For informal, catch-as-catch-can meals, a third mode came into play: he would simply wolf down whatever he could get his hands on until he was full, and then he would get back to whatever he was doing. When Dad was busy with a project of any sort, food was just a distraction.
For whatever reason, this meal seemed to have fallen into that third category; Dad had mechanically gobbled down his bowl of stew or soup along with a hunk of bread, then washed it down with about a quart of water before excusing himself from the table to unpack, sort, and repack their rucksacks.
Torrie could have told him that everything was okay—the rubberized canvas bags that had protected the rucksacks during the storm would have kept them dry at the bottom of a lake—but there was no point in arguing with Dad once he set his mind to something. Stubbornness ran on both sides of the family.
“So,” Hosea said, as he stacked the dirty dishes carefully, “you were not happy with your mother’s behavior in all of this.”
“Understatement, Uncle Hosea,” Torrie said, “is the least clever kind of humor, somebody once told me.”
“Oh?”
“I believe it was you.”
“So it might have been, at that.” Uncle Hosea picked up the stack of dishes and carried it to the fireplace. Two cast-iron pots were already bubbling as they hung from their pivots over the fire. Hosea simply swung the arm out, carefully slipped the dirty dishes into one pot, and swung it back. Torrie looked for the tongs that he would need in order to move the dishes from their first bath to their second, but couldn’t find it—perhaps Harbard used the wood tongs for that.
“But Ian, and Arnie, and Ivar del Hival—”
“Will be well, I’m sure,” Uncle Hosea said. “Harbard hardly sent them empty-handed on their errand. I’m sure they will simply deliver his message to… whoever runs things in Vandescard these days, and come right back.” He spread his hands. “You could go after them, I suppose, but I see little need.”
Maggie’s mouth twitched. “I think we know Ian a little better than you do, Hosea. He can get into trouble drinking a beer in a bar.”
Torrie shook his head. “Maggie, that’s not—”
“That’s not your opinion,” she said, a definite snap in her voice. “It’s mine. I’m entitled to it.”
“Yes, you are, Maggie,” Uncle Hosea said. “And it’s certainly true. But I think that this is not a time when you should worry.”
“But—”
Maggie’s hand gripped Torrie’s thigh hard enough to hurt, cutting him off.
But it wasn’t fair. For one thing, Ian didn’t drink, at all. For another, he wasn’t the getting-into-trouble type. That probably went with the territory—Ian had been self-supporting so long that he weighed any expense of effort in the light of what reward it might bring, and picking a fight or even responding to somebody else trying to make trouble didn’t pay—
—Outside of the salle d’armes.
Well, there, of course, it was different. If you wanted to make your food and rent money tutoring novice and intermediate foil players—and Ian pretty much had to; the days when somebody could put himself through school on some sort of minimum-wage job had vanished probably about the time that disco died—you not only had to be a good and patient teacher, but you had to be able to beat anybody short of a master fencer, just for the advertising benefit, and it definitely paid to be aggressive not only on the fencing strip, but in getting there. Not mean, not hostile, not cruel—but it paid to show a presence.
“Still, though,” Uncle Hosea said, “while I can assure you Ian and his companions are safe, there is something you might want to do. It’s just in a different direction; that’s all.”
“Oh?”
“I think your grandfather, Thorian del Orvald, would like to know that… Harbard is trying to keep the peace. He is, so it’s said, very much in the confidence of the Scion, and his counsel might help keep the Scion from being… precipitous, perhaps, in his concern about developments along the border.” He looked over at Dad. “I am concerned that the Crimson and Ancient Cerulean companies could be assembled, and that would be threatening. Even if they might not be what they once were, they might give a decent account of themselves in battle.”
“A decent account?” Dad lifted his head from his work. “They might do that, or more than that. Perhaps much more. It would be a mistake to underestimate the Crimson and Ancient Cerulean companies, I think.”
“Indeed.” Uncle Hosea smiled. “I guess one who once trained many of them in the rudiments of swordsmanship would know better than I.”
Dad smiled. “Yes, he would, at that.” He picked up a first-aid kit from the pile of unchecked equipment, both looked and felt inside, then snapped it closed, adding it to the second pile. “But it is more than that, as you should know. We folk of Middle Dominions are perhaps not what we once were, but there is something of the old spirit in us, at times.” His eyes seemed focused on something far away. “Men have underestimated that in the past, and some may well do so in the future.”
Hosea nodded soberly. “Yes, there is truth in that. So you agree that it would be better to leave for the Cities than to follow Ian and his friends.”
Dad was starting to nod, when Maggie leaned forward. “No,” she said. “You can’t ask Mr. Thorsen to do that.” She laid a hand on Dad’s arm. “Hosea is an old friend of yours. There’s no need to take offense.”
Dad raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes,” she said, gesturing at Hosea. “He meant no harm. But Ian left so hurriedly, so precipitously,” she said, turning back to Uncle Hosea, “because your wife pressured him.” She raised a hand to forestall Hosea’s objection. “I know; I know. You were in horrible shape when Ian and Arnie took you through. But Torrie would have been home if his mother had tried to get in touch with us.” She placed both of her palms on the table and rose. “It’s a matter of honor: If Ian gets hurt, even by accident, it would be Mr. Thorsen’s shame—he and Torrie should have been the ones to go.”
Torrie nodded. Looking at it that way, Maggie was right. As a matter of honor, it was incumbent upon them to see to Ian. He didn’t mind that. It was just that she had made it sound like it was, well, Ian’s fault for getting into trouble, and it wasn’t.
Dad was frowning. “I see your point, Maggie.” He turned back to Uncle Hosea. “You wouldn’t want me to leave such a matter to your judgment, would you?”
Uncle Hosea nodded, accepting it with good grace. “Your point is well taken.” He stood, and gestured at the four leather-and-wood bedframes stacked by the side of the room. “I’ll take mattress bags out and gather straw. Let me offer you the shelter of Harbard’s home for the night. You’ll leave in the morning, I take it?”
“We shall all leave in the morning,” Dad said, firmly.
“No.” Hosea shook his head. “I am better than I was, old friend. But I need more days of hard work, much food, and deep sleep, rather than of tramping along the road.” He raised a hand, palm out, to forestall an objection. “And there is some danger here, for me. Not all would believe that I am… not what I used to be. It would be best if I remain here.” He looked at the door. “I am under his protection here, and that means quite a lot, here and now, even if it’s not what it should have been.”
Dad and Uncle Hosea locked eyes for a long moment, but then Dad shrugged. “As you wish, Orfindel. As you wish.”
“It is not as I wish, but as it must be. Soon, soon, I’ll be well enough to leave.” He rose. “But for now, you have eaten, and now you should sleep.”
Maggie gestured at the floor by the fireplace. “Torrie and I will just use the floor there, if that’s okay,” she said. “I don’t think it’s necessary we pretend to sleep alone, do you?”
Torrie hoped the flickering firelight kept Dad and Uncle Hosea from seeing him blush.
Closing the door behind her upon her return from the outhouse, Maggie dropped the bar over the single door, then quickly stripped down to a
right T-shirt and panties, and then slipped under the blankets next to Torrie.
Torrie was already half-asleep, but when she slipped her arms around him and put her mouth next to his ear, he woke up, one hand sliding down her back until it cupped her bottom.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Don’t start something we’re not going to finish, not with your father and your uncle sleeping in the same room.”
“Then what—”
“Take your pick,” she whispered again, her breath warm in his ear. “Do you want first watch or second?”
Now that was paranoid. “If Uncle Hosea or Dad thought we needed—”
“Shh. First or second?”
He could argue with Maggie. Hell, he could refuse to play; he could just tell her that he was going to get some sleep, and that she could do what she wanted. But Maggie was mule-stubborn, and she would, sure as anything, keep herself awake all night, and be oh-so-incredibly pleasant about it in the morning.
“I’ll take first watch,” he said. “You next, then—”
“No,” she whispered again. “Me next, then you. Just the two of us.”
“Okay,” he whispered back. “But…”
She had already closed her eyes and relaxed in his arms. Either she was sleeping or pretending to sleep.
What the hell was going on?
Torrie stroked her hair gently. He could fall asleep now, but he had already had one lesson for the day on a matter of honor.
He sighed. Women. Can’t live with them, and can’t outsmart them.
Chapter Fourteen
To the Seat
It was too easy so far; there had to be a catch, Ian thought, as the coach rattled along. Ian sat facing backwards, Gungnir’s butt-end wedged in at the juncture of the seat and wall of the coach, its point projecting a couple of feet out the starboard window. That way, Ian could keep both gloved hands on it, making sure he never let it go.
It was crowded in the coach—he was almost knee to knee with Marta—but it wasn’t really uncomfortable, particularly when you compared it to horseback.
He wasn’t sure what the tires were made of, but they were definitely inflated, and soft, and took most of the bounce out of the road. Much better than riding a horse, his still-aching butt bouncing against a hard saddle with every step of the animal, holding Gungnir with its butt-end in the little cup attached to the right stirrup, all the while worrying about what would happen if his gloved right hand were to let go, even for just a moment.
He had spent part of one summer helping D’Arnot rewire D’Arnot’s uncle’s house—for not enough money; but D’Arnot was Ian’s meal ticket—with the constant fear that he would sometime grab hold of a live wire and spend the very short rest of his life frozen to it while electricity coursed through his body.
This was like that, but much worse. One slip, one moment of carelessness, one goddamn sneeze and Gungnir would have been tumbling through the air to maim, to kill.
This way, at least if he screwed up, he endangered only himself. What with Gungnir wedged in tightly, it would be Ian that suffered, and not the folks riding alongside, and not Arnie Selmo and Marta, sitting across from him.
“You appear to be thinking deep thoughts, Ian Silverstone,” Marta said.
She was dressed for the road in what Ian would have called culottes—although that probably wasn’t the name; they were brown trousers, but cut very full, so that the effect was more like an ankle-length skirt—topped by an almost glaringly white blouse with a biblike bodice sewed on. The sleeves were large and blousy, cuffed tightly at the wrists; and a cummerbund-like belt emphasized her trim waist. A perfectly reasonable outfit for riding—and for Ian to drool over.
“Hardly deep, Marta,” Ian said.
“Yeah,” Arnie Selmo muttered, his voice low, “my guess is you’re thinking about what the goo they served us for breakfast was. Is. Whatever. Jellied eel? Chicken-flavored Jell-o? Give me plain shredded wheat any time.”
Arnie had skipped his morning shave, and he looked like a derelict, albeit a very well-dressed one—his jeans and plaid shirt had been laundered and pressed while he slept, and the plain white buttons on his shirt had been replaced by slightly larger, oval ones that looked to be carved from bone.
Marta gave an empty smile at that. Which didn’t—
Ah. Arnie had spoken in English. Which was a secret language, as far as most local people were concerned, sort of like the way Ian’s Zayda Saul and Baba Rivka used to chatter in Yiddish, knowing full well that neither Ian nor his father could follow.
Ian nodded, as though agreeing with both of them. “I’m more concerned about how easy this is going, so far,” he said, in English to Arnie, then shook his head as he turned to Marta and switched back to Bersmal. “Not at all, Marta. Just thinking about the… weighty responsibility that carrying this is.” He made sure his gloved left hand gripped Gungnir tightly before patting it with his equally gloved right. He had to let a hand go every now and then, or his fingers would start to cramp up.
“Yeah,” Arnie said. “It’s been easier than I thought it would. It’s about like he said it would be.”
“And you don’t trust him.”
Arnie snorted. “You could say that.”
Marta cocked her head to one side, her smile fading a trifle. “Might one ask what you two are discussing?”
Ian forced a smile. “I was telling Arnie that I hope things go well.”
“I’m sure it will, when you appear in front of the Table. Given who I think you are.” She dismissed his coming objection with a smile and a toss of her head that flicked her hair with an almost audible snap. “Yes, yes, I know you deny it, and I would be the last to call you forsworn. But there’s nothing in any prophecy I know of that swears that the Promised Warrior will proclaim himself, or will even know what he is.“
Outside, the twisting forest roads had given way to a straight highway across flat land, several feet above the fields to either side. It would have reminded Ian of North Dakota, except that the far-off horizon was covered by a mountain range that vanished into the clouds.
Ivar del Hival’s broad face was suddenly bobbing at the window. “Enjoying the ride as much as I am?”
Apparently, riding a horse was yet another one of the big man’s talents; he seemed to honestly be enjoying himself, despite the fact that he was leaning off to the side of a horse in a way Ian wouldn’t even have considered, anchored only by his feet in the stirrups and his one hand that not only held the reins, but gripped the reinforced loop on the front of the saddle where Ian would have expected a saddlehorn to be.
“Our noble leader has suggested we stop for a midday meal at the village ahead,” he said, his voice its usual boom, “and hopes that that will meet with the agreement of both the margravine and the herald.”
“Sure.” Ian nodded. “Fine with me.”
“If that pleases Ian Silver Stone,” Marta said, “it could hardly fail to delight me.” Her forehead wrinkled prettily. “I’ve not taken this route to the Table since I was a little girl, but I do recall a local specialty we’ve had at table every now and then.” She leaned forward, as though about to confide a great secret. “It’s a fish the locals call a firemouth—they breed them, grow them in ponds, then season the filets with some secret combination of herbs; they then smoke them until they’re barely cooked through. The herbs and the timing are apparently a matter of some great art; when Cook attempted to get the recipe some years ago, she was told that it would take a direct command from my father.” She dismissed that idea with a flick of the fingers. “Who is, of course, much too wise to put himself in the position of depriving people of something in which they put so much pride.”
That sounded sensible, come to think of it, although it wasn’t the way Ian would have done things, if he was in charge. Then again, ruling villages, or a margravature, or, well, anything, wasn’t something he had ever given a lot of attention to.
He sighed. It didn’t really matter. Wh
atever he was, it wasn’t this Promised Warrior, and it didn’t much matter what he would do if he was, because he wasn’t.
He wished he could convince Marta of that. It would be one thing for his exaggerated real history to eventually bring her to his bed—hell, in the final analysis, he had killed the fire giant, after all, and if one of the benefits that came with that was Marta naked in his arms, well, he could live with that.
But Ian had never been the type to use “I love you” as a seduction line, and “I’m the Promised Warrior” seemed every bit as dishonest. He could lie by omission, he supposed, but—
No. You are what you do.
He leaned forward, his hands clenched on the spear. “Listen, please. I’m not any Promised Warrior. I’ve done what I’ve done, and if that makes you think me special, somehow”—she smiled at that—“that doesn’t bother me at all.” There was something about looking into her eyes that made it difficult to breathe. He swallowed, hard, then forced himself to continue. “But I’m not what you people think I am,” he said, surprised by the fire in his own voice. “I don’t mind what your father or your brothers think, but you have to believe me. You have to.”
The ring on his thumb pulsed, as it had before. Once, twice, three times, in time with his heart. And then again.
For a moment, her eyes seemed to fog over, and then she nodded.
“I believe you,” she said, laying her hand over his.
But it doesn’t matter, her eyes said.
Lunch was eaten on two benches, one on either side of a narrow weather-beaten table outside of a long wattle-and-daub building Ian supposed was a tavern, although nobody had specifically called it that.
The contrast of the tables, which looked to Ian more like picnic tables than anything else, and the fancy clothes, made him smile. Ian associated picnics with shorts, jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers; with awkward plastic eating-ware and leaky paper plates, not with fine spun-glass plates, handblown glasses, and silver eating-prongs all gleaming in the sun, a tight-woven linen tablecloth fluttering like a butterfly in a light breeze.
The Silver Stone Page 17