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Authors: Tad Williams
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either.”
Morgenes shut the cage door again, binding it closed with a leather thong, and placed it on a high shelf. Having climbed onto his table to accomplish this, he then continued along its great length, stepping expertly over the litter until he found what he wanted and hopped down. This container, made of thin strips of wood, held no suspicious sand.
“Cage for crickets,” the doctor explained, and helped the youth move the birds into their new home. A small dish of water was placed within; from somewhere else Morgenes even produced a tiny sack of seeds, which he scattered on the cage floor.
“Are they old enough for that?” Simon wondered. The doctor waved a careless hand.
“Not to worry,” he said. “Good for their teeth.”
Simon promised his birds that he would be back soon with something more suitable, and followed the doctor across the workshop.
“Well, young Simon, charmer of finch and swallow,” Morgenes smiled, “what can I do for you this cold forenoon? It seems to me that we had not completed your just and honorable frog transaction the other day when we were forced to stop.”
“Yes, and I was hoping ...”
“And I believe there was another thing, too?”
“What?” Simon thought hard.
“A little matter of a floor in need of sweeping? A broom, lone and lorn, aching in its twiggy heart to be put to use?”
Simon nodded glumly. He had hoped an apprenticeship might start on a more auspicious note.
“Ah. A small aversion to menial labor?” The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “Understandable but misplaced. One should treasure those humdrum tasks that keep the body occupied but leave the mind and heart unfettered. Well, we shall strive to help you through your first day in service. I have thought of a wonderful arrangement.” He did a funny little jig-step. “I talk, you work. Good, eh?”
Simon shrugged. “Do you have a broom? I forgot mine.”
Morgenes poked around behind the door, producing at last an object so worn and cobwebby it was scarcely recognizable as a tool for sweeping.
“Now,” the doctor said, presenting it to him with as much dignity as if it were the king’s own standard, “what do you want me to talk to you about?”
“About the sea-raiders and their black iron, and the Sithi ... and our castle, of course. And King John.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded thoughtfully. “ A longish list, but if we are not once again interrupted by that cloth-headed sluggard Inch, I might be able to whittle it down a bit. Set to, boy, set to—let the dust fly! By the by, where exactly in the story was I... ?”
“Oh, the Rimmersmen had come, and the Sithi were retreating, and the Rimmersmen had iron swords and they were chopping people up, and killing everyone, killing the Sithi with black iron ... ”
“Hmmm,” said Morgenes dryly, “it comes back to me now. Hmm. Well, truth be told, the northern raiders were not killing quite everybody; neither were their expansions and assaults quite so relentless as I may have made them sound. They were many years in the north before they ever crossed the Frostmarch—even then they ran into a major obstacle: the men of Hernystir.”
“Yes, but the Sithi-folk... !” Simon was impatient. He knew all about the Hernystiri—had met many people from that pagan western land. “You said that the little people had to flee from the iron swords!”
“Not little people, Simon, I ... oh, my!” The doctor slumped down onto a pile of leather-bound books and pulled at his sparse chinwhiskers. “I can see that I must give this story in greater depth. Are you expected back for the midday meal?”
“No,” Simon lied promptly. An uninterrupted story from the doctor seemed a fair bargain for one of Rachel’s fabled thrashings.
“Good. Well, then, let us find ourselves some bread and onions ... and perhaps a noggin of something to drink—talking is such thirsty work—then I shall endeavor to turn dross to purest Metal Absolute: in short, to
Morgenes shut the cage door again, binding it closed with a leather thong, and placed it on a high shelf. Having climbed onto his table to accomplish this, he then continued along its great length, stepping expertly over the litter until he found what he wanted and hopped down. This container, made of thin strips of wood, held no suspicious sand.
“Cage for crickets,” the doctor explained, and helped the youth move the birds into their new home. A small dish of water was placed within; from somewhere else Morgenes even produced a tiny sack of seeds, which he scattered on the cage floor.
“Are they old enough for that?” Simon wondered. The doctor waved a careless hand.
“Not to worry,” he said. “Good for their teeth.”
Simon promised his birds that he would be back soon with something more suitable, and followed the doctor across the workshop.
“Well, young Simon, charmer of finch and swallow,” Morgenes smiled, “what can I do for you this cold forenoon? It seems to me that we had not completed your just and honorable frog transaction the other day when we were forced to stop.”
“Yes, and I was hoping ...”
“And I believe there was another thing, too?”
“What?” Simon thought hard.
“A little matter of a floor in need of sweeping? A broom, lone and lorn, aching in its twiggy heart to be put to use?”
Simon nodded glumly. He had hoped an apprenticeship might start on a more auspicious note.
“Ah. A small aversion to menial labor?” The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “Understandable but misplaced. One should treasure those humdrum tasks that keep the body occupied but leave the mind and heart unfettered. Well, we shall strive to help you through your first day in service. I have thought of a wonderful arrangement.” He did a funny little jig-step. “I talk, you work. Good, eh?”
Simon shrugged. “Do you have a broom? I forgot mine.”
Morgenes poked around behind the door, producing at last an object so worn and cobwebby it was scarcely recognizable as a tool for sweeping.
“Now,” the doctor said, presenting it to him with as much dignity as if it were the king’s own standard, “what do you want me to talk to you about?”
“About the sea-raiders and their black iron, and the Sithi ... and our castle, of course. And King John.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded thoughtfully. “ A longish list, but if we are not once again interrupted by that cloth-headed sluggard Inch, I might be able to whittle it down a bit. Set to, boy, set to—let the dust fly! By the by, where exactly in the story was I... ?”
“Oh, the Rimmersmen had come, and the Sithi were retreating, and the Rimmersmen had iron swords and they were chopping people up, and killing everyone, killing the Sithi with black iron ... ”
“Hmmm,” said Morgenes dryly, “it comes back to me now. Hmm. Well, truth be told, the northern raiders were not killing quite everybody; neither were their expansions and assaults quite so relentless as I may have made them sound. They were many years in the north before they ever crossed the Frostmarch—even then they ran into a major obstacle: the men of Hernystir.”
“Yes, but the Sithi-folk... !” Simon was impatient. He knew all about the Hernystiri—had met many people from that pagan western land. “You said that the little people had to flee from the iron swords!”
“Not little people, Simon, I ... oh, my!” The doctor slumped down onto a pile of leather-bound books and pulled at his sparse chinwhiskers. “I can see that I must give this story in greater depth. Are you expected back for the midday meal?”
“No,” Simon lied promptly. An uninterrupted story from the doctor seemed a fair bargain for one of Rachel’s fabled thrashings.
“Good. Well, then, let us find ourselves some bread and onions ... and perhaps a noggin of something to drink—talking is such thirsty work—then I shall endeavor to turn dross to purest Metal Absolute: in short, to
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