The Crimson Sky

by Joel Rosenberg

  No hot meal, but hmmm … that was strange.

  He hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but one of the smaller low-hanging branches was dead, the leaves long gone brown. He thought he would have to use the coil saw in his pack, but it snapped off cleanly with just a tug.

  In a few moments he had a small fire going, shielded from the wind by the smallest of the menhirs.

  Hosea’s eyelids flickered, and then opened, and the dark face split in a broad smile. “I brought some coffee,” he said, as he sat up, leaning on one elbow. “You left it behind in Hardwood.”

  “I realized that,” Ian said. And if I’d wanted you to come along, I wouldn’t have said no when you asked me if you could. And, then again, if my saying no meant a lot to you, you wouldn’t have followed anyway.

  Relaxing to the inevitable never came easy to Ian, but to tell the truth, it felt good to have Hosea along. There was something about the old black man’s smile that was reassuring, and he certainly knew more about, well, everything involving Tir Na Nog than Ian did.

  “Let’s have breakfast, and then hit the road. Valin should be camped out somewhere down there.”

  Hosea nodded. “I could track him, but it would seem much simpler simply to let him find us.”

  “Indeed.”

  Hosea raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Indeed?’ Am I mocked?“

  “You bet.”

  It took only a few minutes to roast the sausages over the small fire, a shorter time to wrap what they didn’t eat for later consumption, and almost no time at all to put the fire out by the traditional method.

  Ian buttoned his fly before he belted Giantkiller on; he hefted his rucksack to his shoulders.

  Hosea was already ready, his pack slung, his cloak rolled and tied like a bedroll, below. “Shall we?”

  Ian nodded. “Yes, let’s.” He felt like he was forgetting something. “You go on ahead; I’ll meet you down the trail in a few minutes.”

  Hosea nodded and walked off.

  Ian waited until he disappeared around a bend before he turned to the tree. “Thank you,” he said. “It was nice of you to give me peace for the night, and fuel for my fire.” He patted at the rough bark.

  It felt silly, but there was nobody else to hear him, except maybe Bóinn, and she wouldn’t tell on him. He couldn’t feel a breeze, but the leaves above his head rustled quietly, as though in answer.

  Ian smiled as he set off briskly down the hill, Giantkiller slapping gently against his leg as he walked. For somebody who had gone for some years without any kind of home, it felt good to have two.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morning After

  The damn phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and even though it was right above Jeff’s head it took him a moment to wake up enough to think about answering it. He shouldn’t have had that second drink; his head was pounding, and his gut was threatening to rebel, and every rrrring-ring was a personal assault.

  He reached up and pulled the receiver down, and croaked out a “Hello.”

  “Hello yourself,” the sweetest voice in the world answered. “Well, you sound even more chipper than usual this morning.”

  “Hi, Kath.” He rolled over and glanced at the clock. The painfully red letters said 7:33. Too damn early, even if his head hadn’t been pounding, and taking a short drink and heading back to bed—his usual cure for a rare hangover—wasn’t going to be practical.

  “Everything’s fine,” she said. “With me.”

  Wait. “How did you know to call me here?”

  “You mean,” she said, with some heat, “how could I possibly know something when you didn’t bother to tell me anything at all?”

  “Kath—”

  “Or do you mean that since you never tell me anything, I shouldn’t expect to know anything now?”

  That was unfair. Along with the badge came the requirement for a certain amount—a certain large amount—of discretion and even secrecy. It was part of his job. And, yes, he could trust Kathy, but for Jeff, as it had been for old John Honistead, having a wife who was publicly irritated with him for not being open-mouthed was an asset. People were much more willing to talk to you if they knew it wouldn’t go any further unless it had to, and you could avoid all sorts of problems if you could nip them in the bud, and the bud was, well, discretion.

  And Kathy knew that. That was part of the deal, and he had thought that most of her protestation was for public consumption, not because she really was irritated with him.

  But the one thing Jeff knew about women is that you never really knew about women.

  “Look, honey …” he started.

  She giggled.

  His jaw dropped. He had seen Kathy smile, and he had occasionally heard a deep laugh. But a giggle? A chuckle?

  Never.

  “Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Kathy Aarsted Bjerke?” he asked.

  She giggled again. “Oh, I’m still me. Really. Actually, I’m calling with a message for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Thorian Thorsen called Dad, and Dad said to tell you …”

  Paper rustled in the background. Kathy had always figured that if you didn’t write it down, it didn’t count, and she always made it count because she always wrote it down. Shopping lists, directions, little notes in his lunch pail that said “I love you!” with the dot under the exclamation point a little heart—she wrote everything down.

  Jeff didn’t know why he found that so endearing, but he did. There were worse things in the world than to find your wife’s habits charming.

  “The first thing he says is to not call over there, and not to come over there. He’ll explain why later, when you meet him.”

  And where was Jeff going to meet him?

  “The Ramsey County Humane Society, Beulah Lane, St. Paul,” she said, answering him before he’d gotten the chance to ask.

  St. Paul? Yuck.

  Well, Thorian Thorsen undoubtedly had his reasons. But St. Paul?

  She giggled again. “Yes, I know how you feel about St. Paul. ‘It’s a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there.’ ”

  Cities, even if well laid out, were hard enough to find your way around in. St. Paul had clearly been laid out by a madman who thought it would be funny to have Sixth Street and Seventh Street intersect, and have that be an entirely different place than the intersection of Old Sixth and Seventh. And then there were the streets like Chatham, that started and stopped like the dotted line down a highway.

  As far as Jeff was concerned, the only sensible way to find your way around St Paul was to let a native guide drive you, and even then he wouldn’t want to bet on it. “Do you have a pencil?”

  He had dropped his shirt and pants next to the bed before crashing out last night, and, as always, there was a notepad and pen in his shirt pocket.

  “Go.”

  Billy was stretched out on the king-sized bed—Jeff had half-expected him to have a queen-sized one, and felt vaguely guilty at the thought—in his bedroom, wearing one of those black satin sleeping masks that looked like the Lone Ranger’s mask, except without the eye-holes.

  Sunlight splashed in through the Venetian blinds, striping his hairless chest with bands of gold and dark.

  Jeff knocked on the door frame.

  Billy came awake instantly, as though he hadn’t really been sleeping; he reached up and pulled off his sleeping mask and propped himself up on an elbow.

  “Well,” he said, his smile just a touch too wide to be unforced. “Good morning to you.”

  “Where’s the nearest place I can rent a car?” Jeff asked. “Preferably cheap.” He hadn’t been able to find a phone book—either white or yellow pages—and, besides, he had never rented a car.

  What was the cheapest choice? Hertz? Avis? He didn’t need anything fancy. Just transportation.

  “Oh, there’s a Rent-a-Wreck downtown, but why rent when you can borrow from a friend?” Billy’s fingers scrabbled on his nightstand and came
up with a set of keys. “Bright red Saturn parked out front. There’s a spare key in one of those little magnetic boxes under the left rear fender if you lock the keys in. And please do lock up? This is the city.”

  “Billy, I…”

  “You’re very grateful, and you just don’t know how to thank me, because I’ve been so wonderful despite everything and gee, Billy, let’s get together some time.” Billy tossed the keys overhand into the air, and Jeff had to lunge forward to catch them. Billy never did have a good pitch; he always threw like a girl.

  “Don’t worry about getting the car back; I wasn’t going to use it today, anyway. My plan is to sleep the morning away, then take the bus downtown for my class at the Y before work. It’s cheaper, and it’s just as quick, and it gives me an excuse to ask the new bartender for a ride home after work again, and he’s very, very cute.” He frowned as he fumbled for his mask. “But just be careful, okay?”

  “I won’t scratch your car.”

  “I’m not talking about the fucking car.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Branden Del Branden

  Ian was surprised, although not shocked: the Village of Mer‘s Woods wasn’t exactly prepossessing, but either it had grown since Torrie had been there or Torrie had exaggerated its smallness, so to speak.

  Torrie had talked about a few huts and shacks in a clearing at the edge of a hunting preserve owned by the Margrave Mer, but as the trail through Mer’s Woods broke on the clearing, Ian could easily count a couple of dozen houses straddling the cobblestone street that was the only paved road in the village.

  It was one of the last outposts of Vandescard before the mountains of the Middle Dominion, and while there was little commerce between the two—wars and rumors of wars tended to interfere with trade—it was the quickest way to get to the Cities from Eastern Vandescard …

  As long as they didn’t want you not to come. As an invasion route, it would be a problem. The mountain road rose up in the distance, twisting and turning up toward the clouds.

  “Just as well we’re friendly, eh?” Hosea said. “It’s amazing how many deadfalls one can build when you’ve had a few centuries to build them.”

  “So why leave the road up at all?” Ian asked, instantly realizing that it was a stupid question the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  “Because,” Hosea said, his smile a gentle reproof, “the road goes down,” he said, his hand making a downward arc, “as well as up.” His hand arced up.

  “This one is sorry for his stupidity, friend of the friend of the Father of Vestri, himself the father of the Folk,” Valin said, his forehead wrinkled in confusion, “but he does not understand. All roads go in both directions. This road is not special in that respect.”

  Well, at least he had relaxed enough to only slip into formal mode now and then. The bowing and scraping never did sit well with Ian. Thank goodness he didn’t know that Hosea was the Father of Vestri himself, or he never would have loosened up even this much.

  “Truth to tell, young one,” Hosea said, “most roads do. But not all.”

  “I… don’t understand.”

  “Well, you know that some of the Hidden Ways only go in one direction, and they are roads of sorts. And time, much as it may speed by or slow down, does only speed by or slow down in one direction.”

  “But must that always be so?”

  If it wasn’t a silly question, then it was one that Valin wouldn’t be able to understand the answer to. Nevertheless, Hosea was interminably patient with Valin’s slowness—and Ian’s, as well, come to think of it—and he didn’t simply shrug it off the way Ian was tempted to. “No one can outrun time. Do you know the story of Asa-Thor and his visit to Utgarda-Loki?”

  “Loki?” The dwarf’s eyes went wide.

  “No, no, not Brother Fox—Loki and Honir were travelling with Thor at the time. I speak of Utgarda-Loki; he was a giant, who entertained the three of them for an evening in his cave.

  “Eating and drinking had become bragging and boasting—remember, we are talking about Asa-Thor, and he was always a loudmouth—enough to irritate their host.

  “So he had a red-headed man challenge Loki to an eating contest; he challenged Asa-Thor to pick up his cat; and he had a lame old woman run a race against Honir. The three Aesir lost all the contests, for the red-headed man was Fire itself, and no one can eat more than fire; the cat was really the belly of Ourobouros, the Worm of the world, and not even Thor could raise the world; and the lame old woman was Time, and nobody, not even one as fleet of foot as Honir, can outrun time, or cause it to go back when it steps forward.”

  Time passed more quickly and pleasantly, as usual, when Hosea was telling a story, and despite his age and his limp, talking while he walked never seemed to slow him down. Yesterday, the story of Honir’s Run had taken them from breakfast to lunch, and his extended version of the tale of Bóinn and the Salmon of Knowledge had carried them to their campsite, and now the story of Thor’s Visit to Utgarda-Loki took them down the trail and to the margrave’s cottage that stood guard on the road into the village.

  The closest thing to an inn the village had was the margrave’s hunting lodge, a long, low, thatch-roofed cottage completely surrounded by a raised deck that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the shores of Lake Bemidji—if it wasn’t for the green vines that Ian knew were carved into the pillars rather than real because they were veined with gold leaf—but the high windows were shuttered and the entryway was boarded, the only sign of life a wisp of smoke from what Ian assumed was the simple wattle-and-daub building behind it.

  That was too bad. If somebody from the margrave’s court were in residence, they might have been able to spend the night, or trade on Ian’s name for some horses. But even though the village was larger than its reputation, there would hardly be a stable full of horses awaiting some traveler’s purchase or borrowing.

  Too bad. It would be—

  His thoughts were interrupted by the pounding of horses’ hooves off in the distance, drawing closer. Valin dove for the brush on the side of the road. His rucksack’s straps hung up in some brush, but he wriggled out of it and vanished, only a rustling of leaves and twigs marking his passing.

  Hosea smiled forgivingly. “The Sons of Vestri have not always been the most courageous of creatures, but I’m fond of them nonetheless.”

  Ian grunted. “Valin managed enough courage to get to Hardwood with the warning, even badly injured.”

  “There is that.” Hosea set his rucksack down on the dirt of the road and leaned against his staff.

  Ian had already shrugged out of his rucksack and had loosened Giantkiller in its scabbard. Not that he would be able to do a lot of good against a troop of soldiers, but the Fire Duke had taught him that there were times when bravado was even better than cheap: it was free.

  A troop of twenty horsemen in the orange-and-black livery of the House of Fire thundered around the bend in the road, blue pennants fluttering from the tips of the lancers’ lances.

  Blue?

  “House of the Sky,” Hosea answered the unasked question. “They’re on an assignment on behalf of the Scion, of the Dominions as a whole, not just of the House of Fire.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “No.”

  The horsemen slowed as they approached the wide spot in the road where Ian and Hosea stood waiting. None were armored cap-a-pie, but each of the lancers held a highly burnished shield on his free arm, while his lance arm was covered with a metal sleeve from the gauntlet to where it disappeared under a riding cloak.

  All wore peaked helmets that covered the top, back, and sides of their heads, with what Ian thought of as a nose-piece, although it probably had a technical name, covering the face from brow to mouth.

  The leader wore the three red and silver stripes of an ordinary of the House of Flame on his shield, which he deftly tossed to the horseman on his right side, then dismounted with an easy vault.

  He removed his helme
t, and handed it up to another of the horsemen. “Ian Silver Stone,” he said, with a shallow smile that went no deeper than his teeth, “I’m pleased to see you here.”

  Branden del Branden still wore his moustache, but his sharp chin was clean-shaven; apparently beards were, at the moment, out of fashion in the House of Fire, and Branden del Branden was nothing if not stylish.

  He was only a little shorter than Ian, and his build was a compromise between Ian’s own lankiness and the thick muscularity of the Thorsens.

  Except for his wrists: both were thick and muscular, like Ian’s own. They were a swordsman’s wrists. An ordinary of the House of Flame might not be the equal of a professional duelist, but he was, first and foremost, a swordsman, in both law and practice, and the wrist was the fulcrum around which the world of the sword balanced.

  Ian hadn’t known Branden del Branden long or well, but he had known him long enough to dislike him. It wasn’t that Branden del Branden clearly had a thing for Maggie—Ian understood that, and Torrie could have taken him handily if he got out of line—but it was something about his self-assurance that grated on Ian’s nerves. Branden del Branden, no more than thirty, had felt perfectly comfortable taking charge of Falias while the new Fire Duke was being sent for.

  Maybe it was just jealousy. Branden del Branden not only had a solid place in his world but he had always had it, and always would. He was the oldest son of Branden del Branden the Elder, and while that made him heir to his father’s responsibilities, it also had always made him heir to his father’s place.

  It was probably his move, so Ian stepped forward and offered his hand; Branden del Branden stepped forward and accepted it, gripping Ian’s wrist as Ian gripped his. Branden del Branden’s grip was, if anything, stronger than Ian’s.

  “It’s good to see you, as well,” Ian said.

  “Oh, and why would that be?”

  Because it was the polite thing to say? “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know why the man the Vandestish call the Promised Warrior would be happy to see an ordinary of the House of Flame,” Branden del Branden said, his tone light, but with the definite undertone of menace that Ian had heard before.