[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
considering.
Ian finished nibbling at the core of the apple, and started to set it down on
his plate.
Keep the seeds,Hosea murmured, his voice pitched too low for anybody else to
hear.Plant them, somewhere, some time. The fruit of their trees will not have
the same virtue as those which were tended by Idunn and now by Freya, but they
will grow in any soil.
"You have been made welcome," Harbard said in fluent Bersmal that had a hint,
perhaps, of the lilt of an older language, "with water, food, and fire, and
now, perhaps, it is the time to discuss a matter of... 'business.' " He said
the last word in English, perhaps because the same word in Bersmal didn't
quite have the same neutral connotation.
" 'Business'," Arnie Selmo said. "What business do we have?" He had clearly
been following the discussion in Bersmal, but spoke only in English.
Deliberately, or couldn't he manage in Bersmal? Ian couldn't tell.
"I..." Harbard said, slowly, "have need of a herald, a messenger, to one of
the Vandestish. He or they seem to be intent on provoking a war with the
Middle Dominions. You spoke earlier of seeing a Tyrson on patrol."
Page 54
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Ivar del Hival nodded. "Well, that's an obvious enough explanation for the
Vandestish patrol we sported." He took another bite from his apple. "The
Margrave of the Hinterlands, perhaps?"
"He ... appears to be involved. And that war must needs be stopped," Harbard
said, "before it ever begins."
"Well, that would be nice," Ivar del Hival said, "but who will go to bind the
wolf?"
"Youcannot," Harbard said. "No matter what token you carried, you are still
fealty-bound to the House of Fire, and would not be accepted; your oath is to
the Fire and the Sky, not to me."
"Well, yes, it is." Ivar del Hival nodded. "True enough. I was nervous about
being even on the fringes of Vandescard. And still am, for that matter." He
spread his hands. "But be that as it may, what can one do?"
"Ian Silverstone will carry it. You will fall under his protection. That is
likely to save you."
Ivar del Hival frowned. "I've always preferred better odds than 'likely,' but
so be it."
Ian was puzzled. Why would Odin or Harbard, or whatever he called himself
these days want to have a war stopped? And what did Ian and his friends have
to do with that?
"Why?" Arnie Selmo's lined face was unreadable. Ian wouldn't have wanted to
play poker with him, not now. "Why," he said, choosing his words slowly,
"would red-handed Odin, the carrion-god, want to stop a war? Why would he not
want to see yet another field fertilized with the blood and shit of dead young
men?"
Ivar del Hival started to rise to his feet, but dropped back to his chair.
"Odin?"
Shitshitshit. The last thing they needed to do was aggravate Harbard,
particularly with Freya gone.
"If I had cared to be called Odin," Harbard said, his voice the roar of
approaching thunder, "I would have so named myself." Harbard rose slowly, the
tips of his broad fingers pressed gently against the surface of the table.
"There was a time, youngster," he said, his voice husky, "when I would have
slapped your head from your shoulders for such impertinence."
Ian considered the grip of Giantkiller, next to his left shoulder, as it hung
in its scabbard on the back of his chair.
He didn't like his chances much, and besides
"But old men have to learn patience," Arnie said, not backing down, his eyes
on Harbard's, "and they can't let themselves have the recklessness, the
impetuousness, the go-to-hell of youth. They have to learn how to balance what
they want with what they can do, and they have to, perhaps worst of all, learn
how to let others do for them what they could once do for themselves.
"They have to learn that foul, horrible word: settle. They no,we. We have to
learn how to settle." His lips were tight, but his hands were loose on the
Page 55
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
table in front of him. "If you could do for yourself what you need to have
done, you wouldn't be negotiating with us. So, old one, if you are going to
negotiate, then sit down at the table and tell us what you offer, and what you
want.Settle, Harbard."
Harbard stood silently for a moment, his massive hands clenched at his sides,
visibly fighting for control. "So be it," he said. He reached into his pouch
and brought out a ring, and slipped it over a thick knuckle. It was plain and
unadorned, a simple gold band, gently rounded, too thick to be a wedding ring.
It reminded Ian of another ring, of a ring he had come to hate, but this
looked only vaguely similar. This one was plain, uninscribed, and it didn't
have that red stone with the nauseating symbol on it.
"Try this on," Harbard said. He rolled it across the table to Ian, who
reflexively picked it up. It felt warm, body-temperature or maybe a little
warmer, and was heavier than it ought to be. It was obviously too large for
Ian's ring finger; he tried the index finger and then the middle finger of his
left hand, with no success; he tried the thumb, and there it fit comfortably,
if a trifle snugly. Ian slid it off and held it on his palm for a moment it
still seemed heavier than it ought before setting it down in front of Harbard.
"Draupnir?" he asked. "Odin had a ring called Draupnir. Every eight days "
"Yes, yes, yes," Harbard dismissed the idea with a wave. "Dropper. Yes, every
eight days it would drop eight rings. The vestri can be blamed for that silly
tale; they've always been overly fond of gold. It never existed. Call this
Harbard's Ring, if you like."
"And they're going to believe me because I have a gold ring on my thumb," Ian
said.
Harbard's unblinking eyes stared at Ian from under heavy brows. Ian couldn't
tell what color the eyes were, though, even though he was looking right at
them, a bird hypnotized by an unblinking snake.
"They will believe you because you are my herald, my messenger, my spokesman,
Ian Silverstein," he said, the rumble in his voice making the dishes dance on
the rough surface of the table. "That is enough." He was silent for a long
moment, then dropped his gaze to the surface of the table. One blunt finger
played with a small pool of spilled cider as he spoke. "I'm old and tired, Ian
Silverstein," he said, his voice no longer the rumble of a god but the high,
quiet one of an old man, "and that's the truth. I am not now what I was, and I
will be even less as the millennia spin by, out of control. My wife has left
me, and while I think she shall return, I don't think she'll return to a
war-torn land."
He looked at Arnie Selmo. "I would hope, young one, that you would understand
how horrible it is to grow old alone."
"Yeah, I know something about it." Arnie's expression was cold granite. "Too
much about it. So what do we do now?"
Harbard stood slowly, an old man whose every movement was painful. "I now
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]