Low chairs and a funny-shaped couch formed a half circle facing the fireplace on each side of the room, while most of the outside of the wall was a long, curved window that ran from the floor almost to the ceiling. There were taller towers in the City, but they were on the other side; the only thing that Torrie could see rising as high was a distant mountain peak.
“Gorias,” Dad said. “House of Stone.”
The farmlands below were an earthy quilt of green and brown spread across gently rolling hills, a vast bowl rimmed on the far side by another mountain range, or perhaps part of this one, as though the farmlands of the Middle Dominion had been hollowed out of a mass of mountains, scooped out by God as soda jerk.
Torrie snorted. Not much of a prison. Break the window, slide down a rope, and be gone. Getting into the City might well be difficult; getting out would just be a matter of finding the right place to tie a rope. A bit of rappelling, and be gone.
But be gone where?
Dad was at his elbow. “No, that wouldn’t work.” He rapped a knuckle against the window. It sounded funny. “It’s some sort of crystal,” he said. “It’s stood for more than a thousand years that we know of.” He had his belt in his hand, and worked at it for a moment, freeing the buckle. The hidden part of the buckle turned out to be sharp, unsurprisingly; another Uncle Hosea treatment.
Dad reached out the buckle and drew it down the side of the window. Instead of the screaming of metal on glass, it just slid.
“No, not that way out,” he said, then sighed, then clapped his hand to Torrie’s shoulder. “And not all obstacles are ones you can see,” he said, his voice low. “Consider that we’d be traveling with your mother and Maggie, and that neither of them could move as quickly as you and I could, and we could move much less quickly than the Sons His Warmth no doubt has circling the walls, waiting for us.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “And there are other matters to consider.”
Torrie frowned. “The walls may have ears, but I doubt they speak English.”
One corner of Dad’s mouth turned up. “Oh, and where did you learn Bersmal?”
“Uncle Hosea, obviously,” Torrie said. “Wish he had taught me French that way,” he said, with a grin. “Would have saved me some trouble in school.”
Dad shook his head. “Outside of Tir Na Nog, the gift of tongues isn’t one he can bestow so easily,” he said. “Or I’d not have had such a difficult time learning English some years ago.”
It hit him in a flash. All the talk about Thorian the Traitor was misdirection. Yes, certainly if Dad had betrayed the Guild, the Guild would be looking out for him; yes, if he had stolen money from one of the Houses, the House would want him to answer for it.
But to go to enough trouble to search the Hidden Ways between worlds for him? And for how many years? How could he possibly be that important?
Maybe he wasn’t.
But a strange dark man with the gift of tongues could be. A strange man who tended to build things the way the Oldest did, and who probably knew the Hidden Ways in the City better than anybody else.
He could be that important. “It’s all about him, isn’t it? About him knowing the Hidden Ways?”
Dad’s jaw clenched for just a moment. “Sh.” He mouthed: Not another word.
You mean, Torrie mouthed back, that they don’t know that he’s what they’re really after?
No, Dad mouthed back, I mean that they may not know that I know. He shrugged broadly. If that’s really what they’re after.
Torrie heard the footsteps behind him; it was Jamed del Bruno and another trio of Vestri servants, each bearing a pile of clothing. “I have taken the liberty of sending Mistresses Ingar and Hilge to see to the ladies,” he said. “And have brought your clothing myself; your baths and dressers wait. His Warmth has just started his luncheon.”
“And we’re dessert, eh?” Torrie asked in English, not particularly surprised when Jamed del Bruno started to nod before he caught himself.
“I’m afraid there shall be only time for a quick washing, Sirs; His Warmth is unfond of being kept waiting.”
Torrie hated His Warmth at first sight. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t that His Warmth was fat; fat didn’t bother Torrie. Grandpa Aarsted’s old friend Bob Adams had been fat as a harem guard and twice as gruff, and that hadn’t bothered Torrie. It had just been the way Bob was. Torrie’s Meat Science teacher, Mr. Bunce, was every bit as thick around the middle as the Fire Duke, and Mr. Bunce was kind and genial enough that all he had to do was whiten his beard a little every winter to go play Santa Claus at the Children’s Hospital.
It was mainly the eyes. His Warmth, indeed: they were cold, dark pits in his piggy face, holding no trace of humanity or compassion, just will and intelligence, and probably too much of both.
Torrie wondered what the Fire Duke thought he saw; Torrie thought they all looked pretty impressive. A hurried sponge bath and some quick stitchery from a team of Vestri had left Torrie and Dad clean and in gleaming white shirts, black leather vests, and black cotton trousers. The shirts were tight at the wrist, but ballooned at the shoulders and arms, not restricting movement at all. The vests were of black leather, decorated with silver buckles and ornaments, and fell past the waist, a ridge of leather at the hips helping to hold their swordbelts in place, although they had been asked, politely, to leave their swords in their rooms.
Mom and Maggie each had been arrayed in a gown that kind of reminded Torrie of a sari, except they wrapped differently. Mom’s was a blue-black gauzy fabric, wrapped to leave her shoulders bare. It fell almost to the floor on the left side, and was gathered tightly at the right hip by what looked like a giant brooch in the shape of a silver crab, leaving her right leg completely bare to mid-thigh; Maggie’s gown, of reddish-purple silk, was wound over one freckled shoulder, then repeatedly wrapped bandeau-style first around her breasts then hips and upper thighs, the sheer fabric leaving her midriff covered by only a single, transparent layer, the effect of the bottom of the outfit about like that of a miniskirt.
Heads had turned as they had been escorted through the corridors, and Torrie didn’t think it was because he and Dad looked so spectacular.
“I see,” the Fire Duke said, “that you have had the opportunity to refresh yourself.”
“For which we are of course grateful, Your Warmth,” Dad said.
The Fire Duke had chosen to greet them in what Jamed del Bruno called the throne room, although it appeared to Torrie to be a private study: one of the walls was covered with bookcases, and rolled maps were racked in front of a large easel. All of one wall was covered with a tapestry showing an overmuscled swordsman standing over the body of some vaguely manlike beast, while the third was a hodgepodge of crannies cut into the original stone, some lined with velvet, some covered with almost homelike cabinet doors. Torrie would have bet that all three walls contained some hidden way in and out, and his eyes went immediately to the portion of the carved ceiling hidden in the shadow of the overhead lamps: there would likely be something there, too.
And then there was the floor—under some or all of the squares of wood there would be some sort of trapdoor, or entry to somewhere. It was that kind of style, a very familiar style.
Rising easily for a man of his bulk from a huge wooden chair—Torrie was fairly sure that the leather stretched over the back and seat concealed embedded cushions—the duke stood in front of another of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his feet planted far apart, his hands behind his back.
“Thorian del Thorian,” he said. His voice was deeper than Torrie had thought it would be, but it sounded funny, as if there were some harmonics in it, as if the Fire Duke was resonating just above and threateningly below his hearing. “The Elder.” He let the words roll thickly off his tongue. His livery lips pursed, then relaxed. “It has been too long since we’ve met. I thank you and your companions for coming to see me.”
Dad smiled, but Torrie could tell he didn’t mean it. “Oh, it was noth
ing, Your Warmth. Your dogs issued such a firm invitation that I couldn’t resist.”
It was funny. All four of them were prisoners, and all had every reason to be scared, particularly Dad, who clearly better understood more about what they had to be scared of and why, and yet he was standing a little straighter than he usually did, his body more ready than tense, his weight on the balls of his feet like a dancer—it reminded Torrie more of an impersonation of Johnny Carson doing a monologue than anything else. He looked over at Mom; she saw it too.
Whatever was to happen, Dad was ready for it.
The Fire Duke nodded slowly. “They do that. I’ve asked Herolf and his Sons to keep watch around the walls—I’m expecting some visitors.”
“Oh?”
“Your return is such big news, and news comes so rarely to the Middle Dominion. It’s really been very boring in your absence. I expect that there will be some answers to a few…” he hesitated for a moment “minor challenges I issued of late. And it may well be that we shall have another visitor.”
Dad shook his head. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Oh, I would,” the Fire Duke said. “A little bird tells me that an old acquaintance of ours is once again upon Tir Na Nog, and I would suspect that he has, somehow, sworn some…” the Fire Duke’s hand flopped on the end of his hand, like a fish drowning in the air of a riverbank “sort of oath to see to the well-being of you and yours.” His shoulders moved up and down fractionally. “But I could be wrong. In the interim, I believe I’ve … advanced you some two hundred twenty-three golden marks, and I trust you’ll be willing to work that off. I’ve taken the liberty of scheduling a few small affairs—”
“Stanar del Brunden?”
The Fire Duke smiled. “Among others. His Solidity and I have some difference I would like resolved in my favor, and I’m afraid that a few first-blood matches with Rodic del Renald haven’t been useful. Some to the second blood, perhaps? Or further?”
Dad nodded. “As you wish it.”
Torrie took a step forward. “No, wait—”
He never really saw what had happened with the tapestry—he was sure that if it had been pulled aside he would have seen it go somewhere out of the corner of his eye—but suddenly it was gone, and three grim-faced men in House of Flame livery were standing in an alcove behind where it had been, two of them leveling short bows at Torrie, the third having taken aim at one of the others, probably Dad.
“Thorian! Not another inch!” Dad’s voice was shrill, but he hadn’t moved.
The Fire Duke’s hand was held out in front of him, as though dropping it would be a signal for the carnage to start. “There are other options, Thorian del Thorian the Elder,” he said, looking at Dad, not at Torrie. “You could challenge me for the money, and let me pick a champion. Of course, if I were to win, you’d owe me twice the money, and I’d be tempted to have your wife work the rest of it off on her back in a Lower City bordello at two bice a throw.” His grin was broad. “A long line might form, all things considered.”
“I have already agreed to your terms, Your Warmth,” Dad said, his voice level. “Overt threats gain little.”
“So you have. And so they do. But each gain is important, Thorian del Thorian. It’s not a bad idea, every now and then, to remind you how … tentative your position can be.” Slowly, carefully, the Fire Duke lowered his arm. The bowmen didn’t move; it was as though they were clever sculptures, or frozen in time from their eyes to their toes.
The Fire Duke dropped heavily into his chair. “But, as you say, you’ve agreed to my terms. In that case, you and your party may have the liberty of the City; I’ve invited Branden del Branden to attend Thorian del Thorian the Younger and his lady, and Ivar del Hival to attend you and yours.” His smile was thin. “And I’ve asked Herolf to look in on you, from time to time.”
The smile vanished. “You may leave.”
The room outside the Fire Duke’s chambers was a long, wide one, the stone floor polished to a high, almost mirrorlike gloss that caught and reflected the long line of lanterns hanging from the high ceiling. At the far end, a raised podium with a suspiciously large throne stood; the space in between was unbroken, save for the figures and reflections of Ivar del Hival and Branden del Branden, who stood, companionably chatting, about halfway down.
Branden del Branden had forsaken his black and flame-colored livery for a less ornate tunic and trousers of a creamy off-white, matched with a similarly colored thin silk scarf—almost a ribbon—tied about his neck, the color scheme broken only by the very ordinary and workmanlike black leather swordbelt fastened tightly about his hips.
Ivar del Hival was all in colors, from the rainbow design of his tunic, which ran from an almost inky violet at the left sleeve through a rich indigo and a sky blue at the shoulder, cascading into a spectrum of forest greens, rich, lemony yellows, and strangely dull oranges, and finally ending in a blood red at the right waist, as though he had been wounded there.
They were a study in contrasts: where Ivar del Hival was large and ursine, Branden del Branden was small and what Torrie would have called ferretlike, except that suggested a kind of sneakiness or lowness that didn’t at all go with Branden del Branden’s hauteur.
“There’s a small affair tomorrow sundown, on the Ash Plaza,” Branden del Branden said, as he led them out onto a terrace, and toward a staircase down to the next piazza. “I am commanded by Lord Sensever del Sensever to invite you,” he said.
Over by the wall, three children were playing some ball-bouncing game. It was hard to tell whether they were boys or girls, or a combination; they all had haircuts that reminded Torrie of Prince Valiant, and all three were in short trousers almost covered by cotton shifts.
It was hard for Torrie to make out the words of the song, but it was something about sky covering all.
“I think,” Dad said, “that we’ll keep to our rooms for the next few days.” He made an expansive gesture. “It’s been a long tr—”
“I would hope you’d reconsider.” Branden del Branden smiled while Ivar del Hival frowned. “He was really most insistent; you’re rather the special attraction, the lot of you. Some old friends of yours will be there to see you, and I’d have to insist that the Exquisite Maggie and the Extraordinary Karin grace my arm as I enter. Surely I’m entitled to that as recompense for escorting them to the City.” He raised an eyebrow. “There’s even a rumor that the duel-master will honor the reception with his presence.”
That seemed to shock Dad. “I wasn’t aware he was in the City.”
“He’s aware you are, and whether or not he is here now it’s entirely possible you’ll find him there tomorrow. Or, if not, within a few days.” Branden del Branden grinned broadly. “Ivar del Hival will conduct you back to your rooms. He and I shall be by to escort you at, say, the thirt-teenth hour tomorrow evening?”
Dad nodded.
Branden del Branden turned to Torrie. “Of course, Thorian del Thorian the Younger, if you’d care to keep to your rooms, I won’t trouble you to accompany—”
“I’ll be there,” Torrie said.
“Ah.”
“Sky covers all,” the children sang, as the ball bounced.
Torrie was furious with the silent treatment the other four gave him on the way back across the terraces, down the steps to the tower, and up to their rooms. He tried to start a conversation, but nobody would respond. Mom and Dad shut themselves up in their rooms, and Maggie, pleading a headache, shortly did the same.
“A good afternoon to you, young Thorian del Thorian,” Ivar del Hival said. “I’ll see you somewhat later; I’ve family duties to attend to.” The big man’s bow was perfunctory in a friendly sort of way, and then he spun around and walked off.
Torrie threw himself down on a low couch next to the wide window, and folded his hands across his chest. Damn it, he had to come along. Dad’s back—
Torrie stood up and walked to the rack of practice swords on the far wall, selecting
a saber that was a little too long and too heavy for his tastes, but would have been serviceable enough if it hadn’t had a blunt point, and carefully blunted edges back at least six inches from the point. He stretched a few times, then tried a few simple combinations.
At least this still worked.
It was clearly necessary to get himself ready, physically and mentally. Dad was going to be challenged, and Torrie would have to somehow intercept some of the challenges, because good as he was, Dad wasn’t the fencer he had been in his youth. The Fire Duke hadn’t had him executed; instead he had pinned him down as his champion, and that meant the death of a thousand cuts instead of just one.
He didn’t hear the door open, but when he turned around, Dad was behind him.
“You think you can keep all of the jackals off me?” he said.
Torrie tried to figure out the look on his face. Amused? No. Maybe skeptical, although Dad, as usual, had himself under control. Torrie had never seen his father lose his temper, and doubted anybody else had, either. That wasn’t Dad’s way.
“Well, somebody has to,” Torrie said.
“Oh. You think you can take all comers?”
Dad had stripped down to a pair of shorts, no shoes. Under the mat of hair on his chest, his scars seemed to stand out more whitely than usual, particularly the long one that ran along the outside of his ribs, on the right side. Then there was the one on the outside of his sword arm, almost shoulder-high, and the three on his right thigh that looked like a poor match for the four parallel ones on the left thigh. Both of his knees were dotted with small scars, all half an inch long, or shorter.
Torrie had seen Dad’s scars hundreds, thousands of times, but he had never noticed it before, not really: all of Dad’s scars were peripheral, along the edge of his body, not central. They were all dueling scars, and all received to peripheral areas, either because nobody here ever attacked a more central part of the body or—more likely—because he had always protected the core of his body, even if that meant taking a cut outside.
The Fire Duke Page 21