midnight disguise.
Just as he slipped out the back door, the king’s law broke down the front.
The lead dragoon spotted the hand of the surgeon’s apprentice still on the door knob. Grabbing onto the hand, the dragoon cried out, “Sir, I have him.”
That, of course, is when the hand came off in his, for it was the Strangler’s hand, hard and horned from its horrible vocation. The apprentice had carried it off with him for just such an emergency.
The soldier, being an honest sort, screamed and dropped the severed claw. In the ensuing melee, the apprentice escaped. It is said he climbed Dun D’Addin in a single breath and was on the far side before he thought to stay. And here he has plied a similar trade—but that is only a rumor and not one that I, at least, can vouch for.
“I’ll give you a hand for that tale,” cried out a lusty listener, the local butcher, clapping loudly but alone.
Jok smiled and bowed his head towards the applause. “So point two is the hand.”
The fat man sighed. “And I expected more from you than yet another joke. I suppose point three is the same?” He scratched under his eye with the mutilated finger.
Jok, fascinated, could not stop staring at him. “No,” he said at last. “As a matter of fact, point three is very serious.”
“Three!” said the innkeeper, suddenly remembering his role in the affair. “Three!”
“Point three,” Jok said, tearing his gaze from the fat man and looking again at his audience, which had enlarged by four or five drinkers, much to the innkeeper’s satisfaction. “Point three is the voice. In roguery, that voice must be melodic and cozzening but, in the end, forgettable.”
Three: The Voice
Ellyne was the fairest girl on any of Dun D’Addin’s borders, the fairest in seven counties if one were to be exact. Her hair was red and curled about her face like little fishhooks ready to catch the unwary ogler. Her skin was the color of berried cream, rosy and white. Not a man but sighed for her, though she seemed oblivious to them all.
One day she was walking out in the woods, not far from the Hill, picking bellflowers for a tisane and listening to the syncopations of the birds, when a rogue from Dun D’Addin chanced by.
Now his name was Vyctor and he was known Under-the-Hill as The Voice, for he could cast the sound of it where he willed. It was his one great trick, that mellifluous traveling tone. With it he had talked jewelers out of their gems, good wives out of their virtue, and a judge out of hanging him. He was that good.
Vyctor saw the red-headed Ellyne and was stunned, felled, split and spitted by her beauty. He had heard tell of it, but that had been on Dun D’Addin’s byways where every word is doubled and every truth halved. But those who had praised Ellyne’s beauty hadn’t sung the smallest part of it properly. Vyctor the Voice lost his—and his heart as well. He began to stammer.
Now Ellyne was used to the stammering of men. In fact she was of the belief that—except for her own father and a blind singer in her town—all men above the age of puberty stammered. She was an innocent for sure, and not aware of her beauty, for not a man had been able to string three words together to tell her of it.
But if Vyctor could not speak directly to her, he could still talk by throwing his voice, and so he spoke to her from the nearest tree.
“Beauteous maid,” the birch began.
Ellyne turned round and about, the movement making her hair a halo and bringing a magnificent flush to her cheek. For a moment even the birch stammered; then it went on.
“Beauteous maid, you make my sap run fast; you make my bark tingle. I would embrace you.”
Well, Ellyne had never heard a tree talk before and she was fascinated. It was so well spoken and, besides, it was giving her compliments instead of the stuttering and spitting and gawking she was used to from all the men of her acquaintance. She moved closer to hear more.
Vyctor took a step
Just as he slipped out the back door, the king’s law broke down the front.
The lead dragoon spotted the hand of the surgeon’s apprentice still on the door knob. Grabbing onto the hand, the dragoon cried out, “Sir, I have him.”
That, of course, is when the hand came off in his, for it was the Strangler’s hand, hard and horned from its horrible vocation. The apprentice had carried it off with him for just such an emergency.
The soldier, being an honest sort, screamed and dropped the severed claw. In the ensuing melee, the apprentice escaped. It is said he climbed Dun D’Addin in a single breath and was on the far side before he thought to stay. And here he has plied a similar trade—but that is only a rumor and not one that I, at least, can vouch for.
“I’ll give you a hand for that tale,” cried out a lusty listener, the local butcher, clapping loudly but alone.
Jok smiled and bowed his head towards the applause. “So point two is the hand.”
The fat man sighed. “And I expected more from you than yet another joke. I suppose point three is the same?” He scratched under his eye with the mutilated finger.
Jok, fascinated, could not stop staring at him. “No,” he said at last. “As a matter of fact, point three is very serious.”
“Three!” said the innkeeper, suddenly remembering his role in the affair. “Three!”
“Point three,” Jok said, tearing his gaze from the fat man and looking again at his audience, which had enlarged by four or five drinkers, much to the innkeeper’s satisfaction. “Point three is the voice. In roguery, that voice must be melodic and cozzening but, in the end, forgettable.”
Three: The Voice
Ellyne was the fairest girl on any of Dun D’Addin’s borders, the fairest in seven counties if one were to be exact. Her hair was red and curled about her face like little fishhooks ready to catch the unwary ogler. Her skin was the color of berried cream, rosy and white. Not a man but sighed for her, though she seemed oblivious to them all.
One day she was walking out in the woods, not far from the Hill, picking bellflowers for a tisane and listening to the syncopations of the birds, when a rogue from Dun D’Addin chanced by.
Now his name was Vyctor and he was known Under-the-Hill as The Voice, for he could cast the sound of it where he willed. It was his one great trick, that mellifluous traveling tone. With it he had talked jewelers out of their gems, good wives out of their virtue, and a judge out of hanging him. He was that good.
Vyctor saw the red-headed Ellyne and was stunned, felled, split and spitted by her beauty. He had heard tell of it, but that had been on Dun D’Addin’s byways where every word is doubled and every truth halved. But those who had praised Ellyne’s beauty hadn’t sung the smallest part of it properly. Vyctor the Voice lost his—and his heart as well. He began to stammer.
Now Ellyne was used to the stammering of men. In fact she was of the belief that—except for her own father and a blind singer in her town—all men above the age of puberty stammered. She was an innocent for sure, and not aware of her beauty, for not a man had been able to string three words together to tell her of it.
But if Vyctor could not speak directly to her, he could still talk by throwing his voice, and so he spoke to her from the nearest tree.
“Beauteous maid,” the birch began.
Ellyne turned round and about, the movement making her hair a halo and bringing a magnificent flush to her cheek. For a moment even the birch stammered; then it went on.
“Beauteous maid, you make my sap run fast; you make my bark tingle. I would embrace you.”
Well, Ellyne had never heard a tree talk before and she was fascinated. It was so well spoken and, besides, it was giving her compliments instead of the stuttering and spitting and gawking she was used to from all the men of her acquaintance. She moved closer to hear more.
Vyctor took a step
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