or two in the tree’s direction and the birch continued its serenade.
“My love for you is deeply rooted,” said the birch. “Do not ever leaf me.”
Ellyne sighed.
Just then the wind came up and blew the birch branches about. One grazed Ellyne’s arm. She shrieked—for she was a good girl and not about to be touched before the wedding banns had been posted.
Vyctor leaped forward, his sword suddenly in hand. “I … I … I will save you,” he cried, forgetting for that instant that the birch was his spokestree. He lay about vigorously and had soon carved up enough firewood to keep the hearths of Dun D’Addin warm for a week.
“Monster!” cried Ellyne. “You have slain my own true love.” She fell upon the woodpile and wept.
From the back she was not as beautiful as the front and Vyctor came immediately to his senses. Besides, her noisy sobbing had alerted the local dragoons, all of whom were in love with her, and a company of them marched into the woods, bayonets fixed.
Vyctor was arrested and tried, but his voice having made a full recovery, he was released.
Ellyne carried half a dozen of the finest birch branches home and placed them tenderly over her mantel. Then she took the surname Tree. She was careful not to burn wood or eat vegetables thereafter and wore widow’s weeds the rest of her short life.
The laughter that greeted Jok’s third tale signaled another round of ale. The innkeeper was just pouring when the miller said, “If that’s three, what’s four?”
Jok smiled. “Eye, hand, voice,” he said slowly, ticking them off on the fingers of his left hand. “But the fourth point of roguery is…”
“The Great Escape!” came a voice floating back from outside. Then the door snicked shut.
“The Great Escape,” Jok agreed. “Now there was a rogue…”
“My purse!” cried the man closest to the fire. “It’s been cut!”
Jok turned white and held his hands out in front of him, staring as honestly as he could at the accusing man. “I am not the culprit, sir. Look. I am clean. I stand here empty.” He turned out his pockets.
Every man in the inn, used to the ways of Dun D’Addin, did the same.
The innkeeper came to the center of the circle of men and looked around. Someone was missing. It was the fat florid merchant with the maimed hand. He was gone. And all their purses were gone as well.
Of course, slip-fingered Jok never told this final part of the tale. Even if he had known it, it would not have helped his reputation as a rogue. But in a nearby land, in a larger inn, known perversely as the Eagle and the Child, though it had nothing to do with either, a rather florid thin man, lying back on the very pillows that had lent him substance, told this tale to me, naming the points of roguery on his fingers. But he lacked one finger and therein lay his own miscalculation, for I relieved him of his pants and purse when he thought to make a long and interesting night. And so I end the tale.
For the first three points of roguery may be Eye and Hand and Voice, and the fourth the Great Escape. But the fifth and final point, which every true rogue knows well, is the Last Laugh. And I have often been complimented on the engaging quality of mine.
Dream Weaver
“A PENNY, A PENNY, KIND sir,” cried the Dream Weaver as she sat at the bottom steps of the Great Temple. Her busy fingers worked the small hand loom. “Just a penny for a woven dream.”
The King of Beggars passed her by. He had no time for dream weaving. It was too gossamer, too fragile. He believed in only one dream, that which would fill his belly. He would not part with his penny for any other. Gathering his rags around him, a movement he considered his answer, he went on.
The old Dream Weaver continued her wail. It was a chant, an obeisance she made to every passer-by. She did not see the King of Beggar’s gesture for she was blind. Her sightless eyes stared only into the future, and she wove by the feel of the
“My love for you is deeply rooted,” said the birch. “Do not ever leaf me.”
Ellyne sighed.
Just then the wind came up and blew the birch branches about. One grazed Ellyne’s arm. She shrieked—for she was a good girl and not about to be touched before the wedding banns had been posted.
Vyctor leaped forward, his sword suddenly in hand. “I … I … I will save you,” he cried, forgetting for that instant that the birch was his spokestree. He lay about vigorously and had soon carved up enough firewood to keep the hearths of Dun D’Addin warm for a week.
“Monster!” cried Ellyne. “You have slain my own true love.” She fell upon the woodpile and wept.
From the back she was not as beautiful as the front and Vyctor came immediately to his senses. Besides, her noisy sobbing had alerted the local dragoons, all of whom were in love with her, and a company of them marched into the woods, bayonets fixed.
Vyctor was arrested and tried, but his voice having made a full recovery, he was released.
Ellyne carried half a dozen of the finest birch branches home and placed them tenderly over her mantel. Then she took the surname Tree. She was careful not to burn wood or eat vegetables thereafter and wore widow’s weeds the rest of her short life.
The laughter that greeted Jok’s third tale signaled another round of ale. The innkeeper was just pouring when the miller said, “If that’s three, what’s four?”
Jok smiled. “Eye, hand, voice,” he said slowly, ticking them off on the fingers of his left hand. “But the fourth point of roguery is…”
“The Great Escape!” came a voice floating back from outside. Then the door snicked shut.
“The Great Escape,” Jok agreed. “Now there was a rogue…”
“My purse!” cried the man closest to the fire. “It’s been cut!”
Jok turned white and held his hands out in front of him, staring as honestly as he could at the accusing man. “I am not the culprit, sir. Look. I am clean. I stand here empty.” He turned out his pockets.
Every man in the inn, used to the ways of Dun D’Addin, did the same.
The innkeeper came to the center of the circle of men and looked around. Someone was missing. It was the fat florid merchant with the maimed hand. He was gone. And all their purses were gone as well.
Of course, slip-fingered Jok never told this final part of the tale. Even if he had known it, it would not have helped his reputation as a rogue. But in a nearby land, in a larger inn, known perversely as the Eagle and the Child, though it had nothing to do with either, a rather florid thin man, lying back on the very pillows that had lent him substance, told this tale to me, naming the points of roguery on his fingers. But he lacked one finger and therein lay his own miscalculation, for I relieved him of his pants and purse when he thought to make a long and interesting night. And so I end the tale.
For the first three points of roguery may be Eye and Hand and Voice, and the fourth the Great Escape. But the fifth and final point, which every true rogue knows well, is the Last Laugh. And I have often been complimented on the engaging quality of mine.
Dream Weaver
“A PENNY, A PENNY, KIND sir,” cried the Dream Weaver as she sat at the bottom steps of the Great Temple. Her busy fingers worked the small hand loom. “Just a penny for a woven dream.”
The King of Beggars passed her by. He had no time for dream weaving. It was too gossamer, too fragile. He believed in only one dream, that which would fill his belly. He would not part with his penny for any other. Gathering his rags around him, a movement he considered his answer, he went on.
The old Dream Weaver continued her wail. It was a chant, an obeisance she made to every passer-by. She did not see the King of Beggar’s gesture for she was blind. Her sightless eyes stared only into the future, and she wove by the feel of the
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