always made Ian want to puke.
A high school ring? Benjamin Silverstein had sneered. What the fuck is that? You work hard on getting one of these instead of spending your time with that Errol Flynn swordfighting shit, and then you’ll have something. You get one of these, and then you’re somebody.
“Ah. You notice my new ring?” the count asked, slipping it off. “I’m rather pleased with it, all in all.”
He held it out, pulling on Ian’s left arm, and placing the ring in Ian’s gloved palm. “Do you like it?”
Even through the sheer glove, it felt warm, and was even heavier than Ian had expected. “It’s very… nice,” Ian said.
That was a polite thing say, even though it wasn’t all that nice. The engraving was not particularly fine; in fact, it was really kind of coarse, with lots of little scratches that probably should have been polished away. Ian was so busy deprecating it to himself, that it took him a moment to see that on either side of the stone, the engraving showed a hand reaching out, fingers spread, as though supporting the round green stone.
“One might say it suggests that it’s those of us with two hands, be we noble or peasant, who support the world,” the count said, quietly, all trace of the over-bred ninny he had been playing gone from his voice.
“No, no, n
o, please don’t give it back,” he said, as Ian tried to return the ring. The count’s hand fluttered like a panicky bird; and his normal foppish tone was firmly back in place. “Would you be so kind as to keep it, please? It might amuse you to look on it, from time to time, and it would surely do me good to think that I had given it to you.” He took the ring from Ian’s fingers, but only momentarily, only to place it in Ian’s palm and close his fingers tightly around it. “I would take that as a favor, Ian Silverstein,” he said, his voice again quiet.
Ian nodded slowly. “I’ll keep it with me, Count Pelson,” he said. “And look upon it often.”
“Really.” The count smiled vaguely. “That would be so very nice.”
I’m not entirely sure what the message is, Count, but it’s been delivered, Ian thought.
And there’s another one been delivered, too—that I’m an asshole who can write somebody off as an effete dandy at first sight and be proven wrong inside of five minutes.
There is such thing, Ian discovered, as a mystery with a simple solution: the barge, like all barges riding downriver on the Jut, was controlled by bargemen with their long poles. Once out in midriver, keeping it aligned properly was simply a matter of the two steersmen at the back corners of the barge occasionally dragging their poles against the river bottom. By far the most exercise that the burly six-man crew got was in the launching, where they poled hard to move the barge out of the quiet shore waters where upriver-bound craft were pulled by mule teams that plodded along the riverside road.
After that, it was fairly simple to trail a pole off the stern—storn, in Bersmal; it was almost the same word—and scrape it along the bottom to make sure that the barge didn’t skew about.
For Ian, the first problem had been to see to securing Gungnir in the center of the barge, anchored by several muslin bags and guarded by unsmiling Hinterland soldiers—with yet another silent prayer that he’d be done with this damn spear soon, and be rid of the responsibility and danger that went with it.
He had checked it yet again, and again, and again, and finally decided that it was safe enough to leave, so he tucked his gloves in his belt and found a quiet place by the railing to lean and think.
Riding downriver was a peaceful, if slow, process, as the Jut wound its way in the dark, floating past outcroppings where occasional sparks in the night sky spoke of some habitation nearby; past dark docks, unlit and vacant in the night.
Aglovain Tyrson and half the soldier detachment lay in their blankets near the stem, sleeping, while Arnie and Ivar del Hival had joined a discussion among the off-duty soldiers over near the prow.
A quartet of vestri servants had taken musical instruments out of their bags and started an impromptu concert, a duet between a wooden flute and what looked like a set of bagpipes with a glandular condition. It took three vestri to play it: two to huff and puff to keep the bags inflated, a third to play one chanter with each hand, occasionally dropping the smaller one for just a moment to give a quick twist to a drone or two, either shutting it off or turning it on.
Ian had always liked the sound of a bagpipe. There was something straightforward about it, something insistent, and while the scale wasn’t the one he was used to, the skirling sound was still contagious.
He stood by the railing, away from the others, listening. It was good to have a little time to himself.
A pair of soldiers set their armor and accouterments to one side, and broke into what Ian would have called a jig, although he was sure that wasn’t the correct term back home, and didn’t know what they called that here.
“I don’t know about you, but I like the pipes.” Arnie Selmo was leaning up against the rail near him. Ian hadn’t seen him walk up.
Ian nodded. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Well,” Arnie said, “they tell me we should pull into the Seat tomorrow.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his chin; it sounded like sandpaper. “You ready to face these folks?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Really?” Arnie smiled. “Seems to your, er, humble and obedient servant you’ve done pretty well for yourself, so far. And not just here.”
“About that servant thing…”
Arnie laughed as he raised a palm. “You’re finally going to get around to apologizing for that?” He laughed as he shook his head. “Shit, boy, I know what I am.” He clapped a hand to Ian’s shoulder. “I’m your landlord, once we get back home.”
“It doesn’t bother you.”
“Not for a second.” Arnie smiled. “You got to know what you are. I know what I am.” His face fell. “What I was.” His eyes were large and round, and Ian would always know what sadness was, remembering. “I was Ephie’s Arnie, and that, boy, that was enough for me. More than enough.
“And before that, I was something else.” Arnie’s laugh sounded forced, but Ian didn’t call him on it. “There was this guy I knew. Different outfit—he was a tanker, I was in the Seventh Cavalry, which was really infantry, even though we were technically an armor outfit—but shit, it was always the same war, and shit, boy, killing is killing, whether you do it with a tank or with a Garand.” He leaned against the rail and considered the water. “And it’s a world of shit, boy. Frozen shit, in a Korean winter.
“But I lived through it, and he lived through it, and I went home and went to pharmacy school, and Adams, well, he stayed in, and made master sergeant, I think, before he got out and did something else.
“It was sometime in the mid-sixties that he was living in Alexandria and spending half his time with his old model 1911A1 down at the pistol range, because, shit, after you carry a piece of metal around and it saves your life even once, you kind of grow attached to it.” He looked down at the way that Ian’s free hand was resting on Giantkiller’s hilt. “Yeah. So you know that part of it. Well, he wasn’t supposed to still have it, but, hell, a lot of those things got combat-lossed. Guys didn’t want to turn them in.
“So one day, he’s come home in the middle of a Saturday afternoon from the range, and locks himself in the bathroom to clean it—that way the cats won’t bug him, and if he drips some gun oil on the floor, well, it’s easy to clean up with some toilet paper and then flush.
“After a while he sees a shadow pass across the floor, you know, at the bottom of the door?
“Doesn’t look to him like it’s the shadow of a cat, and besides, you don’t hear a cat’s footsteps.
“So, Adams, he does the most natural thing in the world: he puts the pistol back together—shit, after you get used to the thing, you really can do it blindfolded, although you want to be careful to keep control of the spring, or it’s going to go flying away—thumbs some rounds into a mag, slips the mag in, cycles the slide to put a round into the chamber, and cocks-and-locks it.
“Now, cocked-and-locked is a pretty goddamn silly way to keep a gun, unless you’re thinking you’re going to be using it right away, but Adams thinks he’s got an intruder in the house, and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing straight up and down, and he’s not just a guy who used to wear a uniform to work, not now.
“He comes out of the bathroom, moving quick, and comes face to face with a guy coming out of his bedroom, with his TV under one arm, his typewriter under another arm, and a bunch of his suits thrown over his shoulder.
“Well, this guy lets out a yelp, and drops everything, and makes a run for the door, Adams running after him, shouting all sorts of things, no doubt—did I mention that Adams is an old Southern redneck, and the burglar’s what he used to call ‘a colored boy’?
“At the door, Adams points the piece at the guy and tells him to freeze. I wouldn’t be surprised if he adds a few ruffles and flourishes.
“I don’t think Adams really wanted to kill him. If he did, the burglar would never have had the chance to try and jump at him, but the guy does just that, and before he can put a hand on Adams, Adams has wiped the safety off with his thumb and shot him at least two or three times. He pumpe
d all seven rounds into him, at just about punching distance.
“You can guess that the burglar didn’t make it, what with looking like a roadkill and all by the time the cops got there.
“Now, remember, this was at a time when the whole civil rights thing was pretty hot. Didn’t make much of any difference to us in Hardwood, but politicians all over the country were doing all sorts of smart and stupid things, and this local prosecutor decided to haul Adams in front of a grand jury, see if he could get him indicted. Damn stupid thing to do, but the times were like that.
“So, eventually, Adams gets up on the stand, and tells his story.
“Now, I’m not sure where the prosecutor worked before he took the job—Adams used to claim he knew, but I don’t think there’s really an En Double-A Cee Pee El You—but, in any case, all this white liberal prosecutor sees is a dead Negro kid and a live redneck who has shot him seven times, and never mind that this dead kid has a history of burglary and robbery going back to about the time he was weaned.
Adams figured the prosecutor was going to run for something, and wanted to be sure to keep the black community on his side. Me, I don’t know.
“So, he puts Adams on the stand in front of the grand jury and asks why Adams shot him so many times, why he emptied the piece, and Adams, trying to be polite, and honest, he says, “Sir, that was the way I was trained.”
“Ah,” the guy says, “you were trained to shoot an 18-year-old boy seven times in the chest. And where did you get this training?”
“In the United States Army.”
“The Army, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Adams says.
“Oh, then,” the lawyer asks—and remember that there’s this war in Vietnam going on, “are you one of LBJ’s hired killers?” I think the lawyer just saw his slim chance for an indictment flying out the window. I mean, a Virginia grand jury indicting an ex-soldier for shooting an asshole who was burglarizing his apartment?“
The Silver Stone Page 20
