Wizard and glass - Stephen King [111]
Susan was silent, her face setting in those stubborn lines Cordelia hated most of all; it was an expression that always made her feel like slapping her headstrong niece until her nose bled and her great gray doe’s eyes gushed tears.
“Ye’ve made a vow and a contract. Papers have been passed, the weird-woman has been consulted, money has changed hands. And ye’ve given your promise. If that means nothing to such as yerself, girl, remember what it’d mean to yer father.”
Tears rose in Susan’s eyes again, and Cordelia was glad to see them. Her brother had been an improvident irritation, capable of producing only this far too pretty womanchild . . . but he had his uses, even dead.
“Now promise ye’ll keep yer eyes to yourself, and that if ye see that boy coming, ye’ll swing wide—aye, wide’s you can—to stay out of his way.”
“I promise, Aunt,” Susan whispered. “I do.”
Cordelia smiled. She was really quite pretty when she smiled. “It’s well, then. Let’s go in. We’re being looked at. Hold my arm, child!”
Susan clasped her aunt’s powdered arm. They entered the room side by side, their dresses rustling, the sapphire pendant on the swell of Susan’s breast flashing, and many there were who remarked upon how alike they looked, and how well pleased poor old Pat Delgado would have been with them.
9
Roland was seated near the head of the center table, between Hash Renfrew (a rancher even bigger and blockier than Lengyll) and Thorin’s rather morose sister, Coral. Renfrew had been handy with the punch; now, as the soup was brought to table, he set about proving himself equally adept with the ale.
He talked about the fishing trade (“not what it useter be, boy, although it’s less muties they pull up in their nets these days, ’n that’s a blessin”), the farming trade (“folks round here can grow most anythin, long’s it’s corn or beans”), and finally about those things clearly closest to his heart: horsin, coursin, and ranchin. Those businesses went on as always, aye, so they did, although times had been hard in the grass-and-seacoast Baronies for forty year or more.
Weren’t the bloodlines clarifying? Roland asked. For they had begun to do so where he came from.
Aye, Renfrew agreed, ignoring his potato soup and gobbling barbecued beef-strips instead. These he scooped up with a bare hand and washed down with more ale. Aye, young master, bloodlines was clarifying wonderful well, indeed they were, three colts out of every five were threaded stock—in thoroughbred as well as common lines, kennit—and the fourth could be kept and worked if not bred. Only one in five these days born with extra legs or extra eyes or its guts on the outside, and that was good. But the birth-rates were way down, so they were; the stallions had as much ram as ever in their ramrods, it seemed, but not as much powder and ball.
“Beggin your pardon, ma’am,” Renfrew said, leaning briefly across Roland to Coral Thorin. She smiled her thin smile (it reminded Roland of Jonas’s), trudged her spoon through her soup, and said nothing. Renfrew emptied his ale-cup, smacked his lips heartily, and held the cup out again. As it was recharged, he turned back to Roland.
Things weren’t good, not as they once had been, but they could be worse. Would be worse, if that bugger Farson had his way. (This time he didn’t bother excusing himself to sai Thorin.) They all had to pull together, that was the ticket—rich and poor, great and small, while pulling could still do some good. And then he seconded Lengyll, telling Roland that whatever he and his friends wanted, whatever they needed, they had only to name it.
“Information should be enough,” Roland said. “Numbers of things.”
“Aye, can’t be a counter without numbers,” Renfrew agreed, and sprayed beery laughter. On Roland’s left hand, Coral Thorin nibbled a bit of green (the beef-strips she had not so much as touched), smiled her narrow smile, and went on boating with her spoon. Roland guessed there was nothing