The Fire Duke

by Joel Rosenberg

  As before, it reminded him more of a Neanderthal than anything he would have called a dwarf, but Torrie had never visualized a Neanderthal clean-shaven except for a ring of beard rimming its thick jawline, or with carefully clipped hair neatly combed and slicked back, or decked out in comfortable-looking taupe trousers and jacket with the crimson orange trim of the House of Flame.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Torrie asked.

  “Setting out breakfast, Honored One,” the Vestri said, his voice slurred, as Vestri always spoke Bersmal. Something about the palate, perhaps? “As I have been instructed to,” the Vestri went on, “by Jamed del Bruno. I am Broglin, at your service. Do the Honored Ones wish to be served in their rooms, or here in the parlor?”

  Dad needed more time than this. “I’ll—I’ll see,” Torrie said, walking back to his room. He leaned his head in. “Maggie, do you wish to break your fast now,” he said in Bersmal, “or would you care to sleep some more?” he asked the rumpled bed, and then hummed low in his throat, hoping that Broglin would think it her mumbled response.

  “Very well, as you wish,” he said in Bersmal. “I shall wait, as well.”

  He smiled at the Vestri, who watched him without comment, his thick face blank, as Torrie crossed the hall to his parents’ room and knocked a knuckle against their door, opening it as though he had heard something.

  “Father, I—oh, very well. I’ll see you later.”

  He turned to the Vestri. “They are all somewhat… indisposed this morning. Too much of your fine Ingarian wine, I suspect.”

  Broglin nodded his massive head, as though understanding. “I am sure that is so, Honored One. I am familiar with a concoction of herbs, milk, brandy, and plover eggs that seems to work well in such matters; shall I prepare some?”

  Torrie nodded. “That would perhaps be a good idea, for when they awake. I would guess that would be late this afternoon, and would have them sleep until then.”

  “I will return with it then, Honored One,” the Vestri said, shuffling toward the door. Torrie stepped aside to let him pass.

  So far, so good.

  There was a knock on the door; Broglin opened it to reveal Branden del Branden, looking all too fresh and clean in white linen shorts and tunic, his cape-of-station only a token one also of white linen, barely larger than a dish-towel, thrown casually over one shoulder, his heavy low boots and plain swordbelt a jarring contrast.

  “Good morning, Thorian del Thorian the Younger,” he said. “His Warmth would have company as he breaks his fast this hour; he’s sent me by to offer your father the honor of joining him, should he be up and about.”

  Torrie could hear his own heart pound. Damn, damn, damn—caught already. And without a way to delay for even another—

  “I grovel,” Broglin said, bending his head at the neck. “I abase myself in shame,” he said. “Disgracefully, I have already fed Thorian del Thorian the Elder, his woman and girlchild; they have returned to their beds, a cure for the drinker’s malaise making them sleep, albeit fitfully. I prostrate myself, I—”

  “Silence, Vestri,” Branden del Branden said, not unkindly. “Enough. I guess I’ll have to disappoint His Warmth, though I don’t care to do that. I can’t imagine he’d want a drugged Thorian del Thorian for company.”

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Torrie thought.

  Pulse still pounding like a trip-hammer, Torrie arched an eyebrow. “Did he ask for Thorian del Thorian the Elder, or just Thorian del Thorian?”

  Branden del Branden smiled. “The latter, I’m amused to admit. I assumed, but—”

  “But nothing. I just happen to be Thorian del Thorian.” Torrie tossed his towel aside, quickly donning the clothes that the Vestri was already handing him. He hopped on one foot, then another, as he pulled on a pair of tan linen trousers, then shrugged into a loose white tunic that fell to his thighs. He plopped down on a chair to pull on his boots, but Broglin was already kneeling in front of him with a pair of socks. The Vestri’s blunt fingers were surprisingly adept as he quickly slid the socks and boots on Torrie, blousing the trousers with gentle tugs of his fingers.

  Torrie stood, accepting his swordbelt and buckling it around his waist. “I’ll be pleased to join His Warmth at table; I missed the serving here. I… need to handle something, then I shall join you.”

  “Eh? I’m to bring—”

  “I need to go to the place where even dukes walk.”

  It took a moment. “Ah. The garderobe is—”

  “I know where it is,” Torrie said, stepping forward. The hall was narrow enough that Branden del Branden had no choice but to back up.

  Torrie turned to shut the door behind him; the Vestri was already there. “Be thou well, friend of the Father of Vestri, he who was Father of the Folk, until we meet again,” the dwarf said in a low, guttural language that Torrie had never heard before.

  “Until again we meet, friend of this friend,” Torrie responded in the same language, “well be thou.”

  Branden del Branden was impressed. “You speak Vestri, too, eh? How did that come to be?”

  One thing that was clear was that Branden del Branden didn’t speak Vestri.

  “You should have attended Hardwood High,” Torrie said.

  “Apparently.” He dismissed the idea with a shrug. “Still, what benefit is there of learning Vestri, when they can be taught Bersmal?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Torrie said, precisely.

  On pleasant days, Branden del Branden explained, His Warmth breakfasted on a small veranda outside his private office.

  It was a warm and clear day; high above and to the east, a flock of birds was making its way north to south, broad wings beating slowly, lazily, as though to rush neither themselves nor the day. Further to the east, cottony puffs of clouds hid the distant peaks, casting dark shadows on the greens and browns of the valley below. It was clear enough that Torrie could even make out the distant shape of a peasant and his oxen working their fields, and they must have been a good ten miles away.

  “A good morning to you, Thorian del Thorian,” His Warmth rumbled, his face showing no surprise at Torrie’s presence. “Join me, if it pleases you,” he said, waving Torrie to the seat opposite his bulk, another flick of his wrist urging Branden del Branden to the seat next to him. His overtunic had been constructed of leather straps, loosely woven and edged in gold, revealing a glistening white shirt beneath. It looked uncomfortable, but Torrie doubted that it was; the Fire Duke would hardly put himself to any trouble.

  It couldn’t even be very functional, given the spaces between the leather straps. Torrie wondered what would happen if he simply drew his sword and lunged, but His Warmth shifted slightly in his chair—as though preparing or prepared for that? No, but still he would have thought about it.

  Torrie sat.

  The table had been set for five, but there was enough food for ten gluttons. The centerpiece was a small pyramid consisting of ten of what Torrie would have called Rock Cornish game hens—small chickens, each with its skin roasted to a perfect brown. The platter was rimmed with a dark rainbow of sliced meats and cheeses, from a dark, almost black, pate through brown meats and darkly yellow cheeses, occasionally interlaced with slices of red onion so thin as to be almost transparent.

  Near a squat teapot, another platter held the smoked fishes. Torrie was certain that the orange stuff was smoked salmon, but he wouldn’t have wanted to bet on the identity of the thin, almost translucent slices of some white fish, and wouldn’t have even bet that it was a fish if the centerpiece of the gray platter wasn’t a trio of fish heads standing on end, sliced so cleanly and artfully that it looked like they were leaping out of the platter, itself the color of a lake on a stormy day.

  His Warmth gestured, and Jamed del Bruno emerged from a dark entrance, a crystal carafe on a silver salver balanced squarely on the palm of his hand. Jamed del Bruno, his long, bony face impassive as a surgeon’s, filled Torrie’s goblet with a quick, practice
d splash of the darkly purple liquid that left the goblet full, but didn’t so much as spill a drop on the tablecloth. He bowed stiffly, and repeated the performance with Branden del Branden.

  “A fairly modest wine, from Wind Naravia, but enough of an earthy tone to do justice to a Stone Moranian, I think,” the Fire Duke said, lowering his own goblet so that Jamed del Bruno could refill it. He took another polite sip. “Please.”

  Torrie sipped. Not bad, although Torrie was no wine expert. There was a dark sweetness, like that of berries, but other than that, all he could say was that it was cold and tasted good.

  “A naive little Naravian,” Torrie said, “but I’m amused by its presumption.”

  His Warmth smiled. “Ah. A not uncommon reaction this morning, to a variety of things. I’m sorry your father is unwell. Actually, he was the guest I had in mind when issuing the invitation—welcome as you are, of course.”

  Torrie shrugged. “Sorry.” He found a large prong on the table that he hoped was intended for the purpose, and helped himself to a chicken, tearing off a tiny drumstick rather than using the two-pronged fork and tiny, scalpel-like knife beside his plate.

  Now that was good. Gamier than he was used to, but with a decided flavor to it.

  Like all of this.

  He should have been scared—anybody with half a brain and a quarter of an adrenal gland ought to be scared—but his heart wasn’t racing, and his palms didn’t sweat. He had been much more scared the first time he had tried to slip his hand into Heidi Bjerke’s bra than he was sitting across the table from the Fire Duke.

  The Fire Duke was frowning at him.

  Torrie swallowed. “As long as you’re burdened with me, Your Warmth, is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about?”

  Branden del Branden cocked his head to one side. “I would think you’d want to be less informal with His Warmth.”

  “I have no objection to a small taste of informality. A small taste.” His dark eyes had never left Torrie’s. The Fire Duke’s lips pressed together. “Word of your … escapade of last evening has reached me. I wonder if you’re aware of what you have taken on.”

  Torrie patted the hilt of his sword. “I’m competent enough. Better, perhaps, than you would think.”

  “Oh.” The Fire Duke could have meant anything or nothing. He quickly lowered his goblet. “I see that my other two guests are here.”

  The old man and Herolf made an odd couple as Jamed del Bruno ushered them onto the patio. Herolf: tall and hirsute, his hair his only clothing, his teeth a trifle too pointed as he smiled; a mane of hair still wet from a morning bath, or perhaps a swim. He flopped down into a chair and reached out long-fingered hands for a chicken, tearing into it with his sharp teeth and a low growl. “Good chicken,” he said, his mouth full, “but I prefer it with some blood still in it.”

  The other stood, waiting. He was an old man, gray-bearded and gray-haired, his shoulders perhaps a trifle too straight, his white linens loose on his bony frame. He was slim but not terribly so, and he moved as though every step was painful, but from a pain that would have to be ignored.

  His face was bony and angular at the cheekbone and the back of his jaw, his beard short and pointed, his nose thin and aquiline. While his left eye stared out from beneath heavy gray brows, his right eye was covered with a patch of the same fabric as his white linen tunic, secured with a thin leather strap that ran back through his dull gray hair.

  If there was a color other than black, white, or gray on his person, Torrie decided it would have to be his underwear.

  The old man hooked his thumb in his swordbelt, but there was nothing of bravado or threat in the motion; it was more like he was trying to support himself on himself. Too stubborn to lean on something or somebody else; too proud or polite to sit until invited. There was something familiar about him, although Torrie couldn’t have sworn what it was.

  “Thorian del Thorian,” the Fire Duke said, “I have the honor to present Thorian del Orvald, the duelmaster.”

  “Thorian del Thorian the Younger,” the old man said, nodding. “Son of Thorian del Thorian, so I understand.”

  “I would have introduced you last night, Thorian del Thorian,” Branden del Branden said, “but your party left the reception long before the duelmaster was to arrive.”

  “No matter,” Thorian del Orvald said. “I was tired from my journey, and I’m a patient man.” He served himself a few slices of smoked fish, a quick plop of some mustard-yellow sauce he spooned from a ramekin, and added an already peeled orange. “I had thought we would be seeing your father this morning.”

  “He’s in bed, recovering from an excess of the local wine last night.”

  “Pity. He was not so careless in his habits in the old days.” The old man declined Jamed del Bruno’s offer of wine with a wave of his hand. “Stream water, if you please.” Jamed del Bruno inclined his head, returned in a moment with a crystal water pitcher, and repeated the fill-with-a-splash that had impressed Torrie the first time.

  Thorian del Orvald picked up his bone-and-silver eating prong and carefully cut off a tiny piece of smoked fish, conveying it to his dry lips carefully. He chewed and swallowed even more carefully, as though everything he did in life was so significant and important that each detail must command his full attention.

  “I take it you know my father from before,” Torrie said.

  Herolf laughed. Torrie didn’t like the laugh, but then again he didn’t much like Herolf. Not that there was a lot to do about it.

  Then again: “Herolf,” he asked, “are you subject to challenge? Or are you dogs beneath it?”

  Herolf smiled, if that rictus could be called a smile. There was a low growl in his throat.

  Torrie slid his chair back from the table. The move was obvious: at Herolf’s first twitch, Torrie would backhand his wine goblet toward Herolf, kick out against Branden del Branden’s chair both to put Branden del Branden off balance and to slide his own chair away from the table, and use the distraction as an opportunity to get his sword in his hand. Herolf hadn’t paid attention to the sword before Torrie’s duel; he didn’t know who made it. Torrie was willing to bet that any sword Uncle Hosea had made would be able to kill a Son, or maybe more than a Son.

  “Be still, Herolf,” the Fire Duke said, shortly, sharply. “Your incessant growling is disturbing the tranquility of my breakfast.”

  Yeah, doggie, down when your master speaks.

  He turned to Torrie. “Still, I understand the … temptation of Herolf’s. And his disappointment. He was looking forward to witnessing a reunion of sorts this morning, as was I.” The Fire Duke sipped at his wine, then used his eating prong to convey a palm-sized piece of smoked fish to his cavernous mouth. Two quick chews and it was gone. “Understandable, no?”

  Torrie shrugged. “So my father used to work for this duelists’ guild—”

  “He was a member of our body,” Thorian del Orvald said, quietly, “sworn with blood, fire, and semen to be faithful to the body, which he betrayed.”

  “Uncle Hosea was held in a pit here—for how many years? Bound and tortured for how long?”

  The Fire Duke shook his head. “Apparently not long enough. There is much I would have known.”

  And would still know. Torrie didn’t let even a trace of a smile show on his face, and he wasn’t sure whether it should have been a smile or a look of horror. This wasn’t about Dad, it wasn’t about him at all. That was a sideshow. Maggie and Mom had been bait for Torrie and Dad; Torrie and Dad were bait for Uncle Hosea. This wasn’t about getting the Fire Duke a willing champion, or about playing politics with the other Houses. It was about getting hold of Uncle Hosea and a handle with which to control him.

  So it wouldn’t work.

  The Fire Duke wouldn’t call off his dogs in return for a promise of Torrie’s services; that wasn’t what he was after. Torrie was like … like the film canisters filled with cotton, then doused in doe urine, that they used to bring
deer into range: just bait for the real game.

  There was only one thing for the bait to do: disappear. With Dad and Mom gone and Torrie dead, there would be nothing to draw Uncle Hosea here.

  Disappearing was, of course, easier to desire than to do.

  Short of taking a running start and diving headfirst over the balcony, smashing himself on the pavement far below before anybody could stop him, Torrie didn’t have any idea of how he could remove himself as bait.

  And, besides, killing himself probably wouldn’t work. The Fire Duke could probably keep the secret for a long time, certainly long enough to trap Uncle Hosea.

  Jamed del Bruno had returned, a thin piece of parchment pinned to his salver with a smooth stone. “Adjutant Eldren del Eldren has a report for you, Your Warmth.”

  The Fire Duke folded his hands across his ample belly. “I would take it that you’ve already read it.”

  “Yes, Your Warmth; it was unsealed.”

  “Not that that would have stopped you. Very well: its import?”

  “Thorian del Thorian the Senior, his wife, and his son’s companion, known as the Exquisite Maggie, have escaped their rooms by a secret way.”

  Torrie would have said something, but Thorian del Orvald’s hand was on his arm. “Be still, be still. There’s nothing you can do at this point, and little point in flailing about to no purpose.”

  Branden del Branden muttered an oath as he crumpled his napkin and tossed it to one side.

  The Fire Duke smiled. “Ah. I knew there was a secret way from that suite; perhaps now they can be prevailed upon to disclose it, when the Sons drag them back.” His smile was as wolfish as Herolf’s. “There are three possible Ways that might connect with the tower; I took the liberty of having Herolf hide a pair of Sons in a known abditory in each of them.” His smile broadened. “Known to me, that is.”

  “Yes, Your Warmth,” Jamed del Bruno said. “That is the other part of the message. Eldren del Eldren reports that two of the pairs have seen nothing, and await orders, and the third …”