Read Online Orion Shall Rise by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

weathervane
    Crowning a steeple through
    These thousand years and more,
    For here is our market, that traffics in memories.
    Inns full of fellowship
    Were beckoning from shore.
    ‘But on flowed the river, to Tipton where formerly,
    Underneath ivy leaves,
    I tried to learn a trade.
    The signboard was there still, and greeted the ne’er-do-well
    Faring unseen beyond
    The friends that he had made.
    ‘At Harpford they knew me right well as a drinking man,
    Singing man, gambling man,
    A worker when I chose,
    Adorer of womankind, rambler of countryside –
    None saw me pass it but
    The minnows and the crows.
    ‘A little way south of the place I called Otterton
    Ended my pilgrimage,
    Where willows roof a shoal.
    My bones lie there nameless, but everywhere whispering,
    Wind-borne and stream-borne, go
    The names that were my soul.’
    Plik ended with a shiver of fingers across the strings of his lute, laid the instrument down on the table at which he sat benched, seized a goblet of wine and drained half of it in a gulp.
    ‘What was that?’ asked Sesi.
    Plik shrugged. ‘I suppose I’ll call it “Names.”’
    Standing before him, the barmaid raised a finger in reproach. The motion made her hips undulate. They were nicely rounded, like the rest of her. A low-cut, knee-length gown set that shape off to advantage. Her face was rather pretty too, with dark ringlets to frame brown eyes, snub nose, heavy lips, clear complexion.
    ‘I mean what’s it about, silly,’ she said. ‘You know I don’t know much Angley.’
    Plik drank more slowly. ‘Well, it isn’t quite autobiographical – thus far, anyhow – though it does describe the area I come from.’
    She gave a slight, seductive shudder. ‘Now don’t you tell me more. I caught barely enough to make me nervous. Honestly, Plik, when you get into one of your weird moods, it scares me.’
    ‘No harm intended to you, ever, dearest Vineleaf.’ A smile twisted his mouth. ‘I’ll make amends. My next will be in Francey, and in praise of you. Incidentally, I’m near the end of learning Brezhoneg – not everyday Brezhoneg, but the literary language. Soon I’ll do a ballad in it, all for you and all about you.’
    She bent over and bestowed a swift kiss on him. He reached for her, but she swayed backward with an ease that bespoke practice.‘You are an old dear.’ She giggled. ‘But, please, not
all
about me.’
    ‘Oh, no.’ Plik uttered a rusty chuckle. ‘I’ve too much competition as matters stand.’ He emptied his goblet, reached into his belt pouch, and slapped down an iron coin. ‘Another, if you will,’
    She took money and vessel while she looked archly across the table. ‘You, sir?’
    Iern shook his head. ‘Not yet, thanks.’
    Both men’s gazes followed her as she walked to the barrel near the bar. This early in the afternoon, they three were alone in the Pey-d’Or. It was a tavern mostly for laborers and sailors. Smoke-blackened beams upheld a low ceiling above a clay floor. Benches flanked four tables. A basement room with a dusty-windowed clerestory, it was already dim.
    ‘What a pleasant sight,’ the pilot murmured in Angley. ‘To tell the truth, I could have tossed mine off, but I’ll wait till you get your refill so she’ll make another trip. She wags her tail in such a cheerful fashion.’
    Plik started. ‘What?’ he said in his dialect of the same tongue. ‘Your usage – are you of the Aerogens?’
    Iern nodded. ‘We needn’t make a fuss about it. I admire your song. It’s eerie, yes, but I liked it, and you fitted the words very well to that old folk tune.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Talence Iern Ferlay.’
    ‘The same –? – the Stormrider who – An honor, sir.’ The poet accepted the clasp. ‘I’m Peyt Rensoon, from Devon across the Channel. Everybody here calls me Plik, though.’
    They regarded each other. The Angleyman was tall and lanky and ungainly in his movements. A narrow skull bore a face thin and deeply lined,