“Well, yes, out with it!”
“The third pair lies dead on the floor of the tunnel.” Jamed del Bruno examined the letter again. “Ah, yes: ‘There is rather a lot of blood about, Your Warmth, but all of it appears to be theirs. The dead Sons’, that is.” “
Thorian del Orvald’s face held just the hint of a smile. “I would have thought my son could take on a pair of them, given the tools; I am surprised he was able to come upon them by stealth.”
“Stealth?” Herolf practically hissed.
“Oh, yes,” Thorian del Orvald said. “Stealth. They would surely have raised an alarm otherwise.” He sat back in his chair, picked up his knife and prong, and resumed his meal.
Torrie kept a grin to himself. Trust these people to underestimate Mom and Maggie, as the Sons probably had. Mom was an old country girl, and while these days she bought her meat at the butcher’s, she was just as capable of neatly slitting a pig’s throat as Grandma had been. And Maggie was not in Torrie’s or Ian’s league as a fencer—she hadn’t been at it as long—but her form was good, and he could imagine the surprise on the face of one of the hairy bastards as she neatly slipped the point past outstretched claws or sharp teeth to plunge into—
Waitaminute. My son? Torrie turned to the old man.
Thorian del Orvald nodded. “I’m your grandfather, young Thorian,” he said gently, almost affectionately. “Your grandmother would like to meet you sometime. She lives in a village some days’ walk from here; I join her when and as I can.” He examined the food on his plate carefully, then pronged a small piece of meat and conveyed it to his mouth, chewing thoroughly before swallowing. “Of course, it would seem unlikely you will have the chance, all things considered.” He daubed a napkin against the corners of his mouth. “Your Warmth, I take it you would like to have Thorian del Thorian the Younger challenged for offense given?”
“Please.”
“The offense?”
The Fire Duke pursed his lips. “Oh, let’s call it a conspiracy to elude my justice, in his aiding his father’s escape.”
“Very well.” Thorian del Orvald turned to Torrie. “Do you deny involvement in such a conspiracy?” His voice was casual, but there was a ring of formality in his tone.
“And what if I don’t?”
“Then His Warmth will sentence you, appropriately.” His lips pursed to a thin line. “I would not advise you to put yourself so in his hands.”
“My other choice? If I deny involvement?”
“Then His Warmth will provide a challenger to accuse you in the amphitheater, for you or your champion to prove him true or false with your body and arm.”
“How about if I admit doing it, but say it’s no crime?”
Thorian del Orvald shrugged. “As you will, and call it a denial or an admission, as you will. The results are exactly the same.”
It didn’t matter. Torrie and Maggie had faked not liking each other, but nothing useful had come of that, just as nothing useful would come of denying his involvement with the escape. Much better to have Mom, Dad, and Maggie gone than to try to persuade the Fire Duke that he didn’t care about them.
So Torrie forced a smile. “Then I’ll admit it, and say it’s no crime to help my father, my mother, and my companion escape from His Warmth’s perversion of justice.”
He didn’t get a rise from anybody for that.
Thorian del Orvald turned to the Fire Duke. “I assume it’s to the death?”
Thorian del Orvald either didn’t know, or didn’t get it. Torrie was the bait; the Fire Duke wouldn’t order him killed openly—not if he wanted to use Torrie to lure Uncle Hosea into range.
“Quite.” The Fire Duke nodded. “Repeatedly, if necessary—”
What?
“—the first bout, say, this evening?” He turned back to Torrie. “What appears to be the problem, Thorian del Thorian? Does the food not agree with you?”
“It agrees with me just fine, Your Warmth,” Torrie said. “Who are you sending up against me?” He gripped the hilt of his sword and rose, slowly. “Perhaps your good self?”
At his movement, two archers appeared on the battlements above, arrows nocked and frilly drawn.
It didn’t matter how fast Torrie was. Even if Herolf or Branden del Branden couldn’t stop him—and he was none too sure of that—he wouldn’t reach the Fire Duke with the tip of his blade before being shot, and probably by more than the two bowmen he could see. The entrance to the Fire Duke’s private office was dark, and there were probably more there.
But he might have tried if Thorian del Orvald, moving far more quickly than a man his age had any business moving, hadn’t pushed back from the table and taken a position blocking him. “No, Thorian del Thorian the Younger, you’ll not face His Warmth here; you’ll face his champion in the amphitheater, tomorrow. And then another, if necessary.” His eyes didn’t leave Torrie’s as he spoke to the Fire Duke. “Your Warmth, who would you like as your champion?”
The Fire Duke waved it away. “Any senior duelist will do, Thorian del Orvald.”
“Stanar del Brunden is certainly available; I’ll see if he’s willing.”
“You may tell him that twice his usual fee, as well as augmentation to an already fine reputation, will await him if he wins; another duel will await Thorian del Thorian the Younger otherwise.” The Fire Duke turned to Herolf. “On another matter: there is a map in my office, and—”
“I remember the way from last time,” Herolf said, with a growl. “I’ll want another half dozen Sons with me.”
“Make it a dozen. Bring back trophies, only. I’ll not need to see them again.”
Herolf grinned. “You don’t mind if we play with them a little first? The women might be amusing, and none of my bitches are in heat at the moment.”
The Fire Duke tsked. “Didn’t the bitch who bore you tell you not to play with your food?” He waved it away.
“As you wish.” The Fire Duke gestured to Jamed del Bruno, a flip of his thick hand. “Make it so: admit a dozen Sons to the Gold Suite. Blindfolds for all—I don’t need to share the secret of the entrance with them, as of yet.” He waved Torrie to a seat. “Sit, sit, sit, Thorian del Thorian the Younger. There’s no need to rush your breakfast.”
Torrie sat down, hoping that he showed no trace of panic on his face.
None of this made sense. If the Fire Duke had decided to try and have Mom, Dad, and Maggie killed, then Torrie wasn’t expendable, but yet he had set Torrie up to be killed. But the whole family was bait for Uncle Hosea, unless Torrie was dead wrong.
It didn’t make sense.
Well, to hell with it. As soon as they got him back to his room—assuming that they let him back to his room—it was time to get out the Paratool, open the secret door, and get the hell out of town.
In the meantime, best to simulate a lot of interest in the upcoming duel.
Torrie reached out a hand and picked up his eating prong; he speared a piece of smoked fish and conveyed it to his mourn. He chewed and swallowed without tasting, and then picked up his wine glass, proud that the surface didn’t quiver.
“No need to rush at all, Your Warmth,” Torrie said, keeping his voice low and level. “I trust I’ll be allowed some time to work out today?” He worked his shoulders beneath his tunic. “I’m a bit out of practice.”
The Fire Duke nodded. “Of course. Would you care to name a second?”
“I’ll want three, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s two more than traditional, but no trouble at all, I assure you.”
“I choose Ivar del Hival, Branden del Branden, and my grandfather.”
Branden del Branden’s eyes went wide, while Thorian del Orvald nodded, slightly. Approving? It was hard to tell.
The Fire Duke made a face. “The duelmaster is normally exempt from such things, but—have it your way.”
The guards took up positions outside the door to his room. “Food will be brought at your desire, Thorian del Thorian,�
� the senior said. “In the interim, we wish you a good rest.”
The door shut, followed by the thunk of a crossbar being dropped into place.
His Paratool was still on the bed. Time to leave.
It couldn’t be easy, but at least he would have a chance—
No.
Where the hole in the wall was supposed to be was a pinprick glint of metal. Torrie tried to push the plug away with the Paratool, but it didn’t move.
He sat down on the bed and began to shake.
A long time later, Torrie raised his head from his hands.
So fucking be it. He would handle it.
He was Torrie Thorsen, dammit, son of Karin and Thorian Thorsen, grandson of Tom and Eva Roelke, and apparently of Thorian del Orvald and some grandmotherly type he would never meet. He was a son of Hardwood, North Dakota, neighbor of the likes of Arnie and Ephie Selmo, and if Ephie could carry herself with grace, dignity, and good humor while cancer ate her vitals out, piece by piece, her last days, and if Arnie could dash off into the night to help a neighbor, by God Torrie could stand up and take what was coming.
His sword lay on the bed beside him. Uncle Hosea had made it himself, and with his hand gripping it, it became an extension of his arm.
And it wasn’t just the sword, either. Dad and Uncle Hosea had made him into a weapon the likes of which these people maybe had yet to see.
So I’ll give them a show. He banged on the door with his fist. “Open,” he said, imperiously.
There was a click as the bar was slid back; the door opened just a crack. “Yes, Thorian del Thorian the Younger?”
“I’ve been promised some time in a dueling studio,” he said. “I need to prepare for this evening. Lead me there.”
The guard nodded. “As you wish.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tunnels
His lungs burning with a distant fire, his fingers almost numb from the pain, Ian Silverstein pulled himself up to the rocky ledge and stretched out on its stone surface like a lizard in the sun.
He could hear Hosea’s labored breathing in counterpoint to his own gasping, but it would have taken more than he had to lift his head and see to the older man.
Crossing the rocky saddle from Tyr’s Knife to the back face of the mountain that was Falias had been hard enough; climbing straight up had been worse.
The stone should have been faulted in a hundred thousand places where heat and cold cycles had created turn cavities for water to do its work, with more heat and cold cycles to enlarge them until plant life had gotten enough of a hold to take over from there, but cracks in the stone were few and far between, and even then, even when filled with mosses and tiny ivies, were far more regular than they should have been.
But they were enough for Hosea, climbing ahead of Ian, to lodge a spike every now and then, and they and the spikes were enough support for Ian as he used the climbing rope where his fingers and toes couldn’t find enough purchase. The whole thing felt strange, more like the climbing wall Midwest Sports had set up behind their three-story brick building than any real rock face Ian was familiar with, and Hosea had scooted up it, moving back and forth across the face as he did, as though he had the map of a reliable route in his head.
As he probably did.
Ian finally forced himself to raise his head. A couple of feet from him, Hosea lay on the hot stones. His formerly white tunic was filthy, and sweatstained at the armpits, the stains surrounded by a halo of salt. The fingers of his outstretched hand were cracked at the nails, and bleeding from a hundred cuts, but somehow or other he managed to get a long, thin arm underneath him, and lever himself to a sitting position, his back against the stone, and open his rucksack, producing a water skin. He reached out gentle fingers and helped Ian to a sitting position before uncorking the water skin.
The water was too hot, and there was some funny taste of cedar and perhaps of mouse in it, but it was the best thing Ian had ever had to drink.
The saddle from Tyr’s Knife was below and to the east, somewhere; below, the valley spread out, like a green and brown and golden banquet, just out of reach. Ian could almost feel the cool breezes as he baked on the hot rock, and he could have sworn that the hot wind brought scents of flowers and sunbaked grasses to his painful nostrils.
Two ravens wheeled through the sky high above. They could have been just any two birds, but Ian wouldn’t have been surprised if they turned out to be Hugin and Munin.
Hosea leaned his head against the rock. His face was paler than it had been, and dusty where it wasn’t caked with accumulated dirt and sweat. He looked like death warmed over, if just barely warmed over.
Ian handed him back the water skin, and Hosea, his long, thin fingers trembling, managed to bring it up and to his mouth and tilt it back, his strangely smooth throat working spasmodically as he swallowed. It seemed to restore some of his strength: his breathing became less ragged, and his stare less glassy.
“How are you?” Hosea croaked out.
Ian was too tired to shrug. Half a dozen stitches, a tetanus immunization, two thick steaks, an apple pie, and three or four days of bed rest and I’ll be okay. “A few days bed rest,” he got out with difficulty, “and I’ll be fine.” He didn’t ask how much further they had to go; he didn’t want to know, and in any case, he wasn’t ready for it.
“Don’t have enough time for that,” Hosea said. “Ever since I… started the glow, it’s accelerated things. We made good time, but they will be ready for us, or at least, readier than they ought to be.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and sagged back against the rock. His breathing slowed, and the ragged pulse in his neck did, as well. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was steady, not glassy. “That’s the best that can be done for me, but let’s see to you,” he said, his voice more slurred than it usually was, but not as weak as it had been.
“Why not try the same thing with me? I don’t mind a bit of magic.”
Hosea shook his head. “It’s nothing of the sort. Just a little buddha’s trick.”
“You mean ‘Buddhist’.”
“Whatever.” Hosea was already fumbling in his pack. “Just a matter of moving the pain and discomfort to a single point on my body, then pushing it outside. Think of it as self-hypnosis, if you’d like, but it lets me draw on the body’s reserves almost directly.”
“Think you could … teach it to me?”
Hosea nodded. “Almost certainly. Given, perhaps, ten years.”
“And if I promise to work really hard?” Ian grinned.
“Twenty years, then. Maybe fifty. Ah.” He extracted a small leather drawstring sack from Ian’s rucksack, and pushed its mouth open, and pulled out what looked like …
Like a long turd. “What is that?”
Hosea sniffed at it. “An apple sausage, apparently,” Hosea said. “A gift from Freya. There are perhaps two dozen of them.” He crawled over and, drawing his knife, cut off a small piece. “Eat.”
No chicken soup. Ian didn’t need an apple sausage; he needed rest and medicine. “Hosea, this isn’t going to—”
“Eat.”
It was all brown and horrible looking, but when Ian took a tentative sniff, it smelled exactly like one of Freya’s hot apple pies, fresh from the oven. If he hadn’t known it was cold, he would have expected it to be filled with hot apples, melting in the sugar and cinnamon as they baked, the edges of the almost liquid pieces crisp but tender.
He took the piece in his mouth, and if anything, it tasted better than it smelled. The sweetness and pungency of the apple was there, supported by waves of sweetness and cinnamon that made his mouth water, but with a tart tang underneath that both made him want to keep the taste in his mouth forever and also made him chew quickly, and swallow.
He took another bite, and then another, and then opened his eyes to see Hosea offering him the stubby end of the apple sausage.
Ian had done some generous things in his life, but nothing more so than when he opened
his mouth and said, “You have some of it.”
Hosea shook his head and dropped the last piece into Ian’s hand. “It won’t work on me.”
“Work?” It wouldn’t taste that good? It wouldn’t—
Waitaminute.
He didn’t hurt anymore. He wasn’t slumped painfully on a stone ledge, barely able to move, his shoulders burning as though somebody had stuck hot wires in them, his head pounding, his fingers bleeding …
His fingers weren’t even bleeding. The cuts had scabbed over thoroughly, so thoroughly that when he rubbed a dirty, cracked nail against one of the longer ones, it hurt in the gentle, reassuring way that pushing on a scab that was about to fall off hurt, not with the tender, deep aching he would have gotten from touching a fresh wound.
He took the last piece in his mouth and chewed it slowly before swallowing.
Ian got his feet underneath him with no difficulty at all, then helped Hosea to his feet. “Is there something I should know?” His voice wasn’t the ragged croak it had been.
If anything, it was stronger than usual.
He felt like he could wrestle his weight in Sons, although that was probably wrong by a factor of about ten.
Hosea smiled. “Many things, Ian Silverstein. For now, leave it that Idunn’s orchard grows in several places, tended by a select few of the Eldest, and shared only rarely.” He tilted his head to one side. “I would have thought you more observant. The morning after you dragged me down to Harbard’s Landing, you didn’t notice how quickly you recovered?”
Ian shrugged. “I always have healed fast, but this—” he stopped himself. “Later, perhaps—you said we’re in a hurry.” He looked up the slope. Maybe twenty feet overhead, an overhang blocked Ian’s view. “Let’s get to climbing.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Hosea shook his head.
“Oh?”
Hosea’s fingers stroked the rock face for a moment, searching. Then: a press, a click, and a ragged door opened into darkness. “This way,” he said.
Ian followed him, with one backwards glance to the sky. Both ravens had banked out of their circle and headed south, their huge wings flapping slowly.
The Fire Duke Page 28
