The Crimson Sky

by Joel Rosenberg

  The tub was filled from a thigh-thick golden pipe that descended from the ceiling, which dispensed not-quite-scalding water at the pull of a chain, and it was, presumably, emptied through the drain in the bottom of the tub under the domed wood plug where Ian rested his feet.

  The soap in the small stone pot resting on the bathtub rim smelled of licorice and honey. Ian rubbed a third helping of it into his hair, then washed it out with another pull of the chain, which brought the level of water in the tub to within an inch or so of the rim.

  Hmm… it would probably take only another few moments to make it overflow, which would at home be something he would worry about doing—downstairs neighbors had a way of disliking being rained on—but he didn’t think that would happen here.

  So he pulled hard, again, and the water splashed down and slopped over the sides of the tub.

  Ian ducked down for one final rinse, then vaulted to the rim and out of the tub. The tiled floor was wet, but not slippery, but there was no standing water anywhere.

  Over in the corner of the bathroom, a wooden privy seat stood over a white porcelain thundermug that was probably clean enough to drink out of, although the idea didn’t have a lot of appeal. What did was using it to scoop up a gallon or two of water and pour it on the floor.

  It drained quickly into the spaces between the tiles, and when Ian repeated the experiment in other corners of the room, the same thing happened.

  “No, it won’t flood.” Hosea’s voice came from the arched doorway. His vaguely nappy hair was dry and clean and seemed to be freshly trimmed. He had exchanged his road clothes for an off-white tunic and leggings that made his thin legs look absurdly skinny, like a couple of match-sticks, the knees bony. “Given how many years the ladies of the Keep have spent knotting the carpets of these halls, they wouldn’t thank you if it did.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it would. Where did it go? Down the side of the mountain?”

  “That would be wasteful. There’s a system of pipes and shunts, which divert it to any of several of the piazza gardens below, depending. Water isn’t exactly scarce in the Old Keep, but it’s not overly abundant, and the first inhabitants of it were frugal folk.” He frowned. “So I’m told.”

  That was in case they were being overheard, presumably. Hosea knew well what the first inhabitants of the Cities, the Tuatha del Danaan, were like, as he had built the Cities for them.

  How long ago was that? Ian’s spread hands asked.

  Hosea shrugged, dismissing the question with a helpless wave of his hands. “Would you like that in ages or eons?” he asked, the only answer Ian would get.

  Hosea picked up the white shirt that lay on top of the pile of clothes that a vestri servant had brought in. “Time to get dressed; we’ve been summoned.”

  “By whom? The Scion?”

  “I hardly think so. Darien del Darien has politely sent a squad of guards to bring us to him.”

  “Valin?”

  “I’m told he’s being interrogated,” Hosea said. “I think that Darien del Darien meant that in an informal sense, but…” He shook his head.

  But it’s their ballpark, and their rules. “And whatever gratitude they may have for my having exposed the fire giant masquerading as the Duke of the House of Fire doesn’t weigh very heavily against a suspicion that I’m this Promised Warrior.”

  “Would it with you? Would gratitude for a past favor overwhelm your good judgment in the present?”

  Ian smiled as he belted Giantkiller around his waist. “Probably.”

  Hosea laughed. “I hope that is just a joke, Ian.”

  “Me, too.”

  Darien del Darien and party were waiting for them at the edge of one of the circular piazzas that hung out over the white cloudscape below.

  It would have been, perhaps, a nice time to have a parachute. Leap to the railing and out into the mist, pulling the cord as he went, hoping that he would break free of the cloud bank well enough to steer before he smashed into the side of the mountain.

  Then again, Ian had never gone skydiving—nor had he ever had any desire to, for that matter—and he didn’t have a parachute.

  But it was something to think about.

  Of the four men waiting for them—and they were all men—only Branden del Branden was armed. Were there archers on one of the surrounding piazzas with arrows nocked, waiting for Ian to make a threatening move?

  Or was this chief butler of the Scion so sure of himself that he knew that Ian wasn’t stupid enough to draw his sword when all he could do with it was make more trouble for himself?

  Maybe this is what the bull in a bullfight felt like—the guy facing him only had a cape, after all. Ian would have rather the men of the Old Keep had a squad of pikemen with them.

  Ian recognized Branden del Branden and Darien del Darien. The third man, however, he only recognized for what it—he—was.

  He was six feet tall, covered with salt-and-pepper hair from his toes to the top of his head, thick wiry hair that concealed neither his potbelly nor the fleshy red penis peeking out from the dark fur below. The Son wore only three items: an amber amulet on a golden chain around his thick neck and two rings that looked like wedding bands, both worn on his right little finger.

  His fingernails were laterally curved more than they ought to be, but cut short, and he eyed Ian with unconcealed loathing that, Ian hoped, masked fear.

  Ian’s hand itched for Giantkiller’s hilt. The sword could do in a Son, in human form or lupine.

  “My name,” the Son said, his voice a deep growl, “is Herolf. I’m leader of the Northern Pack of Packs, and it seems that you have been telling lies about me and mine.”

  Well, the Dominioners had brought the two of them together to confront each other, and that was fine with Ian.

  “I’ve told no lies,” he said, smiling broadly. For a wolf, a smile was the baring of teeth. “There’ve been some of your cubs and bitches sent after my friends before.” He forced his grin to widen. “I even know where some of them are buried.”

  If he had been expecting the Son to leap at him—and he had been half-expecting it—he was surprised. Herolf tilted back his head and laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, but, then again, Sons weren’t known for their niceness.

  “Well done,” Herolf said, sniffing the air, “although I’d certainly expect courage from someone who smells like a Promised Warrior.”

  Branden del Branden’s eyes darted from Herolf to Ian, but Darien del Darien merely raised a skeletal knuckle toward his lips. “Please, O honored guest,” he asked, his voice low, “tell me—how would a Son of Fenris, loyal to the Scion as you are, have had the opportunity to know what the Promised Warrior smells like?”

  “There are some things,” Herolf said, his voice rumbling, “that you know from birth.”

  “The odor of the pack, perhaps,” Hosea said, taking a step forward. “The scent of fresh blood, of course,” he went on. “But the smell of a legend? I rather doubt that.” He turned to Ian. “On the other hand, Ian, do remember who the father of Fenris was.”

  Ian was sure he wasn’t the real audience, but he picked up the cue anyway: “Loki.”

  Hosea nodded. “Loki. He’s been called the Father of Lies, but,” he said, raising a palm at Herolf’s growl, “I always thought that something of an overstatement, and that Brother Fox was far more complex than his reputation allowed, and more unfortunate.

  “After all, all the Aesir were liars and deceivers—Loki and Odin were just better at it than most, which is perhaps why they were such blood brothers, at least at first. Thor tended to boast, and Tyr was a red-handed fool—and eventually a one-handed fool—but Loki was a teller of tales, and a good one, and while the Sons of Fenris seem to have inherited little of his skill in falsehood, they’ve surely inherited his inclination to plot, to scheme, to lead and mislead.”

  Ian turned to Darien del Darien. “There’s no question that there’s a Son of Fenris searching for Thorsen blood,” he sa
id. “One left his mark outside of the … the residence of a friend of mine.”

  “Footprints can be forged,” Herolf said. “Or lied about.”

  “That is certainly true.” Darien del Darien nodded. “And the purpose for that lie would be?”

  Herolf growled. “The relationship between the Sons of Fenris and the Dominions has long been beneficial to both. If it can be harmed by a few lies, who benefits?” He shook his hairy head. “It would not be the Dominions, and neither would it be the Sons of Fenris.”

  “Yes,” Darien del Darien said quietly, “but it’s not as though Sons haven’t gone after Thorian del Thorian before.”

  “At the command of the Fire Duke, we did!” Herolf pounded on his own chest. “We couldn’t have done it if he hadn’t shown us the way.”

  “Well, no,” Branden del Branden said. “It was not at the command of His Warmth. You did it at the command, at the hire, of a fire giant impersonating His Warmth.”

  Ian was surprised to find any kind of support at all coming from that direction, but he didn’t let it show. Keeping a poker face had been second nature to him for a long time.

  Herolf was just launching into a heated—and likely true—explanation that the Sons had been as well fooled by the imposter as everybody else, when Darien del Darien held up a slim finger, interrupting him.

  His unblinking eyes settled on Ian’s. “I think our guest has something to say,” he said.

  “I’m not here to pick a fight,” Ian said quietly. “I’m not even here to make accusations toward anyone. That’s not why I came; it’s not what I want.”

  “Then what do you want, Ian Silver Stone?” Darien del Darien asked.

  “I want it all to stop,” Ian said. “I want it all to be done. I want the Son who is chasing after my friends to be recalled, and I want there to be no more sent after their blood—or mine. I want my friends, the people of my home, to not have to stand guard on the Hidden Way, wondering when the next Sons of Fenris will pop up to murder their friends and family,” he said. “That’s what I want. And I think, perhaps, I’ve earned that much from you,” he said, looking from Branden del Branden to Darien del Darien. “Or were you happy with the House of Fire under the rule of a fire giant? Do you think he took human form because he meant well for your Cities?”

  Branden del Branden smiled. “A strange fire giant he would have been, were that the case.”

  Darien del Darien made a clicking sound, tongue against teeth. “But that is done, is it not?” He chewed idly on a knuckle. “The Cities, the Dominion, the Scion himself,” he said, gesturing toward the tall spire that rose overhead, “are all duly grateful, of course …” he spread his hands.

  “ ‘But what have you done for us lately?’ ”

  “Nicely put,” Darien del Darien said. “Yes, what have you done for us lately?”

  “I’ve exposed these dogs as having another… agenda, haven’t I?” Ian shook his head. “How many of these Sons do you think have been given a guide through the Hidden Ways? How many do you think can find their way through to Earth?”

  “Earth?”

  “Midgard,” Hosea said. “The Old Lands.”

  “Yes, that is another good point. But it was the false Fire Duke who gave the Sons directions into the Hidden Ways, and to … Earth, was it not?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Darien del Darien nodded. “I think the Scion would want me to talk with this Valin of yours. The details as to who said what to him, and when—it’s the details that will tell.”

  “Details, hah!” Herolf dismissed the thought with a growl. “These two, they could have told the vestri what to say. Vestri have always been weak of character, and easy to dominate. It’s what makes them such good servants for all; it’s why they serve us in our warrens, and you in your Cities.” He shrugged. “Give me a moment with him, and I could have him saying what I want. It’s no great trick.”

  “Yes, they could have coached him …”

  Herolf’s sharp teeth showed in his smile.

  “… and if, say, this vestri can tell me the details of just who told him to do what, and when, the Scion will have to decide for himself if it is more likely that he got those details from people who have been dwelling on Earth, or from actual knowledge.”

  He raised a finger in a beckoning gesture, and a soldier in the sky-blue livery of the Old Keep, of the House of the Sky, stepped out of the greenery on the piazza to one side and above them. “I think we should see this Valin right now, if you would be so kind, Hival del Derinald.”

  “But… klaffvarer, that was what I was coming to tell you. We can’t.”

  The fucking bastards. They’d killed Valin while interrogating him. Vestri were tough, yes, but they weren’t un-killable. It had been a close thing in Hardwood; if Thorian Thorsen and Ian had been just a little slower, the dwarf would have died without bringing his message to them.

  And now, after all of this, for him to die here, under the noses of the Sons of Fenris?

  It was murder. Ian’s hand dropped to Giantkiller’s hilt, and Herolf took a step back, his back arcing forward, his features already starting to stretch and melt, a musky odor surrounding him.

  “Not now. No.” Darien del Darien’s sharp command cut through the air like a whip. Herolf straightened immediately, his features flowing back toward human, his claws becoming hands, his chest flattening.

  It took every bit of self-control Ian had to keep his hand from the hilt of his sword, but this wasn’t a time to let himself go. Self-control is something he had had to learn a long time before, and while he knew his gut would spasm and his head would ache later, he would appear calm and controlled, and that would only be half a lie.

  He could avenge Valin later, at his leisure. The dwarf had shown courage and loyalty, a credit to his Folk.

  Darien del Darien’s voice was quiet and even. “Why can you not bring him? I am sure I gave strict instructions on behalf of the Scion that he was not to be harmed.”

  “No, no, no. He wasn’t harmed. I chained him in his cell myself, and he was fine.” Hival del Derinald spread his hands. “He’s disappeared. He’s gone.”

  Escaped?

  Ian kept the smile from his face, but it probably showed in his eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Wrist

  “It’s all a question of strategy,” Thorian Thorsen had explained to Jeff, over the yips and barking of the dogs.

  It had seemed to make sense at the time. “In Bersmal, the words ‘dueling’ and ‘strategy’ and ‘fencing’—they are all the same word.”

  Thorsen reached forward to let the big black dog nuzzle at his hand through the wire fence. “Some parts are easier than others.”

  “Like meeting here.”

  Thorsen nodded as he took a tiny dog biscuit from the wicker basket to the side of the cages, then fed it on his open palm to the dog. Two workers in coveralls were working their way down the row of kennels, moving the animals out of their own cells to a holding cell long enough to clean them out. But the smell of Pine-Sol and bleach couldn’t quite cover the reek of dog piss and dog shit.

  “We can be sure there is no Son here, or the animals would let us know.” Thorian Thorsen smiled thinly. “Even if it likely would be by pissing down their legs.”

  Jeff nodded. “So you want to buy one?”

  Thorian Thorsen shook his head. “That would just delay things.” He pursed his lips. “Imagine that this is a duel in the mists of—in the mists. What’s the most important thing the mists hide?”

  “Who the players are,” Jeff said, slowly. “What they want. What they’re doing.”

  Thorian Thorsen nodded. “He, or they—there may be more than one, although I doubt it—is hidden from us. We don’t even know what he wants.”

  “But—”

  Thorian Thorsen shook his head. “We know what the vestri thought he wants. But he has been here long enough not only to locate my son, but to… to fit in here, pe
rhaps as well as I have.” He shrugged. “If he had wanted my son’s blood, he would have had it by now. Thorian is as fast as I was at that age, and much smarter, if not as devious, but it doesn’t matter how fast and smart you are, not when a dark shape leaps out of an alleyway or a doorway when you’re not expecting it, to rend you flesh from flesh.” He looked up. “Do you fence at all? No? Nor play chess, nor draughts? Pity. They’re really much the same, complicated by the same contradiction: in order to strike, you must move forward; but the moving forward exposes you to be struck.

  “With the sword, the wrist is the center of it all, the fulcrum around which the fight swings. If you hit his wrist, be it a first-blood affair or a duel to the death, you’ve won. You have a saying about the fastest way to a man’s heart; the one I was taught is that the fastest way to the heart is through the wrist. Disable his wrist, and you can cut out his heart at your leisure.

  “So from that truth there flows a classic move: you offer your opponent your wrist, hoping that as he lunges for it, he exposes himself to you for the riposte. Much of the time, if you’re good, it even works.” Thorsen pulled back his sleeve. His thick wrist was badly scarred, at least a half dozen thick white lines speaking of old wounds. Blunt fingers rubbed at his scars. “But not always, not always.”

  Which is what they had been doing with Torrie, last night. If the Son had gone for Torrie, he would have exposed himself to Jeff, just like a fencer dropping his guard as he lunged. “So why didn’t he go for it? He was watching.”

  “There’s another classic move, and that’s to, oh, turn a tactic into a strategy. Instead of trying to hit, you try to manipulate your opponent into being … off the ideal line. Take his balance, control his timing or the spacing, and you can win by indirection what you can’t win directly.”

  “Which is what he’s done here.”

  “Off-balance, aren’t we? Out of place?”

  “Not we. You.”

  Thorian Thorsen nodded. “Me. That’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m both the wrist and the heart, here, the center of it Ian was wrong; the Son is after me. The only reason he revealed himself to young Thorian was to force me to be out of line, off-balance, here where I don’t have a feel for the space, where the time and the balance are his.”