Read Online Earth Magic by Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin
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weakness? If he were Morca he would have gone looking for Furd Heavyhand. Better one of Furd than five of Soren.
Soren said, “What will you do to Furd?”
“I will make him cease his raids and return your pigs. And your daughter, too, if you like.”
“That isn’t necessary. Let him keep her. She will make a sober man of him,” Soren said. “All right. I will give you my word, Morca.”
He was bending his knee before Morca when the serf returned from Lothor.
“Hold,” said Morca to Soren, and waved the go-fetch forward.
Soren, fat as a brood sow ready to drop a litter, was left half-bent. He had to make the decision to rise, set, or remain halfway in-between, and he bobbed indecisively, raising a laugh from these onlookers who were ready to find a laugh in him. He flushed, but then apparently decided that since he was to end on his knees eventually, he might as well do it and be done, and plopped down awkwardly.
The serf spoke to Black Morca. “Lord Morca, the little foreign king says his daughter will receive Lord Haldane now. She waits him in the small room.”
Morca nodded, waved him away to his corner with one hand, and nudged Haldane with the other.
“There’s the signal, boy. The Princess Marthe waits for you. Go on, now.”
“I would as lief not go. I have met the girl. I know already what she looks like.”
Morca clenched his great right fist and showed it to Haldane. “You are marrying the girl,” he said. “Don’t you think she deserves a second look before you are betrothed?”
Haldane said hastily, “Oh, all right then.”
As he left the room, Morca called after, “Don’t let her make a sober man of you.” And there was laughter.
Haldane paused outside the door of the small room where the princess awaited him. Lothor’s little brown heifer. His price for becoming a king and living an epic. He counted to five and to five again, and opened the door.
She stood waiting opposite the door, Lothor’s little dog in her arms, a tirewoman at her elbow. The dog yapped to see Haldane.
Marthe was shorter than he remembered. Today she wore no hat and bore less paint, but again she wore a dress that swallowed her. The sleeves were puffed and slit. Her dresses all seemed to have puffed sleeves that made her appear chubby and graceless. Gold chains hung down over her tight, jeweled bodice. Her hair was golden brown, her face was round, and her nose straight and high-bridged. She looked more the younger girl Morca had made her.
Last night after Lothor had retired, it had been recounted how Morca’s party had halted well short of the dun at Lothor’s insistence so that he and the Princess Marthe might change from their traveling clothes. They wished to make a grand appearance at Morca’s dun. They wished to impress all the important people waiting there. The Gets had let them, laughing to themselves.
“But why did they do it?” Haldane asked. If he changed his clothes once in a twelvenight he counted it often. More like once in a month. And every man who mattered in Morca’s dun was with the party. “Who was it for?”
“Well, it must have been for you,” said Morca. “And Oliver. And the pigs. And the kitchen women.” Everyone laughed as he worked his way down the scale. “Were you impressed?”
“No,” said Haldane. “As for the kitchen women, you must ask them.”
Now looking the girl over, he still was not impressed. As he closed the door behind him, Marthe handed the dog to the tirewoman who retired a step or two, not so far that she couldn’t hear all that was said, but far enough to remove herself from the affairs of her betters, at least by implication. The dog was a trembling fragile thing and it strained futilely to be free. Grunt would have been ashamed to kill it.
Still without a word—for what did he have to say to her?—Haldane walked around Marthe, taking advantage of the opportunity to see her from all sides. That, after all, was his reason for coming. As
Soren said, “What will you do to Furd?”
“I will make him cease his raids and return your pigs. And your daughter, too, if you like.”
“That isn’t necessary. Let him keep her. She will make a sober man of him,” Soren said. “All right. I will give you my word, Morca.”
He was bending his knee before Morca when the serf returned from Lothor.
“Hold,” said Morca to Soren, and waved the go-fetch forward.
Soren, fat as a brood sow ready to drop a litter, was left half-bent. He had to make the decision to rise, set, or remain halfway in-between, and he bobbed indecisively, raising a laugh from these onlookers who were ready to find a laugh in him. He flushed, but then apparently decided that since he was to end on his knees eventually, he might as well do it and be done, and plopped down awkwardly.
The serf spoke to Black Morca. “Lord Morca, the little foreign king says his daughter will receive Lord Haldane now. She waits him in the small room.”
Morca nodded, waved him away to his corner with one hand, and nudged Haldane with the other.
“There’s the signal, boy. The Princess Marthe waits for you. Go on, now.”
“I would as lief not go. I have met the girl. I know already what she looks like.”
Morca clenched his great right fist and showed it to Haldane. “You are marrying the girl,” he said. “Don’t you think she deserves a second look before you are betrothed?”
Haldane said hastily, “Oh, all right then.”
As he left the room, Morca called after, “Don’t let her make a sober man of you.” And there was laughter.
Haldane paused outside the door of the small room where the princess awaited him. Lothor’s little brown heifer. His price for becoming a king and living an epic. He counted to five and to five again, and opened the door.
She stood waiting opposite the door, Lothor’s little dog in her arms, a tirewoman at her elbow. The dog yapped to see Haldane.
Marthe was shorter than he remembered. Today she wore no hat and bore less paint, but again she wore a dress that swallowed her. The sleeves were puffed and slit. Her dresses all seemed to have puffed sleeves that made her appear chubby and graceless. Gold chains hung down over her tight, jeweled bodice. Her hair was golden brown, her face was round, and her nose straight and high-bridged. She looked more the younger girl Morca had made her.
Last night after Lothor had retired, it had been recounted how Morca’s party had halted well short of the dun at Lothor’s insistence so that he and the Princess Marthe might change from their traveling clothes. They wished to make a grand appearance at Morca’s dun. They wished to impress all the important people waiting there. The Gets had let them, laughing to themselves.
“But why did they do it?” Haldane asked. If he changed his clothes once in a twelvenight he counted it often. More like once in a month. And every man who mattered in Morca’s dun was with the party. “Who was it for?”
“Well, it must have been for you,” said Morca. “And Oliver. And the pigs. And the kitchen women.” Everyone laughed as he worked his way down the scale. “Were you impressed?”
“No,” said Haldane. “As for the kitchen women, you must ask them.”
Now looking the girl over, he still was not impressed. As he closed the door behind him, Marthe handed the dog to the tirewoman who retired a step or two, not so far that she couldn’t hear all that was said, but far enough to remove herself from the affairs of her betters, at least by implication. The dog was a trembling fragile thing and it strained futilely to be free. Grunt would have been ashamed to kill it.
Still without a word—for what did he have to say to her?—Haldane walked around Marthe, taking advantage of the opportunity to see her from all sides. That, after all, was his reason for coming. As
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