Wizard and glass - Stephen King [112]
“For instance,” Roland said, “how many riding horses do you think we may be able to report back to the Affiliation?”
“Tithe or total?”
“Total.”
Renfrew put his cup down and appeared to calculate. As he did, Roland looked across the table and saw Lengyll and Henry Wertner, the Barony’s stockliner, exchange a quick glance. They had heard. And he saw something else as well, when he returned his attention to his seatmate: Hash Renfrew was drunk, but likely not as drunk as he wanted young Will Dearborn to believe.
“Total, ye say—not just what we owe the Affiliation, or might be able to send along in a pinch.”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see, young sai. Fran must run a hundred ’n forty head; John Croydon’s got near a hundred. Hank Wertner’s got forty on his own hook, and must run sixty more out along the Drop for the Barony. Gov’mint hossflesh, Mr. Dearborn.”
Roland smiled. “I know it well. Split hoofs, low necks, no speed, bottomless bellies.”
Renfrew laughed hard at that, nodding . . . but Roland found himself wondering if the man was really amused. In Hambry, the waters on top and the waters down below seemed to run in different directions.
“As for myself, I’ve had a bad ten or twelve year—sand-eye, brain fever, cabbards. At one time there was two hundred head of running horses out there on the Drop with the Lazy Susan brand on em; now there can’t be more than eighty.”
Roland nodded. “So we’re speaking of four hundred and twenty head.”
“Oh, more’n that,” Renfrew said with a laugh. He went to pick up his ale-cup, struck it with the side of one work- and weather-reddened hand, knocked it over, cursed, picked it up, then cursed the aleboy who came slow to refill it.
“More than that?” Roland prompted, when Renfrew was finally cocked and locked and ready to resume action.
“Ye have to remember, Mr. Dearborn, that this is hoss-country more than it’s fisher-country. We josh each other, we and the fishers, but there’s many a scale-scraper got a nag put away behind his house, or in the Barony stables if they have no roof of their own to keep the rain off a hoss’s head. ’Twas her poor da useter keep the Barony stables.”
Renfrew nodded toward Susan, who was seated across and three seats up from Roland himself—just a table’s turn from the Mayor, who was, of course, seated at the head. Roland found her placement there passing peculiar, especially given the fact that the Mayor’s missus had been seated almost all the way at the far end of the table, with Cuthbert on one side of her and some rancher to whom they had not yet been introduced on her other.
Roland supposed an old fellow like Thorin might like to have a pretty young relation near at hand to help draw attention to him, or to cheer up his own eye, but it still seemed odd. Almost an insult to one’s wife. If he was tired of her conversation, why not put her at the head of another table?
They have their own customs, that’s all, and the customs of the country aren’t your concern. This man’s crazy horse-count is your concern.
“How many other running horses, would you say?” he asked Renfrew. “In all?”
Renfrew gazed at him shrewdly. “An honest answer’ll not come back to haunt me, will it, sonny? I’m an Affiliation man—so I am, Affiliation to the core, they’ll carve Excalibur on my gravehead, like as not—but I’d not see Hambry and Mejis stripped of all its treasure.”
“That won’t happen, sai. How could we force you to give up what you don’t want to in any case? Such forces as we have are all committed in the north and west, against the Good Man.”
Renfrew considered this, then nodded.
“And may I not be Will to you?”
Renfrew brightened, nodded, and offered his hand a second time. He grinned broadly when Roland this time shook it in both of his, the over-and-under grip preferred by drovers and cowboys.