“Ah.” Harbard’s hand was extended. “Lend your sword to me, Ian Silverstone,” he said, quietly. “And I’ll return it properly blooded.” Ian didn’t understand any of this, and he would almost have rather given up his arm than his sword, but at Hosea’s nod he drew his sword and offered it to Harbard, hilt first; Harbard accepted it, and started to hand Ian his spear—
Hosea stepped quickly between them, and pushed the spear away just before Ian could touch it. “No,” he said. “‘You want to kill the child?”
Harbard shook his head. “No. You should be flattered, Ian Silverstone. For a moment, I forgot that you’re but a human, child; it felt, for a moment, like the old days, with one of the Aesir at my side.”
“So let it feel again that way, husband,” Freya said. “I was born a Vanir, but I have dwelled with you and yours for long enough now. There is one of the Aesir at your side.”
Ian couldn’t see how she’d had the chance to change, but she was no longer dressed merely in a shift and leggings: silvery armor encased her from throat to toe, her scalp covered by a war-helm, silver wings over the ears. It seemed to be made of impossibly fine scales, for it moved as she moved, its mirror-bright surface casting flashes of reflected lantern light all around the room.
“I shall protect our home, husband,” she said, taking the spear from Hosea. Her slim fingers fastened on its shaft delicately, but firmly, and her arms didn’t sag as Harbard released it.
The door opened and closed, as though by itself, and Harbard was gone.
It might have been a few moments later; it might have been an hour later. Ian was never quite sure. Freya stood motionless, the spear held out in front of her, waiting, while Hosea listened carefully at the door.
A long time later, Hosea let out a sigh. “It’s done. He returns.”
Freya was still motionless, waiting.
“No, Freya, it’s him; he couldn’t hide those footsteps from—”
The door swung open to reveal Harbard. His cloak and trousers looked like they had been more shredded than torn, and as he stepped inside the cabin, he walked with a decided limp. His right eye was covered by a black patch, and it occurred to Ian that the right eye had always been of glass.
“It’s done,” he said, handing Ian’s sword back to him. The blade was clean; it seemed cleaner, shinier somehow than it had been when he had lent it to Harbard. To Odin.
The hilt felt obscenely warm in Ian’s hand.
“It was … ?” Hosea started.
“A Köld,” Harbard said, “and an old, wily one. Fought well. I thought we killed them all ages ago, but it seems not.”
Hosea shook his head. “No. None of the Elder Races are all done, or I’d feel it.”
“A cold?” Ian put in. “That’s—”
“A frost giant, you would call it,” Freya said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. She was again in shift and leggings, and her voice was low and gentle once more. “One of the Elder Races,” her smile was warming. “Like the Flamme, the fire giants, and the Tuatha—and like us, eh?”
Harbard opened a chest and pulled out some clothing. “I’ll bathe myself in the Gilfi, I think. The waters are cold and swift, but I’ll not foul my bed with that which it touched. It hit me more than it should have.” He grunted. “I haven’t had a real fight for more years than I care to count.” He looked over to Freya, his mouth tight. “Still, it’s good to remember what once we were, eh?”
“Once?” Freya walked to him, a smile on her face. “Once, yes, and still are, when need be.” Her slim fingers twisted in his, and she brought their joined hands up to her lips. “And to me you shall always be that which you were, and are.” Gently, tenderly, she kissed at his broad hands, at the bloody knuckles the size of walnuts.
Harbard nodded once, and perhaps a trace of a smile touched his face, although Ian wouldn’t have wanted to swear either way.
“There will be others,” Hosea said. “Now that it’s known I walk the ground of Tir Na Nog again, they shall be on our trail.”
“Then pack your things,” Harbard said, letting Freya’s hand go, “for you’ll have to leave at first light.”
“Yes. I’ll pack you food, and I’ll make a gift for you, Ian Silverstein,” she said, pronouncing his name correctly, not translating it the way Harbard had. “Just a small trinket, but I hope it may serve you in extremity.” She licked her lips once. “May your way be safe, and your steps fleet,” she said.
“Yes,” Harbard said. “May it be so.”
Chapter Thirteen
To the House of Flame
After being marched by the Sons, traveling with the soldiers from the House of Flame was an immediate and distinct improvement in comfort. Torrie and Maggie were loaded into one horse-drawn carriage, Mom and Dad into another—and then, except for being guarded when the procession stopped for rest or relief, they were left alone while the carnage rumbled up the roads, a small detachment of Sons dropping into wolf-shape and loping along behind him.
To be sure, there were horsemen riding at the side of the carriage, and Torrie could always hear the clopping of a horse behind, which put paid to his half-formed idea of cutting through the floor of the carriage and dropping out.
No. It wasn’t time; he was beginning to think that the time for that was long gone.
The road led up through the mountains, leaving the Gilfi below and behind. At times it was narrow enough that, looking out the open window, Torrie couldn’t see the road itself, and it felt like the carriage was suspended uneasily out over the edge, needing only a wrong breath to tumble down the slope, toward the ribbon of road far below.
“Good day to you, Thorian del Thorian the Younger.”
An upside-down head, topped by a thick shock of black hair, an upside-down mouth framed with beard, peered in through the carriage window on Torrie’s side. “If I may?”
Torrie tried not to sound sarcastic. “If you may what?”
“Join you?” the stranger said, and at Torrie’s nod he reached in, fastened his fingers to the sill over the coach’s door, and entered the compartment with a single smooth nimble that let him plop down onto the seat next to Maggie, an expression of almost obscene self-satisfaction on his face.
“Branden del Branden the Youngest,” he said, introducing himself, “ordinary of the House of Flame, in service to His Warmth,” he said in Bersmal, his accent strange in Torrie’s ears. “And you are, of course, Thorian del Thorian.”
“Thorian Thorsen,” Torrie said.
“I doubt that.” Branden dismissed it with a wave. “You’re hardly a peasant, even if you affect it with dress.”
The strangeness of his accent was itself strange. Torrie had never known there was a language called Bersmal, or that he could speak it, until he had first heard it. It was like the way Uncle Hosea was with languages, and Torrie wondered if he would find himself answering in German if somebody spoke to him in German? Or in Dwerrow, if one of the Vestri spoke in his native language?
Branden sat back, removing his thin leather gloves and dropping them to one side; he reached out a hand toward Torrie, who took it, reflexively grasping Branden’s wrist, as Branden grasped his. Branden was perhaps an inch shorter than Torrie, and maybe a bit slimmer across the waist and chest—it was hard to tell, given the way his over-large shirt ballooned about his chest and arms, but his wrist was thick and muscular, like Torrie’s own, and the fingers strong—a fencer’s arm and hand.
Branden nodded slightly, as though confirming to himself something he had already been sure of, then reached out a hand toward Maggie. There was an awkward moment as she tried to grip his wrist as Torrie had done, but finally settled on allowing him to take her fingers in his hand. He gently brought her hand up and touched his lips to it. “And you would be … ?”
“Maggie,” she said. “Maggie del Albert, you would say.”
He smiled, and Torrie quickly decided that he didn’t like that smile at all. “Not at all. I’d call you the Lovely M
aggie, or the Fair Maggie, or the Exceptional Maggie,” he said, “and certainly look forward to a chance to so introduce you to others.” He gestured at her ragged clothing and unkempt appearance, at once acknowledging and dismissing it, “Once you have the opportunity to … refresh yourself.” He glanced out the window. “A matter that may well be arranged tonight, if you’d like, although we’ll not reach the House of Flame for another couple of days.”
“A bath would be nice, but is there any chance we can get some questions answered?” Maggie asked sourly.
Branden affected to look shocked, then recovered. “Ah. The Sons, eh? Well, His Warmth finds them terribly useful for odd duties—as do the other Houses, as well, mind, even the Sky—but they are hardly… refined, eh?” He made a lavish gesture that involved touching a finger to his forehead, lips, and chest, then spreading his fingers, palm up. “But yes, certainly, you may ask anything you like, and I shall do my best to answer”—he raised a finger—“if you will do me the favor of joining me for a mild … repast.”
Torrie’s lip curled. “We are at your service.” Never mind that he hadn’t eaten since God knew when, and that what he had eaten was another moldy couple of apples and limp carrots provided by the Sons.
Branden’s mouth twitched. “I would doubt that, Thorian del Thorian the Younger—but may I simply call you Thorian without causing offense?”
Torrie nodded.
“I am grateful.” Branden smiled as he stood, and reached up and out of the carriage, fumbling around on the roof for but a moment until he brought his hand back, holding a wooden box by a central handle. He opened it to reveal two compartments, one containing an assortment of greased-paper packages and fist-sized loaves of dark bread, the other glasses and plates and what Torrie would have called silverware if it wasn’t the buttery color of gold.
He tried not to frown. There was little point in stealing a dull golden knife, even if it was possible—and given that each glass, each eating prong, spoon, or knife was set into its own place, it was unlikely he’d be able to. The rack served the same function as the outlines on the pegboard that held tools above the workbench at home.
Branden del Branden smiled. “You’ll think none the less of me, I hope, if I admit to some Ingarian upbringing and serve us all?”
Torrie spread his hands. “Of course not.” If you don’t understand what the hell somebody’s getting at, it’s hard to think less of him.
Packages unwrapped to reveal an assortment of slivered meats and sliced cheeses, some reeking of vinegar or garlic or other spices that Torrie couldn’t identify, but that nevertheless made his mouth water.
Branden wielded a set of knives and spoons as foods passed across the cutting board he laid across his lap and onto plates. Ramekins lost their terra corta covers as sauces and pates were spooned out and sliced to accompany the meats and cheeses. A final series of flourishes put a rosette of something green—it looked like shaved slices of pickles—as a centerpiece on each of the three plates, and Branden set all three plates on the cutting board before carefully laying eating prongs and spoons on the plates.
He lifted the cutting board toward Maggie. “If you would oblige me by the first choice?” he said, offering the choice of the remaining two plates to Torrie when she took one.
Maggie had picked up her eating prong and was reaching it out toward her plate when Torrie held up a hand. “Wait just a moment, and let Branden—let our host start. It’s impolite to eat ahead of him.”
Branden del Branden gestured toward the remaining plate, now balanced with apparent ease on his knee. “My pleasure, Thorian,” he said, spearing a slice of cheese, dipping it in a thick yellow sauce, and conveying it to his mouth without dripping on his beard. “You’ll find the artichoke sauce a trifle bland, I’m afraid, but,” he said, sampling a slice of meat and a thick red sauce, “the hunter’s compote is quite robust.” He smiled genially. “If you’d prefer, I could try some from your plates, as well.” Branden dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a lacy handkerchief he produced from his sleeve.
Well, what the hell. If Branden was going to poison them, then he probably could, and they were at the dubious mercy of the House of Flame anyway, so there was no point in being overcautious.
Torrie dug in, and after a moment, Maggie followed his example.
The cheeses were ripe and flavorful without being overripe, and the meats had all been smoked to a salty richness. The bread, slathered with creamy butter, was almost impossibly soft inside, in contrast to the hard, rich crunchiness of the crust. The centerpiece that appeared to be shaved pickles turned out to be shaved pickles, their garlicky crunchiness a perfect counterpoint to the ever so slightly bitter notes of liver in the pates.
Hunger was, as Dad often said, the best sauce, but the meaty glaze Torrie dipped the garlic sausage into was a close second.
It only occurred to him a while later that with all the spices he was eating, anybody would be able to follow him by smell for days, at least, until he had sweated it all out of his system.
“You think deep thoughts, Thorian,” Branden said.
Torrie shook his head. “Just enjoying the food. And wondering what happens next.”
Branden smiled. “Well, tonight we make a somewhat rude camp near the road, and have an opportunity to refresh ourselves.” He pursed his lips. “At this moment, in fact, one of my Vestri servants is modifying an outfit of mine for you, Thorian, while another does something similar with a dress that I had bought for my sister, so that it will fit your more … slender form, Maggie.”
Maggie smiled. “You can start by telling us why… why all this? What is it that you want so badly with the Thorsens?”
Branden nodded. “There’s no secret about that. Thorian del Thorian was a hereditary—and rather accomplished—member of the House of—of the Society, as they call it. A professional duelist, in the hire of the House of Flame, to represent it in matters of honor where the individuals involved required a level of competence beyond their own—”
“Eh?” She furrowed her brow.
Branden spread his hands. “Well, you can’t properly expect an old count to face a young buck who has, say, toyed with his daughter, or a militia captain to directly face one of his own soldiers, can you?”
“Of course not,” Maggie said, giving Torrie a what-does-that-mean look.
Torrie shrugged.
“Yet, obviously, there must be some way for honor to be satisfied in the first place, and for a young man to be … chivvied back into his proper place when he is serving his city. And then there are matters that are just commerce, and not honor; a gentleman is hardly going to want to dirty his own blade and blood over it. So one hires a professional.” He pressed his lips together. “And, of course, when one does, the other side does, most often.” He looked at Torrie carefully. “Which was what Thorian del Thorian did, and did well—as had his father before him and his grandfather before him—and did so well that the Thorians had been allowed quarters and free run within the Old City itself, a privilege he used to betray His Warmth by extracting a prisoner from His Warmth’s … custody.”
“Hosea.”
“That may be what he asked to be called, but it’s not his true name.” Branden shook his head. “Orfindel, so he was called. An Old One, and quite possibly even related to the Orfindel of legend, unlikely as that may seem. Certainly, the Old One had enough of the Old knowledge to find a Hidden Way into and out of His Warmth’s bank, and to abscond with his person and with that of Thorian.”
Branden leaned out the window for a moment, then resumed his seat. “We shall stop for the night shortly. Tomorrow we return to the road, and another long day of travel, and again, and again, until we reach Falias.” He touched his eating prong to his cheek. “And then, of course, His Warmth decides what to do about your father.”
“Oh?”
Branden held up a finger. “He could have him summarily executed”—he added a second—“ or tried by the House
of Steel”—a third finger—“or he could do nothing.” Branden spread his hands. “Or he could do something else.”
Torrie’s knuckles were white around his own eating prong. “Summarily executed,” he said. “Over my dead body.”
Branden smiled. “Interesting choice of words, that.”
Camp that night was as different from the way things had been with the Sons as could be. The three carriages and the accompanying troop of horses stopped at a prepared campsite in a streamside glade, and by the time Torrie and Maggie were released from their carriage, the horses had been led away, downhill and downstream, and multicolored silken tents and flies had been pitched by the quiet Vestri servants on the gently sloping grasses.
It was all calm and peaceful, if you didn’t notice the guards.
Herolf, now in his human form, snapped his fingers and gestured to the troop of a dozen gray Sons, who immediately split up and headed for high ground, communicating among themselves with a few high-pitched barks and whiny calls that were repeated every so often, as though they were checking in with each other and their masters—as they probably were.
The third of the carriages rolled to a stop, and Mom and Dad were released from it. Torrie took a step toward them, but a guard dropped a spear point down, leveling it at his chest.
“Please,” Branden del Branden said, gesturing the spear point away with a flick of his finger. “I see no harm.” He faced Dad. “I offer you parole for the night; your lady to be hostage to your presence, and to your not taking of a weapon to hand.”
“And in return?”
Branden shrugged. “In return, Thorian del Thorian, we can see that your arms are freed, and that you have the same chance to bathe and refresh yourself that I will offer your son and his lady, and your … wife in any case.”
Dad thought about it for a moment. “You have my parole for this night.”
“Very well—” Branden snapped his fingers. “Have Thorian del Thorian freed of his bonds, please—and have them restored before first light.”
The Fire Duke Page 17
