Joel Rosenberg - Hidden Ways 1

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Acknowledgments
I'm grateful to the Usual Suspects—Peg Kerr Ihinger, Bruce Bethke, and Pat Wrede—for helping to point the way; to Harry
Leonard, Victor Raymond, David Dyer-Bennet, Sharon Rosenberg, Dale Rosenberg, and Elise Matthesen for additional advice and
encouragement en route; to Eleanor Wood, for making the trip pay for itself; and to Chris Miller, John Douglas, and Bob Mecoy
for faith, patience, and enthusiasm at the beginning and through to the end. I'm also thankful for the copyediting of Carol Kennedy
and the proofreading of Beth Friedman. Special thanks to Jerry Pournelle for giving me the key to Arnie Selmo, and for his
consultation on the philosophy and practice of épée and foil fencing.
Much right is thanks to all of them; any mistakes belong entirely to me.
I'm particularly grateful to the people who lived in Northwood, North Dakota, in the late fifties and early sixties—every last one of
them.
As always, I'm grateful to my wife, Felicia Herman, and my daughters, Judy and Rachel, for things that have both much and little
to do with the work at hand.
PROLOGUE
In the House of Flame
Flame Melts Ice, Wind Snuffs Flame, Stone Blocks Wind, Ice Cracks Stone,
(repeat four times, then:)
Sky Rules All, Sky Rules All, Sky Rules All, Sky Rules All.
—Middle Dominion children's song, sung in time to the bouncing of a ball
“Stasis," the Fire Duke said, pronouncing the word like a curse. "I have had my fill of stasis, and then some."
"Almost as much as you've had your fill of His Solidity, perhaps?" Rodic del Renald inclined his head. It wouldn't have been politic
to observe that having his fill and then more was clearly a habit of the fat duke. A smattering of presumption went well with
Rodic's profession and position, but only a smattering.
Besides, to be fair, the Fire Duke, Lord of Falias, wore his fat well. Maneuvering his vast bulk with a grace that still surprised the
son of Renald, even after all the years of occasional service to His Warmth, the fat man rose to his feet and walked to the broad
expanse of window, his hands clasped at his waist, as though he could hold any problem to him and crush it.
Which is perhaps true for any problem His Warmth can wrap his hands about, Rodic del Renald thought. Not that it would do any
good here and now. Back before he had become duke, back when the future His Warmth was merely Anegir del Denegir, back when
he was only the second son of the late His Warmth, he had been thought rather straightforward, for someone of his lineage.
That had changed, but perhaps not as much as His Warmth would have wished. There's only so much about yourself you can
change.
"Not just the Stone Duke," the Fire Duke said, "but the Wind and the Ice, as well. And if the truth be known—"
As it is, in the long run, Rodic thought.
"—I'm less than fond of the Sky," he murmured. He smiled thinly, as though daring Rodic to acknowledge the treason.
"Then, my Duke," Rodic said, "by all means, complain endlessly about it. Tell me more, please, about how neither you nor any
other of the Houses dare move too openly, too boldly against each other, for fear of bringing the wrath of the remaining ones down
against the aggressor."
As though that was the only worry. Off to the east of the Dominion, Vandescard lay, perhaps waiting, perhaps not. One could
never tell about humans who styled themselves the proper descendants of the Vanir. And one could never tell about the Old Ones
in the North, or the younger, more vigorous cultures in the South.
We live, huddled among the bones of giants, Rodic decided, like a bunch of aging men, waiting to become old enough to lay down
their tools and die gracefully.
And, yet, compared to the youngest of the Old Ones, the Dominion was still young and fresh.
There had once been more than a dozen Houses, and not merely the five remaining, inhabiting the ancient keeps of Falias, Gorias,
Finias, and Murias, and the one so old it was known only as the Old Keep. One House had become powerful enough to take the
Old Keep, and the title of the House of the Sky; only four others survived.
The rest were long gone, conquered and subsumed like the House of Trees, shattered and destroyed like the House Without A
Name.
"Even the Sky," the Fire Duke said.
"If the Sky bothers you so badly, summon your son and heir back, and let him lead your soldiers against it."
As though that could happen. Venidir del Anegir and his Lady Mother were more or less a permanent fixture in the Old Keep,
which apparently suited both of them and the Fire Duke well. Back when his elder brother died, even before he succeeded his
father, His Warmth had seemed to have little use for his wife and his heir, and had long had them live as his emissaries to the Sky,
returning to Falias but rarely.
It might bode well for the House of Flame to have its next duke so well connected with the Sky, or it might not; it was possible that
too close a connection could trigger a revolt by the other three houses, fearful that they would be shattered or subsumed, too.
"You speak perhaps a trifle boldly," the Fire Duke said.
"I speak, perhaps, a trifle truthfully." Wondering if he had gone too far, Rodic sipped at a cold spun-glass flute of icy Prime
Ingarian autumn wine. The berries, grown high on the surprisingly cool slopes of Flame Ingaria, were picked, shriveled, just before
the first frost, and only the first pressing went into the Prime. After fifty years in a hidden wine cellar that could have been next to
the duke's quarters or leagues of corridors away, the wine was sweet as wildflower honey, but with a rich berry taste that lingered
on the tongue.
When the fat duke started fighting for control of his expression, Rodic knew that he had won, he had survived, yet again. The Art
was not only his way of life, it was the key to life: someone as devious as the Fire Duke would not deal so straightforwardly with
Rodic as to have him killed. No matter that, practically, it would be a matter of great simplicity for the duke to have Rodic killed
here and now.
While there were undoubtedly abditories and adits and passages in the keep that the Duke of the House of Flame didn't know—the
keeps had been built for the Old Ones, after all, and they hardly left behind a map!—His Warmth would hardly have picked as his
private office a room without several secret entries under his control. Quite likely, a brace of soldiers hid behind the tapestry or
perhaps in the ceiling, waiting and listening until a raised voice called for them. But probably only one such hiding place was
available to His Warmth's servants. Knowledge of the Hidden Ways wasn't merely a convenience to the rulers of the Houses] at
times it was a matter of life and death.
Politically, it would be the simplest thing in the world for the Flamebearer to order Rodic's death. After all, Rodic's use-name was
his fullname: Rodic was only a second-generation noble. His two brothers were long dead in duels, and his sister married off to a
Caprician knight minor.
There was no one to carry out a vendetta against nobility of any House, and certainly not against the Fire Duke.
But Rodic's father had long ago taught him that the Old Families respected impertinence at a level that cut below conscious thought,
and that the only way to keep from having to constantly grovel before them was to refuse to, to constantly show an acceptable
trace of disdain—but only an acceptable one.
Rodic didn't want to die the way his father had, not now. Another fifteen years, perhaps, and young Rodic del Rodic—with, by the
Dominion, a true use-name!—would be established, perhaps even accepted as a cadet into the House of Flame. Or of Ice, if it came
to that.
But he would not spend his life in what the true houses mockingly called the House of Steel, doing the dirty work of the nobility.
That was for Rodic del Renald.
"You sent for me to complain about stasis, Your Warmth?" Rodic asked, then took another sip.
"No," the Fire Duke said, "I sent for you for two reasons. There's a small dispute with the Stone—I'd like you to represent me in
it."
"A matter of honor?"
"No," the duke said. "Territory. A smallish part of a smallish holding. We have the records to prove it ours."
"I am, of course, honored." Rodic bowed his head. Not particularly. Money matters were of no interest to him; that's what he had a
wife for, after all. "I'll have to examine the documents before I commit myself—"
"My word is not good enough?"
"Of course it is," Rodic said. "If you wish to face the House of Stone's representative yourself, Your Warmth. If you wish to steep
yourself in the rightness of your cause, and then reinforce the strength and cunning of your arm with the appropriate rituals and
herbs, why, then of course your word is good enough for me, and I'll proudly stand as your second, to bind up your wounds, if
received, and help carry you from the field, dead or alive, should you fall."
He raised a finger. "But since I happen to know that Stanar del Brunden is representing the Stone Duke, and since I've received
more cuts from his blade than I can count, I'll see your proof before I commit myself and my too, too tender flesh to your cause."
Perhaps he had gone too far. The Fire Duke's nostrils flared. "Have it as you will, this time. But don't think yourself essential,
Rodic-of-the-second-generation. It's possible you could be replaced."
Rodic had to smile. There were few blades as good as he, and most of those were heavily tied to the Sky, not available to the lesser
houses. "With whom would you replace me, Your Warmth? Thorian del Thorian, perhaps?"
It was intended as a jape, only. But the Fire Duke's face was too still, too emotionless, too suddenly. "That would hardly be
possible, would it?" he said, the question clearly intended to sound rhetorical only. "There may come a time," the Fire Duke said,
then stopped himself. "There will come a time, I hope, when I shall find you expendable, when I will represent my house myself."
No. The attempt to cover himself would not work. The Fire Duke knew something, and he had let it slip. But old nobility always
tended to assume they were wiser than the new, and for once Rodic didn't resent it.
Thorian, he thought, as an attendant in fiery livery let him out of His Warmth's office, and down the unreasonably high-ceilinged
corridor.
Thorian the Traitor.
Was it possible that Thorian was alive? And if so, where could he possibly be? Certainly not within the Dominion.
The duelmaster would have to be told.
Part One
HARDWOOD, NORTH DAKOTA
CHAPTER ONE
The Fencing Team
Torrie had long since shut off the tape player by the time they turned off I-29 at Thompson; there was only so much Van Halen he
could stand. The floor of the car was littered—with McDonald's burger wrappers, still sticky and greasy in places; with empty
Coke cans, drained and crumpled; and even with the Baggies that had contained the crudités that Maggie had insisted on buying at
the SuperValu outside Minneapolis.
Being a veggie didn't make her a neat freak, Torrie Thorsen had decided. Or maybe it was just that Ian's bad habits were rubbing off
on the two of them. Ian Silverstein wasn't really unclean, just messy; Ian would never hang up a damp towel on a rack or over a
sink if a chair or a floor was handy.
"Hmmm . . . there's a gas station—hell, it's a real service station—in Hatton," Torrie said, winding down the window of the old
Rambler so that he could hang his left elbow out. "We could stop off there and clean up a bit. Dump the trash out of the car, at
least."
Maryanne Christensen partly hid a smile behind her hand, but Ian chuckled out loud.
"Mommie doesn't like a messy car?" Ian gave out a few more chortles.
"Give me a break," Torrie said, not that he really expected Ian to stop.
He was pleased to be wrong. "Peace," Ian said. "No offense intended."
Torrie looked into the rearview mirror, to see Ian holding up a hand. "But I tell you," Ian said, "you're all the same way. You, too,
Maggie. You live your own life at school, but the moment you point your car—"
"I don't have a car," Maggie said.
"—the moment you point your nose homeward, you turn into Buck and Martha's baby girl—"
"My parents are Albert and Rachel."
"—Albert and Rachel's baby girl again. You stand up straight, you make a special effort to wash around the neck ..." Ian scratched
at where his sketchy beard met his collar. "Hell, I bet you even make your bed."
Maggie arched an eyebrow. "You don't?"
No, he didn't. The times that Maggie stayed over in Torrie's room, and Ian was kicked out to sleep on the St. Rock brothers' floor,
Torrie had made Ian's bed. It looked nicer and somehow a bit less calculated that way.
Ian shrugged. "Well, to tell the truth, no—the way I figure it, if I'm going to be back in bed in sixteen hours, what's the point?"
"Well?"
"What is the point, Maryanne?"
"None," she said coldly, frowning. For some reason, Maggie hated her real name, and didn't like any of the reasonable shortened
versions of it. Whenever Ian was irritated with her, he would seem to forget that. Which would only anger her.
None of that bothered Torrie, particularly. Things between him and Maggie were tentative these days; he didn't need Ian
interfering. Not that Ian would interfere deliberately, probably. A steady girlfriend would be too much of a distraction from work
and school, and while Torrie doubted that Ian really cared about school a whole lot, he went at it with even more energy and drive
than he spent on the fencing strips.
Ian finally got around to apologizing. "Sorry, I meant to say, 'What's the point, Maggie?"—that better?"
"Sure." The frown melted into a real smile. "I still meant to say none. No point at all. None beyond, oh, a smidgen of neatness, a
desire to make things look nice. So I still make my bed."
Giving a scornful toss of her head that flicked her short coal black hair from side to side, she folded her arms across her beige
pullover sweater and leaned back against the pillow she had propped up against the door. She was into her short cycle these days,
and would likely stay that way until the summer—Maggie didn't mind tying her hair back in a ponytail when fencing, but said she
despised wearing a headband.
Torrie couldn't decide whether he liked her better in short hair or long. He had always preferred long hair, but something about
Maggie's present almost boyish cut set off her button nose and stubborn chin particularly well.
Not that it would matter what Torrie wanted. Maggie might deign to share a bed every now and then, but she was hardly about to
ask his permission before cutting her hair or picking out her clothes.
Which was really okay with Torrie. He wouldn't have thought the combination of an oversized beige chain-knit sweater and black
tights to be sexy, but somehow or other it was. Tights? No, he had called them tights, but that was wrong. Leggings, Maggie had
said. Leggings or stretch-pants or just pants, not tights. That was the trouble with women's clothes—funny names. A shirt was
either a top or a blouse, but never a shirt. Tights were leggings. Ignorance was strength, maybe.
"What are you smiling about?" Maggie asked.
"Oh, nothing," Torrie said.
Maybe it was that the leggings showed off her legs well while the sweater announced that it concealed the rest of her. Or just
maybe, Torrie thought, it was that it had been a full three weeks since he and Maggie had celebrated his Class A épée win with a
couple of icy bottles of Columbia Crest chardonnay—nobody said good wine couldn't be 86.95 a bottle—a quart of fresh
strawberries, and a surprising quartet of condoms. It was getting pretty damn irritating, and Torrie was finding himself snapping at
people without having any cause.
"Ian," Torrie said, "maybe you ought to think about taking up bed making."
"There a lot of money in it?"
"No, but maybe it'll hide the fact that you think sheets need to be changed every other semester or so."
"Well, there is that. Itches if you don't." Theatrically, Ian scratched at his crotch. "But I do make the time to change my underwear
almost weekly, honest. And, hey, don't you think you're driving a bit fast?"
"If I thought I was driving too fast," Torrie said, "I'd slow down."
It was Maggie's turn to chuckle. After a moment, Ian joined in.
Torrie relaxed. He liked Ian—Ian Silverstein was quick with a joke or a smile, and his intensity at his studies was a good example
for Torrie, who tended to slack off the books and spend too much time in the gym—but Torrie always had a little bit of worry at
the back of his head about him. Ian was just too intense sometimes. Kind of funny that somebody with that kind of drive and fire
had gravitated toward the foil, the most nonviolent form of fencing, but Ian was like that.
Torrie settled himself into his seat. He had deliberately saved the last driving stint for himself. The trouble is, what's normal is what
you're used to, what you grow up with. City folks didn't understand how to drive out here.
The gently rolling countryside around Minneapolis had long given way to the flat plains of the east Dakotas: the road was as
straight as a chalk line, and even though it was only one lane in each direction, Torrie didn't have a problem violating the posted
fifty-five speed limit by a solid thirty miles an hour. You just pointed the car straight and set your foot on the gas until the car
started to complain, then backed it off a little.
Through no coincidence, stop signs out in the country were larger than in the city, and you could see the big red octagon a mile
away. Crossroads were the same—there was no point in slowing when you could see for yourself that there was nothing even
approaching the intersection.
Occasionally, a car would whoosh by, going in the other direction, and even more rarely, a huge semi would approach, and Torrie
would have to fight the wheel as the vortex of its passage tried to pull them from the straight path, but the drive was easy.
Here and now it was. During a snowstorm, it would have been suicidal to do this. Then, even at a reasonable speed, it was possible
to find yourself in a ditch, your car quickly being buried. It had happened a few times to Mom, and even once to Dad.
But that was winter. This was spring, and the blue sky above was filled with big, puffy clouds, and driving as fast as he could was
safe, it was reasonable; the only trouble with it was—
A siren blared, then gave a triple hoot; in the rearview mirror, Torrie could see the red light flashing on top of the car behind them.
Well, somehow or other he had missed it. No sense in playing games now.
"Now we're gonna get it," Ian said. "Dammit, Torrie, I told you—"
"Shh." Torrie eased up on the gas and guided the car over toward the side of the road. Not too far; the road was edged by a ditch.
"Do me a favor?"
"Yes?" Maggie leaned back. "You want me to, like, unbutton my shirt a little and talk real breathy?"
"No. For one thing, you're wearing a sweater. Make it a little hard to unbutton your shirt, no?"
"There is that."
"What I was going to ask," Torrie went on, "is for the both of you tell me that you don't have anything on you that would be a ...
problem."
Ian had already opened a Pepsi. "Just one joint," he said, balancing it on his palm. "Figured that—"
"Don't figure. Just shut up and swallow. In case you haven't noticed, this whole country is in the middle of a drug witch-hunt, and I
don't care to be burned at the stake." Torrie rolled down the window. "The law says they can take the car, you know."
"So I hear," Ian said, from around a mouthful. "Cost you all of eighty bucks to replace it, I bet."
"Just do it."
"I'm swallowing, I'm swallowing."
"Hey, Torrie!" The cop's voice was familiar, but it took a moment for Torrie to place it; then he swung the door open and leaped
out of the car.
"Your Mom never tell you not to speed?" The cop crossed his arms over his thick chest, trying to look stern, although the grin on
his face ruined the effect.
The cop was only a few years older than Torrie, and the broad, Nordic face under the shock of sandy hair was only about as
familiar as Torrie's own. Torrie couldn't help smiling.
"Jeff fucking Bjerke," he said, giving the name just the right Norski pronunciation, complete to the raise in pitch at the end of the
last syllable. The Bjerke family had been in North Dakota since the 1870s, and only the oldest of the old still spoke anything more
than a few words of Norski, but, like most in this part of the state, they kept a trace of the old accent, more as a badge of pride
than anything else. "How are you?"
Jeff's face was split in a broad smile. "If I'd known it was you," he said, "I—"
"Would have let it slide?"
"Nah. I'd have shot out a tire and seen how you'd handle a skid." Jeff gave a hitch to his Sam Browne belt. "I mean, I don't really
care, but eighty-seven is a bit much for this stretch." He walked over to the car and peered in. "You going to introduce me to your
friends? Or are you too good to hang around with the hoi polloi now that you've been a college boy for a couple years?"
Torrie had to laugh. "I seem to remember that you were supposed to graduate from Northwestern not so long ago. I didn't hear
about you taking over for old John Honistead."
"Times are tough, a job's a job, and John retired in February," Jeff said, extending a hand in through the window to offer it to
Maggie. "Jeff Bjerke," he said. "I used to beat the shit out of your friend when he was younger, until he started playing with
pointed sticks."
"He still does, and he's gotten pretty good at it." Maggie laughed. "And I'm glad to meet you. I'm Maggie Christensen."
"Ian Silverstein," Ian said from the back seat, his voice still sounding a little funny. "Pleased to meet you."
Jeff grinned as he shook hands with Ian. "Hmmm . . . next time, just hold the joint out the window, break it up in your fingers.
Easier." With a quick chuckle at Ian's pale expression, he let go of Ian's hand and straightened, clapping Torrie hard on the shoulder.
"You back for all of spring break, or are you flying south?"
"Every minute," Torrie said. "I tried Orlando last time."
"Great. I'll see you around. Hmmm . . . the Dine-a-mite is doing dollar drafts tonight." A raised eyebrow made it a question; the set
of his mouth made it a serious one.
"Maybe," Torrie said with a look at Ian that Ian met with a shrug and then a nod, and Maggie with a frown could have meant
anything between indifference and dislike for the idea.
"Have to see what the folks want to do," Torrie went on.
Jeff nodded, and gripped his hand hard enough to hurt. "Damn it, boy, but it's been awhile. Good to see you. Give my best to your
mom and dad, and to Hosea." He turned and walked back to the patrol car, and by the time Torrie had started up the Rambler, Jeff
had pulled into a quick U-turn and was heading in the other direction.
"Nice man," Maggie said, as the old Rambler's starter motor whined for a moment before the engine caught.
With a quick glance at the mirror, Torrie pulled off the shoulder and onto the road. He nodded. "Yeah." He smiled. "Not that the
deer think so."
"Excuse me?"
"He and his dad and my dad and my Uncle Hosea go deer hunting every fall, and they've yet to come home with any extra ear tags."
Which probably had more to do with Uncle Hosea than anything else, but there was no need to go into that. Patience could—and
did, often—serve as well as Uncle Hosea's tracking skills. Hunting hadn't taught Torrie patience, but it had taught him to wait.
"You'd murder Bambi?" Maggie asked, a strange tone beneath the joking lilt to her voice.
City people. "I've hunted a couple of times." Every season since he was fourteen, except for last year when he had come home
from school with a flu bug.
Slouching in the back seat, Ian was chuckling quietly.
"Hunting is funny?" Maggie asked, a frown flickering across her lips.
"No," Ian said, still chuckling. "It's not that. We get stopped because Torrie's speeding, and what's the penalty? I have to eat a
joint."
Torrie grinned. "Doesn't seem right, now does it?"
"Hey, life isn't fair. I've never been stopped by a cop for speeding and not gotten a ticket."
In deference to Jeff, Torrie settled the speedometer at seventy, then turned his head to eye Ian in the rearview mirror. "That's 'cause
you're a city boy, and this is the country. Getting along with your neighbor, well, that's a lot more important out here than it is in
the city. Now, if Jeff caught me driving drunk—or stoned—he would have landed on me with both feet, and to hell with friendship.
But just speeding? Down a county road as straight and flat and wide and open as this? Hell, even if I screw up and lose it, the car
only goes into a ditch, and it's my neck.
"Nah. He's not about to get me mad at him, or my mom and dad and Uncle Hosea irritated with him, not over that."
Torrie smiled at the thought, so amused by it he almost slipped by the turnoff onto the dirt road, marked only by the old elm tree
opposite, standing all alone on the edge of the field. "Besides," he went on, "drinking age in North Dakota is twenty-one—if Jeff
started to get all stuck on technicalities, we couldn't split a pitcher until next spring."
Maggie grinned. "I take it we don't have to worry about getting carded if we go to this Dine-a-mite—I hate that name—tonight."
Torrie smiled. "Depends. If some stranger is in, Ole would assume he's from the State Liquor Board—then he would card us,
visibly as possible, if we were stupid enough to order beer, which we wouldn't. Now, if Orphie Selmo's there, nursing his weekly
beer, Ole wouldn't bother carding us; he'd just serve us dark beer in coke glasses and throw in a straw—old Orphie's a pain in the
ass, and would turn me in given half a chance, but his eyesight is horrible and he doesn't like to wear his glasses, and he doesn't
notice much."
"All part of the system."
"Like I say, in small towns, getting along is more important than technicalities."
The Rambler jounced down the road toward the break in the trees ahead.
"We could go in through town," Torrie said, "and swing back out; the house is just at the east edge. Just about as fast."
"Lemme guess," Ian said. "But this is dustier and rusticker—"
"Rusticker?" Maggie raised an eyebrow.
"—and, therefore, more fun," Ian said.
"Well, yeah."
The house lay just beyond the windbreak of trees—one of the thicker windbreaks around, easily a hundred yards deep.
There was, Torrie decided, for more than the hundredth time, nothing all that special about the way it looked: it was a Big Old
House in the Great Plains tradition: two full stories plus an attic, framed on one full side and part of another two by a screened
porch that kept the bugs off in the summer and that Mom would be using as an outside freezer during most of the winter. It was
whitewashed, but not freshly so. Mom and Dad could afford to have the house painted as often as they'd like, but putting on airs
wasn't a good idea.
Off behind the house, the old dull-red barn stood, its huge door ajar to let in the light and air of the day. Now, that had been freshly
painted—all that showed was that the Thorsens took care of their animals, and that was no secret.
A rusty old brown Studebaker stood on blocks in the front yard, propped higher than looked quite natural. Torrie grinned: Uncle
Hosea had another new toy. For somebody who hated to ride in an automobile, the old man had quite a way with fixing them.
Not that Torrie was surprised. Uncle Hosea was Uncle Hosea the way that Dad was Dad and Mom was Mom, and the things
about the three of them that others found strange were as natural to Torrie as the comforting flatness of the plains around him.
He parked the car on the grass near the side door and shut the engine off, deliberating leaving the keys in the car and his door
unlocked, even though it felt funny. The last time he had come home, Mom had had too much fun making fun of his city habits.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. "We come in the servants' entrance?"
"No such thing as a servants' entrance in the country; this is just the side door, and it's closest to our rooms."
The porch outside the side door was just a concrete block, with steps leading down to the grass; there wasn't room enough on the
porch to put stuff without interfering with the door.
Torrie walked to the top of the steps and swung the screen door open, locking it ajar, then turned to the knob of the wooden door,
loose in its collar, but locked tight.
In true country fashion, the front door of the house was never locked—what if somebody needed to get in?—but in a family quirk,
the side and back doors often were.
Of course, as Uncle Hosea would explain, there was locked, and then there was locked.
Torrie banged his fist against the brass knocking plate set into the door frame. It was welded onto a section of stiff leaf spring that
Uncle Hosea had cut from a junked car, then thinned down and bolted into a recess he had carved in the door frame: it gave the
knocking plate just the right give in order to hit the doorpost behind it with a chunk that could be heard anywhere throughout the
house. Hosea had nothing against doorbells, but the knocking plate was more elegant. It was loud enough to get the attention of
anybody downstairs, but not loud enough to wake somebody sleeping upstairs.
Torrie knocked again, but there still was no answer.
Torrie closed his eyes for half a moment, leaning his knee against the door to hold it tightly in place. He put his shoulder against the
frame of the door, adding weight until he could feel it barely give, as though loosely nailed, then pushed on the knob as he turned it
slightly to the left. It always felt the same: smooth without being oily, the feel of precisely made parts fitted together perfectly.
The bolt let go with a slight click, more felt than heard, and then the door swung open with a satisfying squeal, and Torrie could
relax.
The first time he had come home from school, he had gotten it wrong, and not only had Uncle Hosea had to spend the better part of
the evening resetting the hidden lockwork, but all three of the adults had made more than a few comments at his expense over the
next few days.
"Trouble with the door?" Ian asked, already loading suitcases onto the porch, while Maggie had a gear bag in either hand, the hilt of
one of the cheaper practice sabers sticking out where the zipper had broken.
"Nah," Torrie said. "Just sticks a little." The hidden ways into the house were a family secret, and You Just Didn't Talk About
Family Secrets With Anybody—good friend, lover, it didn't matter.
He stuck his head in the door and shouted, "We're here," for his parents' benefit, just in case they hadn't heard his knock. It
wouldn't do to walk in suddenly on them. For a couple of old people, they went at it a whole lot, and it just didn't do for their son
to either notice it or have to affect to ignore it. "Come on in," he said.
He wasn't worried about surprising Uncle Hosea; Uncle Hosea couldn't be walked in on suddenly. He would probably have heard
the clickety-clicking of the lockwork, or certainly the squeal of the door. Hell, Torrie wouldn't have been surprised if Uncle had
recognized the rumble of the Rambler a mile away. If Uncle was home, which seemed unlikely at the moment. Ditto for Dad, and
possibly—
"Torreeeeee!" sounded from upstairs, followed by a thunder of footsteps running across the hall and down the stairs.
"Hi, Mom," Torrie said, letting her throw her arms around him and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. There was no stopping his
mother; he might as well get it over with.
Much of the stoic Norski had been left out of Karin Roelke Thorsen, which perhaps was just as well: Torrie liked Mom the way
she was.
She was dressed in her usual work outfit of an old, embarrassingly patched pair of Levi's and a plaid man's shirt, rolled up at the
sleeves—like something out of the sixties, forgodsakes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in some sort of bun that went with the
severe look of her glasses, but Mom was still Mom: she had touched up the edges of her cheekbones with just a bit of ruddy color.
"Hi, honey," she said, pulling away as she turned to Maggie and Ian, moving easily, gracefully, much more like a dancer than a
stock investor. One slim hand removed her reading glasses, while another reached behind her head and tugged a small mahogany
comb out, shaking her long, golden hair free.
"I'm Karin Thorsen," she said, extending a hand first to Ian—who held it a fraction of a second too long before letting it go. Torrie
had forgotten just how good Mom looked—for a woman of her age, of course.
He didn't quite like the way Mom and Maggie eyed each other, Mom with a smile that reeked of suspicion, Maggie with a
possessive glance at how close Torrie was standing to Mom.
Uncomfortable, he shifted half a step closer to Maggie, earning both of them a pursed-lipped smile from Mom. "And Mom, this is
Maggie."
Mother's smile broadened. "And how nice to have you here, Maggie," she said, just a degree short of warmly. "We've heard, well,
not enough about you." She turned back to Torrie. "I wasn't expecting you until later, or I'd have finished work for the day—I
thought you weren't going to be up until late afternoon."
"We caught a tailwind," he said. Mom still hadn't learned how to behave in front of people, and Torrie had long since given up
trying to teach her that you just didn't scold a son in front of his friends. She meant well, and that was enough, usually, and when it
wasn't, there was nothing to be done about it.
"Well, your Dad and Hosea are out to the Hansens' working on Sven's tractor—supposedly just until after lunch, but you know
how the two of them are about Sandy's fried chicken, and they'll likely be sitting around and belching there until when you were
supposed to show up." She frowned for a moment.
That didn't make any sense. Why would Mom be worried about Dad and Uncle Hosea spending time out at the Hansen farm?
People had been hurt fixing tractors, sure, but not Dad—he was conservative about machinery, and never seemed to quite trust
it—or Uncle Hosea.
She caught his expression. "There's been a minor . . . problem out there. It looks like a wolf got one of their calves the other night.
But mainly they went out to fix the tractor."
Torrie nodded, understanding why she wouldn't want to go into it, not in front of strangers, and had covered with a quick story
about fixing the tractor.
Wolves were a protected species, and while farmers were willing to live with having them around, should one or another lone wolf
decide that it would prefer to raid livestock rather than hunt for, say, wild rabbits and prairie dogs, the only choices would be to
put up with increasing losses—something a farmer wouldn't like; to have the Department of Natural Resources try to livetrap and
remove the wolf—which they were too damn slow about doing, when they did it at all; or to have the wolf dealt with, informally
but effectively.
Which also explained what Dad and Hosea were doing out there. Dad was fond of Sandy Hansen's fried chicken—so was Torrie;
his mouth watered at the thought—but he was even more fond of the time that Sven had come along during a blizzard to pull
Mom's stuck car out of a ditch. Dad liked doing favors for neighbors, but the Hansens were special.
Torrie shuddered. He didn't much like wolves. They figured too prominently in some of the scarier of the old stories that Uncle
Hosea told.
"It's okay, Mom, really. We'll settle in, grab a shower, I'll show Ian and Maggie around."
"Can you?" She glanced at her watch and took a step back up the stairs. "I'm putting together an options order, and I have to get it
in on time or I'm going to have to start all over again with the morning quotes—can I be a horrible hostess and let Torrie settle you
in?" she asked, turning to Maggie and Ian. "I promise we'll have plenty of time later in the day to get to know each other—I'm not
the one in this family who doesn't like to make promises—but this is a workday for me, and—"
"It's okay, Mom, honest."
"That will be very nice," Maggie said.
"No problem, Mrs. Thorsen." Ian smiled.
Mom turned and walked up the stairs slowly enough for it not to be a retreat, and Torrie deliberately didn't watch
Ian watching the tightness of her jeans. There was something vaguely obscene about it.
Her door closed behind her; Torrie started up the stairs, the other two following in his wake.
The third stair creaked, just like it always did. Step on the left side, then quickly stomp on the left side of the fourth stair, and the
fourth stair would swing up to reveal another of Uncle Hosea's abditories, this one containing an old Colt Military & Police .38
revolver and a roll of Charmin toilet paper.
Both of which were silly. Mom and Dad kept fully stocked on staples—it wasn't like they were a bunch of city folk or something.
Torrie had never had call for the emergency roll of toilet paper any more than he had for the .38 revolver, but when his father had
declared him a man at age fifteen, Uncle Hosea had shown him where all the family weapons were, and Dad had taught him to use
each one to Dad's not-particularly-easy-to-earn satisfaction.
At least, Uncle Hosea had implied he'd shown Torrie where all the family weapons were. You could never quite believe everything
he said, and he never quite told you everything.
Maggie cleared her throat. "Well?"
"Er . . . sorry. I wasn't listening. You were saying?"
"I said—I mean, I asked: and she makes a living doing this? Out here? In the middle of nowhere?" She smiled. "No offense intended,
honest."
"None taken. And, well, yeah."
"And what was that about she isn't the one who doesn't like to make promises?"
Torrie pursed his lips. Nothing wrong with talking about it. "It's my Uncle Hosea. He doesn't like making promises. He'll do what
he says he'll try to do just about a hundred times out of a hundred, but he won't promise." He shrugged. "It's just the way he is."
Mom's fingers were clickity-clickity-clicking on the keyboard in her office, down the hall to the right; Torrie led the other two
down the hall to the left, past the closed doors to Uncle Hosea's room and his own.
"Maggie, you get the Guest Room," he said, dropping her bag inside, keeping his voice low enough not to bother Mom, although
that was hardly necessary. When she was concentrating on a column of figures, it would take more than conversation to distract
Mom.
"Ian, you've got the Sewing Room," he said, swinging the door open at the room at the end of the hall. "Nice southern exposure."
They'd always called it the Sewing Room, although it was just another guest room, a bit smaller than the official Guest Room, but
otherwise just as pleasant. The walls were painted in the same off-white with just a hint of peach for warmth, and the wooden
floor was stained a warm light brown and coated with that high-tech plastic gunk that Uncle Hosea liked so much.
The battered oak dresser and matching vanity had been Mom's, back when she was girl, and they were due for a stripping and
refinishing, but they were still serviceable.
Ian felt at the green plaid quilt covering the bed. "Your Mom?"
摘要：

V1.1Spellcheckdone,stillneedsproofreadV1.0ScannedbyFaile,stillneedsacompleteproofreadAcknowledgmentsI'mgratefultotheUsualSuspects—PegKerrIhinger,BruceBethke,andPatWrede—forhelpingtopointtheway;toHarryLeonard,VictorRaymond,DavidDyer-Bennet,SharonRosenberg,DaleRosenberg,andEliseMatthesenforadditionala...

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