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Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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decided, because he had been unable to beg, borrow or steal one of the typical Vallian floppy hats with the brave feathers. His own headgear, a skull cap, a head band, would be quite inappropriate here.
The main gauche was thrust down into his belt and from somewhere he’d cobbled together a quite respectable scabbard for the dagger.
Lon quivered.
“Shall we go in, my lady?”
“By all means, Lon. I am looking forward to a pleasant evening.”
“Shall you wish to see the illuminations, my lady?”
He wouldn’t normally speak like that. He was trying to suit his language to the importance of the occasion.
She halted.
“Lon — two things. One: speak nicely but normally. Two: Don’t keep on my lady all the time. My name is Lyss. Use it when you have to.”
Lon swallowed.
“Yes, my la — Yes, Lyss.”
So that meant that Silda was back into the persona of Lyss the Lone again. She sighed and went up the steps with Lon into The Silver Lotus. She’d be damned happy when all this present untidiness was over and she could go home and see Drak. That made her think of that awful Queen Lush. The fat scheming bitch! No doubt at this very minute she was fluttering her eyelashes at Drak, and oohing and aahing, and arching her back — the fat cow — and stinking of too much scent and — and — and she was with Drak! It was just about too much.
Still and all, Silda was a Sister of the Rose, and so Silda must be Lyss and soldier on.
The buttons of the khiganer along Lon’s left collar bone, fashioned of pewter, had their embossed representation of Beng Debrant almost polished away. The buttons down his left side started out in exactly the same way, the pewter shining nicely. Halfway down, the buttons were made of bone, some with inscribed and worn away pictures, the lower ones plain. Toward the bottom of the tunic the buttons were of wood. Lon kept his right hand casually across his stomach as much as he could, concealing those wooden buttons.
The Sisters of the Rose learning at Lancival were told that if a person made an effort, if they did the very best they could, and tried to their utmost, then, win or lose, they couldn’t be faulted. The results of those contests lay with the Invisible Twins made manifest in the light of Opaz.
Lon had made a tremendous effort.
Silda gave him full marks.
She was uncomfortably aware, with a feeling she tried to tell herself was not self-conscious superiority, that in Lon’s mind no thought of any sexual approaches existed. He was just pleased to be out, and to be seen out, with a young lady of so different a background from those girls he habitually consorted with. And the very thought made Silda feel conscious of her unworthiness. How her sisters in the SoR would chortle at her now! And — she’d tell ’em all to go hang!
The inn was of the middling quality, clean, and the wine varied from reasonable to good. If some patron felt the rush of blood to his head and ordered a bottle of Jholaix, there was just the chance one might be found. The chance was very slender, for of all the wines of these parts, Jholaix was acknowledged to be the finest. Its cost was astronomical. She turned to Lon as they sat in the seats indicated by the serving girl, and said: “Something very simple, Lon, for me.”
He stared at her with a concerned expression.
“Now, my la — Lyss — in the lights, I can see. Your head — there is blood—”
“Oh!” she said crossly. “Didn’t I wipe it all off?”
She hauled out the kerchief and spat on it and scrubbed, wondering what the hell her mentors would say if they could see her.
“Each time we meet, Lon, I am bloody. Take heed.”
“How? I mean — what—?”
“Louts, drunken, out for a laugh and robbery.”
“The Watch is lax, I think.” Then Lon let one eyelid droop. “Which is fortunate, at times...”
Silda laughed.
The serving girl was a Fristle, all laypom-colored fur, and a saucy tail, and brushed whiskers, clad in a
The main gauche was thrust down into his belt and from somewhere he’d cobbled together a quite respectable scabbard for the dagger.
Lon quivered.
“Shall we go in, my lady?”
“By all means, Lon. I am looking forward to a pleasant evening.”
“Shall you wish to see the illuminations, my lady?”
He wouldn’t normally speak like that. He was trying to suit his language to the importance of the occasion.
She halted.
“Lon — two things. One: speak nicely but normally. Two: Don’t keep on my lady all the time. My name is Lyss. Use it when you have to.”
Lon swallowed.
“Yes, my la — Yes, Lyss.”
So that meant that Silda was back into the persona of Lyss the Lone again. She sighed and went up the steps with Lon into The Silver Lotus. She’d be damned happy when all this present untidiness was over and she could go home and see Drak. That made her think of that awful Queen Lush. The fat scheming bitch! No doubt at this very minute she was fluttering her eyelashes at Drak, and oohing and aahing, and arching her back — the fat cow — and stinking of too much scent and — and — and she was with Drak! It was just about too much.
Still and all, Silda was a Sister of the Rose, and so Silda must be Lyss and soldier on.
The buttons of the khiganer along Lon’s left collar bone, fashioned of pewter, had their embossed representation of Beng Debrant almost polished away. The buttons down his left side started out in exactly the same way, the pewter shining nicely. Halfway down, the buttons were made of bone, some with inscribed and worn away pictures, the lower ones plain. Toward the bottom of the tunic the buttons were of wood. Lon kept his right hand casually across his stomach as much as he could, concealing those wooden buttons.
The Sisters of the Rose learning at Lancival were told that if a person made an effort, if they did the very best they could, and tried to their utmost, then, win or lose, they couldn’t be faulted. The results of those contests lay with the Invisible Twins made manifest in the light of Opaz.
Lon had made a tremendous effort.
Silda gave him full marks.
She was uncomfortably aware, with a feeling she tried to tell herself was not self-conscious superiority, that in Lon’s mind no thought of any sexual approaches existed. He was just pleased to be out, and to be seen out, with a young lady of so different a background from those girls he habitually consorted with. And the very thought made Silda feel conscious of her unworthiness. How her sisters in the SoR would chortle at her now! And — she’d tell ’em all to go hang!
The inn was of the middling quality, clean, and the wine varied from reasonable to good. If some patron felt the rush of blood to his head and ordered a bottle of Jholaix, there was just the chance one might be found. The chance was very slender, for of all the wines of these parts, Jholaix was acknowledged to be the finest. Its cost was astronomical. She turned to Lon as they sat in the seats indicated by the serving girl, and said: “Something very simple, Lon, for me.”
He stared at her with a concerned expression.
“Now, my la — Lyss — in the lights, I can see. Your head — there is blood—”
“Oh!” she said crossly. “Didn’t I wipe it all off?”
She hauled out the kerchief and spat on it and scrubbed, wondering what the hell her mentors would say if they could see her.
“Each time we meet, Lon, I am bloody. Take heed.”
“How? I mean — what—?”
“Louts, drunken, out for a laugh and robbery.”
“The Watch is lax, I think.” Then Lon let one eyelid droop. “Which is fortunate, at times...”
Silda laughed.
The serving girl was a Fristle, all laypom-colored fur, and a saucy tail, and brushed whiskers, clad in a
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