Read Online Honor's Paradox-ARC by P C Hodgell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P C Hodgell
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snapped off one of its beringed fingers. Who, and whose? Ah, it made no sense, like all dreams, no more than did this futile quest for a clue.
It would come as writing on a page.
He should be focusing on reports less than ten days old, not pigheadedly working his way from back to front.
A knock on the door heralded the appearance of his servant Burr, with an armload of fresh logs for the fireplace behind him. The wolver pup Yce, who had been curled up asleep on the hearth, growled at being disturbed. However, it was about time: the tower room was growing chill, and dark. How dark, Torisen hadn’t realized until Burr lit the branched candles at his elbow. The sun had set. Shadows were seeping into the valley below like dark waters rising and cold air flowed over the windowsill.
“You didn’t come down at noon,” said Burr, glowering.
“I was busy. Just look at this.” He held up the document he had been straining to read. “The Edirr suggest that there be a special award at the Lordans’ Presentation for the best dressed heir.”
“For stuff like this you forget meals?”
There, Burr had a point: the petition was clearly just Lords Essien and Essiar teasing the Coman and Caineron, who tended to dress for every occasion as if for their coronation.
He let the paper drop, then grabbed as the entire stack began to slide. “I promise I’ll eat something for dinner. Just stop pestering me.”
Burr grunted and turned to leave. “Oh,” he said on the threshold, “I almost forgot. Steward Rowan says that a messenger from Lord Danior has arrived.”
Torisen scrabbled for falling papers. Dammit, now they would all be out of order. What could Cousin Holly have to say, anyway, that was too important to wait until the High Council meeting?
“Tell Rowan that I’ll meet Holly’s messenger below.”
Burr left.
On the stair down, following him, Torisen paused to watch Marc work at the eastern end of the High Council chamber.
The furnace built into the northeast turret glowed as the big Kendar reached into it and loaded his blowpipe with a gather of molten glass. Then he began to swing it slowly, blowing, careful not to inhale the searing fumes. A lambent cylinder formed. This he detached, cut open with a hot knife, spread out on a pallet, and inserted into the annealing oven in the opposite southeastern tower.
“D’you think this system will work better than your old one?” Torisen asked, descending the rest of the way into the warm hall.
Yce ghosted around his legs and made a dart at the leather apron that Marc was untying. For a moment Kendar and wolver played tug-o’-war with the braided cord that had secured it. Then Marc let the belt go. The pup dragged it under the ebony council table and set about “killing” it with noisy, slobbering glee. Marc removed his smoked glass goggles and wiped a forearm across his sweaty face, smearing it black.
“It’s all an experiment, lad, like everything else I do.”
He had done remarkably well, thought Torisen, given only a handful of clues from a Tai-tastigon glass-master who had made the common mistake of underestimating the big man’s intelligence. Marc had always wanted to be a craftsman, an ambition thwarted by his size and general usefulness as a warrior despite his dislike for bloodshed. Now that late middle age had crept up on him, it seemed only just that he should be free to explore his other talents.
“It looks good,” Torisen said, picking up a palm-sized bit of pale rose glass shot with gold filigree and holding it to the fading light, “if nothing like a map.”
“Yet you can read it, lad.”
“Only because you’ve told me what to look for.”
“Ah.” Marc surveyed the abstract swirl of hues, each determined by the native materials that had gone into its making—carbon and sulfur for amber, nickel for rich purple, copper for deep green and brick red. Fragments of glass from the original, shattered window made up much of each piece but
It would come as writing on a page.
He should be focusing on reports less than ten days old, not pigheadedly working his way from back to front.
A knock on the door heralded the appearance of his servant Burr, with an armload of fresh logs for the fireplace behind him. The wolver pup Yce, who had been curled up asleep on the hearth, growled at being disturbed. However, it was about time: the tower room was growing chill, and dark. How dark, Torisen hadn’t realized until Burr lit the branched candles at his elbow. The sun had set. Shadows were seeping into the valley below like dark waters rising and cold air flowed over the windowsill.
“You didn’t come down at noon,” said Burr, glowering.
“I was busy. Just look at this.” He held up the document he had been straining to read. “The Edirr suggest that there be a special award at the Lordans’ Presentation for the best dressed heir.”
“For stuff like this you forget meals?”
There, Burr had a point: the petition was clearly just Lords Essien and Essiar teasing the Coman and Caineron, who tended to dress for every occasion as if for their coronation.
He let the paper drop, then grabbed as the entire stack began to slide. “I promise I’ll eat something for dinner. Just stop pestering me.”
Burr grunted and turned to leave. “Oh,” he said on the threshold, “I almost forgot. Steward Rowan says that a messenger from Lord Danior has arrived.”
Torisen scrabbled for falling papers. Dammit, now they would all be out of order. What could Cousin Holly have to say, anyway, that was too important to wait until the High Council meeting?
“Tell Rowan that I’ll meet Holly’s messenger below.”
Burr left.
On the stair down, following him, Torisen paused to watch Marc work at the eastern end of the High Council chamber.
The furnace built into the northeast turret glowed as the big Kendar reached into it and loaded his blowpipe with a gather of molten glass. Then he began to swing it slowly, blowing, careful not to inhale the searing fumes. A lambent cylinder formed. This he detached, cut open with a hot knife, spread out on a pallet, and inserted into the annealing oven in the opposite southeastern tower.
“D’you think this system will work better than your old one?” Torisen asked, descending the rest of the way into the warm hall.
Yce ghosted around his legs and made a dart at the leather apron that Marc was untying. For a moment Kendar and wolver played tug-o’-war with the braided cord that had secured it. Then Marc let the belt go. The pup dragged it under the ebony council table and set about “killing” it with noisy, slobbering glee. Marc removed his smoked glass goggles and wiped a forearm across his sweaty face, smearing it black.
“It’s all an experiment, lad, like everything else I do.”
He had done remarkably well, thought Torisen, given only a handful of clues from a Tai-tastigon glass-master who had made the common mistake of underestimating the big man’s intelligence. Marc had always wanted to be a craftsman, an ambition thwarted by his size and general usefulness as a warrior despite his dislike for bloodshed. Now that late middle age had crept up on him, it seemed only just that he should be free to explore his other talents.
“It looks good,” Torisen said, picking up a palm-sized bit of pale rose glass shot with gold filigree and holding it to the fading light, “if nothing like a map.”
“Yet you can read it, lad.”
“Only because you’ve told me what to look for.”
“Ah.” Marc surveyed the abstract swirl of hues, each determined by the native materials that had gone into its making—carbon and sulfur for amber, nickel for rich purple, copper for deep green and brick red. Fragments of glass from the original, shattered window made up much of each piece but
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