Wizard and glass - By Stephen King Page 0,74

as not to snap or flap. It was almost the rig of an outlaw or a harrier (she had the idea that Jonas, he of the wavery voice, and his two friends might have been both, in other times and other climes) or even a gunslinger. But this man bore no guns, unless they were hidden. A bow on the pommel of his saddle and what looked like a lance in a scabbard, that was all. And there had never, she reckoned, been a gunslinger as young as this.

He clucked sidemouth at the horse just as her da had always done (and she herself, of course), and it stopped at once. As he swung one leg over his saddle, lifting it high and with unconscious grace, Susan said: “Nay, nay, don’t trouble yerself, stranger, but go as ye would!”

If he heard the alarm in her voice, he paid no heed to it. He slipped off the horse, not bothering with the tied-down stirrup, and landed neatly in front of her, the dust of the road puffing about his square-toed boots. By starlight she saw that he was young indeed, close to her own age on one side or the other. His clothes were those of a working cowboy, although new.

“Will Dearborn, at your service,” he said, then doffed his hat, extended a foot on one bootheel, and bowed as they did in the Inner Baronies.

Such absurd courtliness out here in the middle of nowhere, with the acrid smell of the oilpatch on the edge of town already in her nostrils, startled her out of her fear and into a laugh. She thought it would likely offend him, but he smiled instead. A good smile, honest and artless, its inner part lined with even teeth.

She dropped him a little curtsey, holding out one side of her dress. “Susan Delgado, at yours.”

He tapped his throat thrice with his right hand. “Thankee-sai, Susan Delgado. We’re well met, I hope. I didn’t mean to startle you—”

“Ye did, a little.”

“Yes, I thought I had. I’m sorry.”

Yes. Not aye but yes. A young man, from the Inner Baronies, by the sound. She looked at him with new interest.

“Nay, ye need not apologize, for I was deep in my own thoughts,” she said. “I’d been to see a . . . friend . . . and hadn’t realized how much time had passed until I saw the moon was down. If ye stopped out of concern, I thankee, stranger, but ye may be on yer way as I would be on mine. It’s only to the edge of the village I go—Hambry. It’s close, now.”

“Pretty speech and lovely sentiments,” he answered with a grin, “but it’s late, you’re alone, and I think we may as well pass on together. Do you ride, sai?”

“Yes, but really—”

“Step over and meet my friend Rusher, then. He shall carry you the last two miles. He’s gelded, sai, and gentle.”

She looked at Will Dearborn with a mixture of amusement and irritation. The thought which crossed her mind was If he calls me sai again, as though I were a schoolteacher or his doddery old great aunt, I’m going to take off this stupid apron and swat him with it. “I never minded a bit of temper in a horse docile enough to wear a saddle. Until his death, my father managed the Mayor’s horses . . . and the Mayor in these parts is also Guard o’ Barony. I’ve ridden my whole life.”

She thought he might apologize, perhaps even stutter, but he only nodded with a calm thoughtfulness that she rather liked. “Then step to the stirrup, my lady. I’ll walk beside and trouble you with no conversation, if you’d rather not have it. It’s late, and talk palls after moonset, some say.”

She shook her head, softening her refusal with a smile. “Nay. I thank ye for yer kindness, but it would not be well, mayhap, for me to be seen riding a strange young man’s horse at eleven o’ the clock. Lemon-juice won’t take the stain out of a lady’s reputation the way it will out of a shirtwaist, you know.”

“There’s no one out here to see you,” the young man said in a maddeningly reasonable voice. “And that you’re tired, I can tell. Come, sai—”

“Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel as ancient as a . . .” She hesitated for a brief moment, rethinking the word

(witch)

that first came to her mind. “. . . as an old