The Silver Stone

by Joel Rosenberg

“Dad—”

  “Hold for a moment,” Dad said. “I haven’t seen this for twenty, thirty years.”

  “You haven’t seen a chicken sold?”

  “Be still.”

  A thickset woman in a shapeless peasant’s dress, her wicker basket brimming over with bundles of carrots and long, thumb-thick loaves of bread, stopped in front of the chicken seller to argue for a moment, her fingers flashing to and fro as though she was speaking in sign language, although Torrie had no trouble hearing her coarse voice berate the man for his ungenerosity, greed, dishonesty, uncleanliness, and other sins.

  Finally, though, the two came to terms with a quick palm-slap of coins, and the seller took a chicken out of its cage and set it on the cutting board. Torrie had seen chickens killed, of course; back home, Sandy Hansen’s fried chicken recipe required that the meal had been walking around the coop until very late in the afternoon.

  But the chicken seller didn’t give its neck the quick practiced wring that Torrie had seen dozens of times before. Instead, he set it down gently on the chopping block in front of him, gave it a quick, affectionate pat—pulling his fingers back to avoid a bite from its attacking beak—then picked up a chunk of chalk and quickly, smoothly drew a straight line on the surface of the chopping block from the chicken to himself.

  The bird stood, stock-still, as though it had frozen in place.

  But not for long; the chicken seller made a quick movement with the cleaver and a syncopated pat with his free hand, and the chicken fell over, the stump where its head had been briefly gushing blood, while the head arced up into the air, to land on a pile of offal a few feet away.

  Dad smiled. “See?”

  Torrie shook his head. “Magic?”

  “No. It works back home, too. There is something about an absolutely straight-drawn line that seems to hypnotize a chicken.” Dad shrugged. “I once tried to teach Sandy how to do it, but she wasn’t interested.”

  The chicken seller produced a short, sharp knife and made a couple of practiced slashes on the body of the chicken. Torrie turned away; he had seen a chicken dressed-out before.

  Dad led them through the markets, past a stall piled high with bundles of fresh-picked onions that made Torrie’s eyes sting; past a skinny, balding, red-faced potter, his long fringe of hair pulled back into a braid, who smashed a plate against his own knee, shouting that it made more sense to make plates simply to enjoy the sound of them breaking rather than to sell them for the pittance his erstwhile customer had offered; past a leather-aproned cobbler trimming the excess off a fresh sole for a lady’s boot; past a skeletally thin little man pushing his two-wheeled wheelbarrow piled high with all-too-ripe horse manure through the parting crowd, his broad, gap-toothed smile in sharp counterpoint to the awful smell…

  Until they reached what Dad had, apparently, been looking for: a vestri stonemason, busily patching a section of the waist-high stone wall that encircled the market. The vestri was so busy working that it took him a while to notice them, his huge wooden mallet tapping the chisel with quick, precise, measured strokes.

  The vestri was a short, thick man, his arms disproportionately long, his forehead strongly sloped; virtually chinless. If it wasn’t for the peasant’s loose shirt and trousers, the neatly trimmed beard rimming his face, and the finely braided queue of hair that hung down his back, he would have looked exactly like a Neanderthal out of some museum exhibit, although he was smaller than Torrie had thought of Neanderthals as being; erect, even standing straight, the top of his head would have barely reached the middle of Torrie’s chest.

  Finally, he noticed them, and turned expressionlessly, setting his tools down before touching born index fingers to his brow. “Can I be of some help, Honored Ones?” he said, just a trace of the lisp that was common among his kind.

  “I do seek thy help, Son of Vestri,” Dad said, in the guttural Vestri language.

  Perhaps Dad had learned vestri when he had lived in the Middle Dominions, but more likely his fluency in it, like Torrie’s, was yet another example of Uncle Hosea’s gift.

  The vestri’s eyes widened. The vestri, whose status ranged from slaves to serfs to lowborn freemen, depending on where in Tir Na Nog you found yourself, weren’t used to humans knowing their language, much less addressing them formally in it.

  “Of course, Honored One, of course,” he answered in slow, careful Bersmal, “this one will do all he can to be of assistance, but…” he spread his hands and gestured at the wall, “the day grows no younger and my work goes no faster while I talk with you. May I?”

  “Of course.” Dad gave a quick gesture of permission. “Please.”

  “Son of Man,” the vestri said in his own language, as he resumed his work with hammer and chisel, “why doest thou ask of me? I am but Valin, a stonecutter by trade, and surely I know nothing that would be of interest to important ones such as thyselves.”

  Dad squatted beside him and lowered his voice. “I have no time for this, Valin, Son of Vestri. I need knowledge, and I may well need assistance. Look at me,” he said, his voice low, but with a ring to it that Torrie couldn’t remember having heard before. “I am Thorian, Thorian’s Son, known to some as Thorian the Traitor, but that is not how I am known to the Folk.”

  The hammer fell from Valin’s fingers. “You are…? But—it’s said that he has long been dead.”

  Dad just looked at him, his face impassive.

  The vestri weren’t, by and large, the cleverest folk that ever were, although certainly some were reasonably bright. It took Valin a few moments to decide that such an admission out in public was an awful risk even for somebody who really was Thorian del Thorian, and unlikely to be false. Then again, perhaps Dad really was a phony who wanted something, perfectly safe in pleading his innocence if Valin were to raise cry.

  The stonecutter’s eyes narrowed.

  Dad leaned forward and whispered something in Valin’s thick ear.

  It was as though he had thrown a switch: the vestri immediately gathered all of his tools together, and quickly, neatly, stowed them away in a large canvas bag that he slung, Santa-like, over his shoulder. “Please, Friends of the Father of Vestri, Father of the Folk, do thou come with me,” he said, immediately taking off in a quick stride that Torrie had difficulty matching.

  The vestri led the three of them down winding streets, past the wall that separated the village proper from the surrounding unchartered settlement, where the cobbled streets were replaced by dirt, and the carefully inset gutters by, well, nothing. Where houses in the village proper were usually wattle and daub set on chest-high stone walls that gave them a solid foundation and kept the base of the walls free from rot, here the houses were only of wattle-and-daubed-over timber frames that tended to rot from the ground up.

  At the end of a long row of such houses, Valin stopped, knocked twice on the door, and beckoned them all inside.

  Torrie leading, they pushed through a series of damp musty curtains, into an almost total darkness that smelled of old sweat and worse. Maggie gasped, and her slim but strong fingers gripped his hand tightly.

  He didn’t blame her. At first, all he saw were dozens of eyes, seeming to glow red, glaring unblinkingly.

  It took Torrie a few moments for his eyes to adjust; when they did, he saw that they were in a small room, illuminated only by an inch-wide hole in the wall, filled with easily a dozen vestri men lying in stacked hammocks supported by the house’s beams. In one corner of the room, a small hearth held an even smaller fire, where two unbathed vestri were stirring a pot of some burbling liquid, and eyeing Torrie, Maggie, and Dad with barely concealed hostility.

  It was, Torrie decided, a vestri flophouse.

  Dozens of eyes were trained on the three humans, but for a long time, nobody said a word.

  Valin dropped his bag to the floor. “I am Valin Stoneworker, son of Burin the Broken, himself the son of Valin One-Ear,” he said.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” an old, gray-bearded vestri said
, peering out from under his thin blanket. “You are of sure lineage, and we are but filthy vestri bastards, ones who should count ourselves lucky to know our mothers’ names, fortunate beyond wishing if we could so much as guess at our fathers’.” A thick hand made a come-on gesture. “And you have some reason to wave rank under our noses, no doubt—” He raised his hand, stopping himself. “No. I forget myself; I do humbly beg thy pardon. Please forgive this one, and remember me as saying: and thou has some reason to wave thy rank under our humble noses, no doubt… and perhaps that has something to do with these Honored Ones,” his tone made the polite term a curse, “standing here looking at us as though we were a bunch of ill-washed vestri mongrels.” He chuckled thinly. “Which we are, of course.”

  He gave a push against the wall, setting his hammock rocking, and tumbled clumsily out of it, nevertheless managing to land squarely on his thick, hairy feet.

  He spat a huge, disgusting gobbet onto the liver-spotted back of his hand, then wiped it on his blanket. His face was lined with age, and his beard was a dirty gray. He was old, and probably not going to live much longer; vestri didn’t tend to show their age until near the end.

  “I am called Durin of the Dung,” the dwarf said, “of no known lineage or skills; I make my living, such as it is, emptying the chamberpots and excavating the outhouses of the rich and poor alike, conveying their precious contents to dungheaps outside of the village walls.” He made a broad bow. “And I am, of course, at thy service, Honored Ones.”

  “Be still, Durin,” another one said. “Valin brought them here for a purpose; would you not care to hear it?”

  “I, for one,” yet another said, “have labored long and hard until but a few moments ago, and I shall get some sleep.” He rolled over in his hammock, gathering his ragged blanket about him, and immediately began to snore quietly.

  Valin drew himself up almost straight. “I say to all of you that this Honored One is a friend—”

  “Yesyesyes, we all know how friendly the Honored Ones are,” Durin said. “Daily, they do me the great favor of permitting me the privilege of carrying away their—”

  “—a friend of the Father of Vestri!” Valin shouted.

  Nobody spoke for a moment. It was so quiet that Torrie could hear the bubbling of the pot of stew.

  “Well,” Durin said, “that would be a different matter, would it not.” He shuffled over to Dad and eyed him up and down. “There is a story that some years ago, the Father of Vestri was locked in a tiny room, his mind and body tortured once again for knowledge only he holds.”

  “Yes,” Dad nodded. “That he was. Bound with the guts of a god.”

  “Hmmm… and it’s also said that a friend of his freed him, and they escaped together.” He cocked his head to one side. “Surely, surely he would have given such a close friend, one he cared to reward, some way of proving himself, should the occasion arise.”

  As he’d done at the market, Dad once again bent over and whispered momentarily into the vestri’s ear.

  Durin immediately straightened. “Well then,” he said, his voice sober and level, all trace of sarcasm gone from his voice, “what would thou have of me, friend of the Father of Vestri? Shall I cut open my belly so that my guts might warm thy tired feet?”

  Dad chuckled. “That won’t be necessary.” He shrugged out of his rucksack and opened it, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a package of freeze-dried beef. He gestured with it toward the burbling kettle. “I ask that we eat together, while you tell me of the ones who have recently passed through. I need to know everything—when did they come through? Where are they? Who have they talked to?”

  “Ah.” Durin nodded. “Ian the Silver Stone, the one who some say is the Promised Warrior. He and his companions passed through the village in company with a troop led by a One-Hand. There is some little news and, as always, much rumor.”

  “I need to hear it all.”

  Durin clapped his hands together four times. “Wake up, all you sluggards. Wake up. Valin, help me wake these lazy ones.” He reached out and shook first one hammock, then another, cuffing the dwarf hard with the back of his hand when he didn’t immediately wake.

  “Wake, I say,” Durin said, shaking yet another. “A friend of the Father is here, and he and his companions will honor us by sharing our kettle, and our knowledge.” He drew himself up straight, and for just a moment, the slope-headed, smelly little man seemed to radiate dignity. “Even dung has its place. Mongrels we may be, carriers of wood and water and dung we are, but we are still Sons of Vestri.”

  Between eating and talking—the stew turned out to be quite good, and with the addition of some freeze-dried beef, carrots, and some of the seasonings from their packs, even better—it took some time to get it all told, and more time to get it translated for Maggie’s benefit. She had been around Hosea long enough to learn Bersmal, but not Vestri. Hosea’s bestowal of his gift of tongues took time.

  Finally, Torrie held up a hand. “Let me see if I can get this straight. Ian is going to the Seat and Table, where he’s going to tell them that Vandescard isn’t to wage a war on the Dominions. There’s some rumor that he’s this legendary Promised Warrior, who will do just the opposite, and lead the Vandestish in battle with not only the Dominion, but with everybody else, too.”

  There were grunts of assent from around the table. “So far, so good.” He spread his hands. “Since they’re not going to kill him for being the bearer of bad news, I guess Uncle Hosea was right; we can just leave the three of them to it.” He turned to Dad. “Ian’s my friend, but it doesn’t sound like he needs any rescuing. Why go looking for trouble?” Particularly given who Dad was. Thorian the Traitor wasn’t wanted in Vandescard—it wasn’t Vandescard that he’d betrayed, after all, by releasing Uncle Hosea.

  But that didn’t mean it would necessarily be wise—or safe—to try to involve themselves in local politics.

  Maggie shook her head. “There are two problems with that. How do you think they’ll test him for being this Promised Warrior?”

  “I don’t think they’ll test him at all,” Torrie said, confused.

  Dad looked as puzzled as Torrie felt. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been listening,” she said. “Think about it. What is this test they have for membership in this warrior society of theirs, Durin?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “I know not. it’s called the Pain, and it leaves them one-handed, as Tyr was after he put his hand in the mourn of Fenris-wolf, as hostage.” The few of his blunt teeth that remained made a loud clacking sound.

  “You think they won’t make him try it? That’s what they do for their elite warrior society, but they won’t test their so-called Promised Warrior that way?”

  Valin shook his head. “I think it is thou who doesn’t understand, perhaps,” he said in Vestri, then switched back to Bersmal when Durin hit him on the forearm in an unsubtle reminder that Maggie didn’t speak Vestri. “The girl is right. It is you who doesn’t understand. Of course he would be so tested; it is a great honor for an Honored One to become a Tyrson. How could he refuse?”

  Dad shook his head. “I strongly doubt that Ian would be interested.” He smiled. “I think he would likely decline with thanks, and while that would cause him to lose some … status here, I’m certain he could live with that.”

  “No,” Maggie said. “It can’t be that way.”

  Torrie shook his head, realized that he was making the exact same gesture that Dad had just made, and stopped himself. “Why can’t it? Just because that would make things too easy?”

  She nodded. “Precisely. Why, if it’s all so easy, are there, even now, rumors flying about three travelers, two men and a woman, who are up to some evil in Vandescard?”

  Durin spread his hands. “I have listened and spoken with care and attention, Honored One, but I’ve heard no such rumor here.”

  “The day’s not over yet. There will be rumors like that flying around,
before nightfall,” she said. “We’ll maybe be, oh, Dominion spies, or perhaps assassins, seeking to kill the Promised Warrior before he can demonstrate who he is. But there will be rumors, and everyone and anyone will be on the lookout for us, and anyone loyal to the Table and the Seat who believes those rumors will try to stop us, and the rest will try to stop us for the chance of a reward.”

  Dad shook his head. “I think—”

  “No, you don’t think,” she said, her voice low but intense. “That’s the trouble with you. You’re a strong man, Mr. Thorsen, and you’re brave, and I wouldn’t have asked for better…” her fingers fluttered as she looked for the right word, “… a better companion the day we fought the Fenrir. On your worst day you’re probably a better fencer than I’ll ever hope to be. And like your son, you’re a good man.

  “But when either of you turns his goddamn brain off, either because you’re thinking with that little head on the end of your penis or because you’re too damn comfortable with the people around you, you’re easy to fool.

  “Your wife did it without working up a sweat. Not because she was all that clever about it. And neither of you would have looked past that, not if Dave Oppegaard and Doc and Minnie and the rest of them hadn’t been watching out for you. You’re wary around strangers, but any friend could pick your pocket, and if you found his hand in your pants, you’d just assume he was warming his fucking fingers.”

  Torrie was even more confused. Why all the heat and anger? And why the swearing? Maggie almost never swore.

  So he spoke slowly and quietly, but not too slowly or quietly.

  “Maggie, please,” he said. “What makes you so sure? Why can’t it be easy?”

  “Because if it was all so easy,” she said, her brittle voice holding not a trace of hysteria, “if there was no reason in the world for us to go, why would that asshole pretending to be Hosea have tried to stop us?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The River

  Jottendal turned out to be a walled city, the count’s castle set on an outcropping high over the Jut. Where the fast-moving Gilfi ran like a swift gray snake through the land, the wide, slow Jut meandered around long, wide bends. But the bends were deep cuts in the land; Castle Jottendal stood on a bank easily a couple of hundred feet above the murky brown surface of the river below. In some things, time and patience could serve as well as youth and vigor.