Read Online Earth Magic by Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin
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he passed her, the tirewoman backed even farther as though to give him all the room he could demand and an extra margin for her own peace of mind. She was a gray woman dressed in gray—grayness compounded.
The young Princess of Chastain tried to turn to continue facing him, but her skirts were long and heavy and allowed no freedom of movement. To turn without tangling she must stoop and lift her skirts free. She refused to stoop and she would not tangle herself so she stood still, wrestling with fury, while he looked at her. It pleased him to make her angry because there was nothing else about her that could please him and he craved some satisfaction.
“Have you stripped me with your eyes to your content, you barbarian pig?” she asked.
It was a well-turned nastiness in the narrow Nestorian spoken by the highborn of Chastain, but in the distance between them the nuance was lost. Haldane heard only, “Have you seen your fill?” He did not recognize the word “barbarian.” It was not a word used by peasants, by Oliver, or by Leonidus the Poet King. And pigs smelled far sweeter to him than they did to her. He came very close to hearing a compliment. Only her tone saved her meaning.
He surprised her by replying in his simple country Nestorian: “That I have. My fill and more.” She clearly hadn’t expected to be understood at all, but had been speaking bravely for the tirewoman to hear. He turned his back and walked to a chest by the door, which he took for a seat.
“So you speak Nestorian,” she said.
“That I may talk to serfs and my orders be understood,” he said. “But I will teach you Gettish.”
“I will not learn it!”
“Please yourself. You may sit in this room and face the wall until you die if that is what you like. You may mumble Nestorian to yourself as you do.”
“I will entreat My Lady Libera to strike me dead and burn this place with fire after me.”
Haldane’s hand went to his boar’s tooth. He was afraid, struck to the heart by her words as he would be by any mention of the Goddess. But he would show none of it. Was she kind of the Goddess? Was the witch’s hand in this? No matter. He forced a lifted chin, a laugh, and light words.
“Tell me more of your Libera and what she will do.”
But she shook her head a sudden and determined no as though she felt she had said too much. And then she just stared at him, her eyes great and round. There was a long and numbing silence.
“Say on.”
But she said nothing.
“Say something.”
At last she said, “Do you wish me to speak of the weather?”
“If you like.”
“I like it not at all. It has been nothing but clouds and cold and rain since we crossed the Nails.”
Haldane said, “It is spring.” But she was speaking and not listening.
“Or health? I am bruised and sore from traveling over fallen roads.” Marthe spoke intensely. “Would you like another subject?”
“An you wish,” Haldane said.
“I wanted to have a bath last night and they told me I must wait until we are betrothed. Is this a Gettish custom?”
The tirewoman gasped. In a small voice she said, “Oh, my lady! You told your father you would not ask.”
“I am asking. Must I stay travel-dirty until we are betrothed?”
“No,” said Haldane. “You must stay travel-dirty until bath night. That is Cel’s Day coming, the day we are plighted.”
She turned away and looked upward. In a desperate voice she said, “Oh, my life! Am I lost? Am I lost? Oh, if I were only home again where life is right. What must I forego next?”
Haldane said, “You are much too nice. I’ll wager my father’s treasure that when you shit you have a servant standing ready to wipe you. You are a heavy price to pay for ambition. You should have stayed at home with your own in Chastain and never entered my life.”
This stung the girl. Her head snapped round to face him. Her eyes widened in outrage. She opened her mouth to speak and no words came. She hit the air
The young Princess of Chastain tried to turn to continue facing him, but her skirts were long and heavy and allowed no freedom of movement. To turn without tangling she must stoop and lift her skirts free. She refused to stoop and she would not tangle herself so she stood still, wrestling with fury, while he looked at her. It pleased him to make her angry because there was nothing else about her that could please him and he craved some satisfaction.
“Have you stripped me with your eyes to your content, you barbarian pig?” she asked.
It was a well-turned nastiness in the narrow Nestorian spoken by the highborn of Chastain, but in the distance between them the nuance was lost. Haldane heard only, “Have you seen your fill?” He did not recognize the word “barbarian.” It was not a word used by peasants, by Oliver, or by Leonidus the Poet King. And pigs smelled far sweeter to him than they did to her. He came very close to hearing a compliment. Only her tone saved her meaning.
He surprised her by replying in his simple country Nestorian: “That I have. My fill and more.” She clearly hadn’t expected to be understood at all, but had been speaking bravely for the tirewoman to hear. He turned his back and walked to a chest by the door, which he took for a seat.
“So you speak Nestorian,” she said.
“That I may talk to serfs and my orders be understood,” he said. “But I will teach you Gettish.”
“I will not learn it!”
“Please yourself. You may sit in this room and face the wall until you die if that is what you like. You may mumble Nestorian to yourself as you do.”
“I will entreat My Lady Libera to strike me dead and burn this place with fire after me.”
Haldane’s hand went to his boar’s tooth. He was afraid, struck to the heart by her words as he would be by any mention of the Goddess. But he would show none of it. Was she kind of the Goddess? Was the witch’s hand in this? No matter. He forced a lifted chin, a laugh, and light words.
“Tell me more of your Libera and what she will do.”
But she shook her head a sudden and determined no as though she felt she had said too much. And then she just stared at him, her eyes great and round. There was a long and numbing silence.
“Say on.”
But she said nothing.
“Say something.”
At last she said, “Do you wish me to speak of the weather?”
“If you like.”
“I like it not at all. It has been nothing but clouds and cold and rain since we crossed the Nails.”
Haldane said, “It is spring.” But she was speaking and not listening.
“Or health? I am bruised and sore from traveling over fallen roads.” Marthe spoke intensely. “Would you like another subject?”
“An you wish,” Haldane said.
“I wanted to have a bath last night and they told me I must wait until we are betrothed. Is this a Gettish custom?”
The tirewoman gasped. In a small voice she said, “Oh, my lady! You told your father you would not ask.”
“I am asking. Must I stay travel-dirty until we are betrothed?”
“No,” said Haldane. “You must stay travel-dirty until bath night. That is Cel’s Day coming, the day we are plighted.”
She turned away and looked upward. In a desperate voice she said, “Oh, my life! Am I lost? Am I lost? Oh, if I were only home again where life is right. What must I forego next?”
Haldane said, “You are much too nice. I’ll wager my father’s treasure that when you shit you have a servant standing ready to wipe you. You are a heavy price to pay for ambition. You should have stayed at home with your own in Chastain and never entered my life.”
This stung the girl. Her head snapped round to face him. Her eyes widened in outrage. She opened her mouth to speak and no words came. She hit the air
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