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"Sure." She walked to the door, which swung away in front of her, and stepped out into the day, Ian following. The first thing he noticed was the river. The Gilfi was wide and fast, gray waters rushing away from the far mountains with a constantwhussshh, a snake cutting across the continent. The cabin lay just above the flood marks on the riverbank, and below, a stone path wound down the steep walls of the riverbank toward the ferry's dock. It was a simple arrangement, really: a cable had been strung across the river, and the ferry, a barge, was attached to the cable by loops at the front and the back. A loop of cable ran from the near bank to the far bank, coiled around the motive power for the whole thing: a windlass, powered by a single horse walking in endless circles. There were apparently arrangements for heavier loads in a corral beyond the windlass, another horse pranced about, as though tired of waiting. There seemed to be something strange about the horse, but Ian's attention was drawn to Harbard lowering a ramp from the ferry, then guiding a horse-drawn wagon down. The drover accepted Harbard's help up to his seat, then flicked the reins, sending the wagon down the road parallel to the river, the one that gradually sloped up the sides of the banks. The ferry empty, Harbard and Hosea secured it to its dock, then unhitched the horse from the windlass before walking up the long path toward the house, pausing only for a moment when Hosea waved to Frida. "Well," she said, urging Ian back into the cabin. "Let us eat. Sitsitsit," she said. "We don't wait on ceremony here." She ladled thick stew into each of four bowls, and had them and mugs filled with some hot liquid on the table by the time the door swung open ahead of Hosea, followed by Harbard. While he was half a head shorter than Hosea, Harbard somehow seemed to be too large for the room, as though at any moment he would stretch out in some direction, and unintentionally tear a hole in wall or ceiling or something, like a normal man wearing a tissue-paper shirt. Harbard removed his cloak and hung it on a peg near the door, under the spear. Blunt fingers tentatively reached out and touched the spear for just a moment, and then fell to his side. Hosea smiled as he hung his own cloak, then took a seat next to Ian. "It's good to see you well, Ian," he said with a nod. "In fact, it's good to see anything at all." Harbard scowled as he dropped into a chair across the table from Ian. He leaned forward, not saying a word, but looking at Ian for the longest time. It was amazingly hard for Ian to meet that gaze. Page 92 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html It was strange, because there was no physical similarity, but something about the way Harbard held himself reminded Ian of the actor Peter Falk, the one who played Columbo. There was no hesitance in Harbard's voice, but something about the angle of his head, something about the way his eyes didn't quite work together, was the same. He was trying to decide what that meant when Harbard sat back, shaking his head. "I don't know about this one, Orfindel," he said. "Hosea, please," Hosea or was it really Orfindel? said. "I've been known as that for a time now, and I rather like it better than many of the other names. We all have our favorite, eh, Harbard?" A grunt was the only reply. Harbard turned back to Ian. "Well, be welcome in my home, my guest," he said, a trifle begrudgingly. "I thank you." Harbard glanced over at the steaming mugs on the table. "Tea? Wife, you have freshly squeezed cider set out with dinner, it would appear." "I like it," Frida said. "And I've mulled it specially; the herbs will help our visitors to rest, and heal." "Have you tasted the better stuff?" "No." Her lips were set in a thin line. "Taste it yourself, if you please." "Fah." Harbard took a large clay jug down from a shelf on the wall, uncorked it, and tilted it back heavily. "Ahh. Not the best cider, but still a few days from its final turning." He splashed some in a pewter mug he placed in front of Hosea's place, and set another mug in front of Ian. "None for me, please," Ian said, regretting it instantly when Harbard glared at him. "My apologies," Ian went on, "but I don't drink . . . intoxicants," he said, substituting the English word when the Bersmal escaped him. "I mean no offense." "None is taken," Frida put in quickly, with a glance at her husband." Harbard turned his glare on her, then waved it away as he sat himself heavily in his chair. "Well, none taken, none taken." He picked up a still-smoking piece of pie with his hands, unmindful of the way some of the hot yellow-brown filling spilled out, across the backs of his fingers, and bit into it, swallowed heavily, and smiled. "And never let it be said, wife, that your food is unfit." He licked at his fingers. Frida smiled. "I would hope it to be better than simply not unfit, husband." "Yes, yes, yes, it's very good." He growled. "I meant no offense, too, just as Ian Silverstone meant none." "And I take no offense, husband." "Just the last word, eh, wife?" "Perhaps." Ian would have eaten the stew first, but when in Rome . . . Page 93 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html He spooned up a mouthful of the pie, and blew at it for a moment to cool it before putting it in his mouth. Grmph.It tasted so good that it was almost painful. The crust was just okay a bit on the crisp side, but with a nice fullness to it but the filling was somehow sweeter, richer than any apple pie he had ever tasted before. Hosea smiled at him. "She is known to be good with an apple, eh?" "Amazing," Ian said around another mouthful. Harbard brushed the crumbs from his beard, then took up a spoonful of stew. "And this is very good, wife, as well." "Thank you." Harbard looked over at Hosea. "How much does this one know?" Hosea's smile might have been a few degrees cooler. "He knows that his friends are in danger." Harbard quickly swallowed a mouthful of stew so he could snort derisively. "His friends are dead, if His Warmth gets the idea that they won't work as bait for you. And likely dead anyway." "I think not." Ian didn't want to think about that. He cleared his throat. "Why Hosea? Or Orfindel? Would somebody please tell me what this is all about?" "Hmm." Harbard pursed his lips. "Where to start?" "Start at the beginning, maybe?" Ian said. Harbard glared. "Very well," Hosea said, his index finger idly doodling on the tabletop. "And what would that be?" "We could start with the Hidden Ways within the Cities," Frida said, "or with the Brisingamen." Harbard took a final mouthful of stew, set down his spoon, sat back in his chair, and steepled his fingers in front of him. "I'll begin." Some things are simple (Harbard said), but some things are not. It's a simplicity that a child will grow out of his clothes, will find that which once comforted him and kept him warm to be too small, far too confining. So it is with a people outgrowing where they have lived. A long time ago, one of the Elder Races call them the Dana's Children, or the Tuatha Del Danaan, or simply the Tuatha found that they had outgrown their little towns and villages, and that they needed larger cities for themselves [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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