The Fire Duke

by Joel Rosenberg

  “Clever.” Thorian del Orvald raised a gnarled finger to his brow. The duelmaster could appreciate a sly strategy. “My congratulations, Orfindel, or whatever your name is.”

  Torrie shuddered. He had known Uncle Hosea was different, but to take a probe and stick it in his own—enh.

  The slur in Uncle Hosea’s voice was worse than it usually was, and—“This isn’t the first time you’ve done that, is it?”

  Uncle Hosea shook his head. “No. Nor the second.” He raised a hand. “Leave it be, Thorian; leave it be.”

  The massive door opened. Jamed del Bruno, saturnine and somber in black and beige, a trio of Vestri servants in his wake, entered bearing a platinum platter amply laden with ripe cheeses and fist-sized loaves of bread, all warm and yeasty-smelling. The three Vestri, their blunt fingers working far more delicately than they appeared capable of, quickly opened up the tops of the tiny loaves with three slashes of a knife followed by a deft tug, and filled the openings with cheeses, topping it with a sprinkling of some green herb before serving small plates of it about.

  “I felt a small repast was in order,” Jamed del Bruno said, “despite the hour.” He walked to the side of the room, and pushed aside the tapestry to reveal what appeared to be a blank wall. “His late Warmth kept his most prized wines and brandies here,” he said, pushing at a couple of spots a hand’s breadth apart.

  Torrie nodded. He would push in both places, where the thin wall was just flexible enough to give a trifle, then wait for the count of three while the internal mechanism momentarily brought the locks into the right alignment, then bang on the wall between the two spots.

  Jamed del Bruno did just that. There may have been the ghost of a smile on his face as the ragged door opened on silent hinges, revealing a cupboard-sized repository, filled with dusty bottles lying on their sides. Jamed del Bruno carefully selected one, then eased the cork out with practiced thumbs, filling the wide-necked wineglasses with a black-red splash as quickly as one of the Vestri could bring them.

  The three Vestri served out bread and wine; it took a moment for Torrie to realize that the Vestri serving him was Broglin.

  “I apologize, Broglin,” he said in Vestri, accepting the plate with one hand and the glass with the other. “And I thank you for your help before.”

  The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “It was as it should be, Thorian del Thorian,” he said in the same language. “Although there is much you have to learn of subtlety. Need everyone here know that I would serve you no matter the cost?”

  Torrie flushed. “Why would anybody know Vestri?” he asked.

  “Because knowledge is good,” Thorian del Orvald said in Vestri. He grunted. “One would have thought your father would have taught you that.”

  “Because it is worthwhile to know the language of those one supervises,” Jamed del Bruno said, also in Vestri.

  “Because it is even more worthwhile to know the language of those one rules,” Lord Sensever said in the same language, with a grin. “Being a member of the ruling class does require some work, you know.”

  Uncle Hosea shrugged. “It would be nice to know what all of you are speaking of, but I guess that would be too much to ask.”

  No. Uncle Hosea not understanding a language, particularly this language? Had he cut out so much of his brain?

  Torrie kept his face straight. “Nothing of importance, Uncle Hosea.” He waved it all away. “But I have to find the Hidden Way back. They didn’t have enough of a head start on the Sons; they’ll need help, and every minute …”

  “Is but a minute,” Broglin said in Vestri, “as always it shall be.”

  Jamed del Bruno nodded. “You might as well tell them; if not, I shall.” There was silence for a moment. “Very well,” Jamed del Bruno said. “I can show you the Hidden Way His Late Warmth sent the Sons on, and their tracks shall not be difficult to follow, at least for the first while.” He frowned. “There was an accident, of sorts. It seems that a powerful purgative was inserted into the last meal fed the Sons before they left. It will slow them down until they work it out of their system.” He poured more wine. “I always felt that a contest was more interesting when the prey had a chance to escape.”

  “Then we have to hurry; even if they make it—”

  Uncle Hosea raised a hand. “Torrie, Torrie, you have too little faith. They shall be fine; trust your neighbors. Trust your mother and your woman, as well as your father.” He considered it for a moment. “Still, if you will show us the way back, Jamed del Bruno, I think it appropriate that young Thorian, Ian Silverstone, and I return there, if only for a while.”

  The door swung open yet again, and Ian Silverstein walked in, a rucksack slung across his back. He was wearing the red-orange-trimmed black tunic and trousers of an officer of the House of Flame, but the boots were the ones he had been wearing, and the sword at his waist was the one Uncle Hosea had given him.

  Perhaps his face was a trifle pale, and possibly his step was not as firm as it should have been, but he held himself straight—perhaps too straight, but not like a man in pain, afraid that any move would tear him apart.

  Torrie smiled. “I take it the Vestri are better healers than we’ve been told.”

  Ian shook his head. “Nah,” he said in English, “tell you later. You might even believe me.” He tapped at his belly. “Feels like it’s about to fall apart, but it’s not hurting, and I’m told the … bandage will hold things together long enough.”

  He dropped the rucksack down on the desk in front of Branden del Branden. “I’ve also been told that the House of Flame is officially beholden to me,” he said.

  Branden del Branden chuckled. “That would seem to be the case, although I’d not care to make any major decisions right now; the new His Warmth will shortly be on his way from the Sky, and he’s likely to hold me responsible for anything … excessive.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. “Just enough gold to carry, and directions home?”

  Torrie cleared his throat. “We were just talking about that. Everybody thinks Mom, Dad, and Maggie had enough of a head start, and—”

  Ian shrugged. “I’d trust your Dad to handle things, Torrie.” A cloud could have passed across his face for a moment. And, if not, it’s all over by now, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it, he might as well have said. “But I still have some things to do there.”

  Torrie forced his hand to unclench. Ian had the right of it. “So you want to go home, eh? Back to school?”

  “Well, no.” Ian frowned. “We’ll talk about it some time.”

  Thorian del Orvald eyed him carefully. “There are other possibilities. What the outsiders call the House of Steel is perhaps beholden to someone who exposed the usurper who commanded our services.”

  Sensever nodded. “Exposed? That’s a weak way of putting it. But he’s quite right. Speaking for His Force, there would likely be a place in the House of Wind for one who has served us so well, if unintentionally. The late Fire Duke was a creature of ambition, and some of his ambitions seem to have involved my House.”

  Ian shook his head. “Maybe some other time. Right now, I’ll settle for the gold—and directions.”

  Branden del Branden pursed his lips judiciously. “Gold would be no problem, particularly if we didn’t have to bother the bursar major, but rather had access to His Late Warmth’s private safe.” His mouth twisted. “I’ve known the bursar major for some years now, and suspect she still has her first obol tucked safely away between her weathered dugs.” He grunted.

  Hosea rose from his chair. “I remember that much, long though it has been.” He knelt near the corner of the rug and pulled it back. The floorboards under it were a dark wood, with a deep luster. Hosea pushed near the joint of two floorboards, and when it gave slightly, pushed at another board beyond it. A section of floor swung up, revealing the mouths of four canvas bags. Hosea rose as the three Vestri pulled the bags out, clever blunt fingers untying complicated knots in t
he leather thongs that held the bags closed.

  Ruddy gold shone. “I think that ought to be more than sufficient,” Hosea said.

  Branden del Branden smiled. “I think you ought to take what of it you and a Vestri servant can carry, Ian Silver-stone. We owe you at least that much.”

  Ivar del Hival stroked at his beard. “I think a Vestri might seem out of place where Ian Silverstone is going; I’ll help him carry his booty.”

  “Sit,” Uncle Hosea said, “if it please you, Ian Silver-stone. There’s much we have to talk about.”

  Ian’s forehead wrinkled. “Let’s talk in private, please.”

  He jerked his head toward the veranda beyond. “Just you, me, and Torrie.”

  High, above, a black bird circled; Torrie had thought at first it was an eagle, and then from the shape of the head, a crow, but it was probably neither; the head was sloped too much for it to be an eagle, and it was far too large to be a crow.

  Ian rested himself on his forearms, leaning on the railing at the edge of the balcony. “So you didn’t trust me, eh?” he said, quietly. “Asshole.”

  Torrie flared. “Don’t you talk to him like that—”

  “You too, Thorian del Thorian,” Ian said. “You don’t know what’s involved, you don’t know how important this all is.” He turned to Uncle Hosea. “You should have let us all die, if necessary; you know what the stakes are. A human Fire Duke could well have been after a map of the Hidden Ways, but you know full well that the fire giant was after the Brisingamen jewels.”

  Torrie shook his head. He had no difficulty believing that objects in Tir Na Nog could be invested with great power, but how could they really be that important? The Brisingamen was something out of the stories Uncle Hosea used to tell, a necklace of great power, but this much? Ending the universe was just too big an idea to deal with.

  Leave it be for now.

  “Ian, Ian,” Uncle Hosea said, slowly, tired, his voice slurred, “I could no more break my word to Thorian’s grandfather than I could to anybody else.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have promised him, you—”

  “There are many things I should and shouldn’t have done.” Uncle Hosea licked his lips once, twice, three times. “But leave that for today. What would you have me do now?”

  “You purged from your mind the entrances, and the locations of the jewels—but could you find your way through the Hidden Ways back to Hardwood?”

  Uncle Hosea thought about it for a moment. “Likely. It’s not like I was able to hack precisely. Likely you’ll be able to follow the trail of the Sons; there’ll be a freshness to it that—” He waved it away. “So you wish to go home, Ian Silverstein.”

  “For a time, Orfindel,” Ian said, fitting the words to his feelings, finding that they felt good. “But only for a time. I want to take that gold and set up a trust fund to pay for some legal fees.” Ian smiled. Let somebody who wanted to be a lawyer chase down bastards like Benjamin Silverstein. He never wanted the career anyway. That was just a way of getting even, and while that work was important, he could let others do it, now.

  I reject you, you miserable excuse for a father. I’ll let others even the score for me, by proxy. I’ve got my own life to live. “Just some business to settle. Your mom can launder some money for me, I take it, maybe set up a trust fund,” he said to Torrie.

  Torrie shrugged. “I’ve really never been much interested in the money side of things,” he said. “I guess I got that from my father.”

  “She has done similar things before,” Hosea said. “You do not plan to spend the money yourself?”

  “Hey, I don’t remember taking a vow of poverty.” Ian smiled. “Oh, sure; I’ll keep some, and enjoy spending it. On some camping gear, yeah. And I’d like to lie on a beach on a Caribbean island for a couple of weeks, maybe. And then if I have to pay Torrie’s dad for some freestyle lessons, I’ll pay.” He felt at his side, at where the false Fire Duke’s sword had cut into him. “I need to be better at that.” Grinning made him feel positively giddy. “If lessons aren’t available from Thorian del Thorian the Elder, perhaps Thorian del Orvald can be persuaded. Foil fencing has its limitations.”

  Torrie grinned, too. “But it’s got its uses, too, apparently. And then we go looking for the Brisingamen jewels, eh?”

  “We.” Ian nodded. “Yeah. We.” This had been his turn to take center stage, to make all the difference. Next rime might be Torrie’s.

  Or it might not be either of theirs.

  But fuck it. I’m Ian Silverstein, companion to Orfindel, friend of Odin and Freya, slayer of some unknown fire giant; I may just be up to what’s necessary.

  “And what do we do with the jewels when we find them all?” Torrie asked. “I mean, like, if they’re so important, who do we trust?”

  Ian snorted. “Well, we don’t trust some conspiracy of fire giants and bergenisses, that’s for a start. I have an idea in mind, but I’m not sure you’ll like it.” He turned to Hosea. “I wouldn’t be the first one to trust her with the jewels, would I?”

  Hosea shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t be the first. But leave that for another day.”

  Ian nodded. Yes, it was enough for a day. “Well, then, shall we rejoin the others?” Ian led the other two back inside.

  Little had changed, except that Ivar del Hival was gone and that another Vestri had arrived bearing familiar-looking rucksacks.

  Lord Sensever poured an inky wine into a long-stemmed tulip glass, then raised it to his nose, giving it a quick sniff before he tasted it. “Quite nice, indeed. Jamed del Bruno has gone with Ivar del Hival; they should return shortly, and you’ll be sent on your way.” Raised eyebrows invited the others to share the wine; Ian shook his head, as did Hosea, but Torrie nodded.

  “Sure. I’ll take some.” He was already back in his chair, his swordbelt off and looped over the back of the chair, leaving the hilt within reach, his feet propped up on the edge of the Fire Duke’s desk. One thing Torrie knew how to do was relax; Ian had always envied him that, and probably always would.

  Branden del Branden accepted a glass, and eyed Ian over its rim. “You are, of course, welcome to stay. I’m sure the new His Warmth would like to meet all of you—”

  “But not certain enough that he’d let us go?”

  Branden del Branden shook his head. “I could argue either that you’re too insignificant to be that worried about or that you’re too important to trifle with. Either way, I doubt he would want to detain you.” He looked carefully at Hosea. “At least, the two of you. I’d rather not think about what he would wish to do about Orfindel, so I won’t.”

  “Good idea.” Torrie’s smile wasn’t entirely friendly.

  Ian tugged his own rucksack open. His clothes had been washed and neatly folded and packed away. He wondered idly what they had used to clean his shirt and trousers, but didn’t figure that asking Sensever or Branden del Branden or Thorian del Orvald would make any sense.

  Branden del Branden set his wineglass down to finish loading the last of four small bags with gold coins.

  Ian would have made some comment about stinginess, but he hefted one of the little bags, surprised to find that such a small thing weighed easily twenty-five, thirty pounds, and decided it would get heavier before it got lighter. He turned to Torrie. “We split it?”

  “Nah.” Torrie leaned back, his head pillowed on his hands. “I’ve got money; Mom and Dad have seen to that.” Torrie’s broad face almost split in a grin. “Might let you pick up a couple of airline tickets, though, if you don’t mind some company on a beach.”

  “A couple? Maggie?”

  Torrie nodded. “I did promise her a vacation, and I don’t think this counted. Do you?”

  Ian pursed his lips. “No. No, I don’t.” He hefted the sack again. “What is gold going for these days?”

  Torrie shrugged. “Three hundred an ounce? Maybe more? I’ve never been much interested; my mom could probably tell you.”

  Hosea n
odded. “Most likely she could. To the penny.”

  Hmm … about twenty-five pounds per bag, and there were four bags. Something like half a million dollars. Four bags, but—oh, that was right. Ivar del Hival wanted to come along.

  “You’ve got something special in mind?”

  Ian nodded. “Tell you about it sometime.”

  It wasn’t an immense amount of money, but it didn’t have to be enough to finance everything. Just some seed money, for the right lawyer starting off on a new specialty.

  Call it making the bastards pay …

  Branden del Branden loaded each of the bags into a rucksack; Ian tied his shut and hefted it to his shoulder.

  It was funny, really; with about forty pounds of gold and gear on his back, Ian felt lighter, somehow. He couldn’t help grinning, and he probably would have laughed if his belly didn’t feel so tender. His gut didn’t hurt, but it felt like it was made of tissue paper.

  “Well, let’s get Jamed del Bruno back here and get us on our way,” he said.

  Branden del Branden seemed to relax, although Ian hadn’t noticed him being tense. Branden turned to Torrie. “I do have a request of you.”

  Torrie cocked his head to one side. “Well?”

  “You’ll convey to the Exquisite Maggie that she always has at least one admirer here, one who would assure that her status would be … sufficient.”

  Sensever took another sip of wine. “Oh, I doubt that would be necessary. Her association with this whole affair would guarantee much interest in her, even if the young ladies of this House were not already gossiping about how facile her mind is, and how quick with learning not only graces and niceties but more practical skills for a noblewoman.” He raised his glass to Torrie. “A charming young lady.”

  Torrie nodded. “I’ll tell her that,” he said, to both of them. “I’m … fairly fond of her myself.”

  Branden del Branden waved it away. “The lady can always choose.”

  Ian hid a smile behind his hand. Seemed that somebody was taken with Maggie.

  A thought struck him. He hadn’t seen anything but his clothes …