Read Online Book 3 - The White Rose by Glen Cook - Free Book Online

one evaded effortlessly, did nothing to
fight back. “That’s Whisper,” Elmo said.
    “Yeah,” I said. She knows her way around.
    One-Eye grumbled, “You going to help this kid or not,
Croaker?”
    “All right. All right.” I hated to miss the show. It
was the first I had seen so many mantas, the first I had seen them
support us. I wanted to see more.
    “Well,” said Elmo, while calming the boy’s
horse and going through his saddlebags, “another missive for
our esteemed annalist.” He proffered another oilskin packet.
Baffled, I tucked it under my arm, then helped One-Eye carry the
messenger down into the Hole.
     
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Chapter Ten:
BOMANZ’S STORY
    Croaker
:
    Jasmine’s squeal rattled the windows and doors.
“Bomanz! You come down here! Come down right now, you hear
me?”
    Bomanz sighed. A man couldn’t get five minutes alone. What
the hell did he get married for? Why did any man? You spent the
rest of your life doing hard time, doing what other people wanted,
not what you wanted.
    “Bomanz!”
    “I’m coming, dammit! Damned woman can’t blow
her nose without me there to hold her hand,” he added sotto
voce. He did a lot of talking under his breath. He had feelings to
vent, and peace to maintain. He compromised. Always, he
compromised.
    He stamped downstairs, each footfall a declaration of
irritation. He mocked himself as he went: You know you’re
getting old when everything aggravates you.
    “What do you want? Where are you?”
    “In the shop.” There was an odd note in her voice.
Suppressed excitement, he decided. He entered the shop warily.
    “Surprise!”
    His world came alive. Grouchiness deserted him.
“Stance!” He flung himself at his son. Powerful arms
crushed him. “Here already? We didn’t expect you till
next week.”
    “I got away early. You’re getting pudgy, Pop.”
Stancil opened his arms to include Jasmine in a three-way hug.
    “That’s your mother’s cooking. Times are good.
We’re eating regular. Tokar’s
been . . . ” He glimpsed a faded, ugly
shadow. “So how are you? Back up. Let me look at you. You
were still a boy when you left.”
    And Jasmine: “Doesn’t he look great? So tall and
healthy. And such nice clothes.” Mock concern. “You
haven’t been up to any funny business, have you?”
    “Mother! What could a junior instructor get up to?”
He met his father’s eye, smiled a smile that said “Same
old Mom.”
    Stancil was four inches taller than his father, in his middle
twenties, and looked athletic despite his profession. More like an
adventurer than a would-be don, Bomanz thought. Of course, times
changed. It had been eons since his own university days. Maybe
standards had changed.
    He recalled the laughter and pranks and all-night, dreadfully
serious debates on the meaning of it all, and was bitten by an imp
of nostalgia. What had become of that mentally quick, foxy young
Bomanz? Some silent, unseen Guardsman of the mind had interred him
in a barrow in the back of his brain, and there he lay dreaming,
while a bald, jowly, potbellied gnome gradually usurped
him . . . They steal our yesterdays and leave
us no youth but that of our children . . . 
    “Well, come on. Tell us about your studies.” Get out
of that self-pitying mindset, Bomanz, you old fool. “Four
years and nothing but letters about doing laundry and debates at
the Stranded Dolphin. Stranded he would be in Oar. Before I die I
want to see the sea. I never have.” Old fool. Dream out loud
and that’s the best you can do? Would they really laugh if
you told them the youth is still alive in there somewhere?
    “His mind wanders,” Jasmine explained.
    “Who are you calling senile?” Bomanz snapped.
    “Pop. Mom. Give me a break. I just got here.”
    Bpmanz gobbled air. “He’s right. Peace. Truce.
Armistice. You referee, Stance. Two old warhorses like us are set
in their ways.”
    Jasmine said, “Stance promised me a surprise before you
came down.”
    “Well?”