Read Earth Magic Online

Authors: Alexei Panshin,Cory Panshin

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Science Fiction, #General

Earth Magic (7 page)

Morca raised a palm to Oliver. It held him at bay. “Put out your pipe if you please to talk to me. I will not be smoked to death.”

Smoking was a strange and filthy habit Oliver had brought with him out of the West. He said it was a necessary part of his magic. The yellow weed he smoked smelled worse than a singed chicken. It was another reason that men were wary of him. When Haldane had studied magic so briefly, the prospect of having to smoke had dismayed him. He had not studied so long that his dismay was tested.

Oliver put his palm over the bowl. “I was in my cell studying my book for you and your benefit, instead of sleeping as I would, when I heard that yet another baron has craved leave to depart. How much reason to study my book will you give me?”

“It was only Aella of Long Barrow.”

“Don’t say ‘only Aella.’ If you followed my advice you would let no one leave until the betrothal is made and Lothor returned to Chastain. There are too many who will not like this marriage.”

“Aella will return for the betrothal. And today Soren Seed-Sower has joined me. He likes this marriage fine. And his brothers will follow him shortly into my hands, or so he swears.” Morca waved Oliver away. “Put your fears to rest, return to your cell and have your sleep. Nap until dinner.”

“I do not speak of lackweights like Aella and Soren. Larger men than they care what you do. In times like these, with witches and kings all about us, outlaws in the forest and enemies a-plenty, it is folly to keep an open gate. ‘The man who walks barefoot does not plant thorns.’ ”

“Have you been talking to Svein to be learning his tired saws?” Morca asked. He called up the stair. “Svein, have you and Oliver been hunched together?”

“No, Morca,” said Svein from the dark at the top of the stair. “But for once, your foreign man is right. Soren is a Farthing. His great-grandfather was your uncle’s enemy. It is folly to let a man like that come and go.”

“Enough of this,” Morca said. “I will have my way. Hey, Haldane, you are hurt. You are wounded. Did she bite you?”

Haldane touched the bloody cut above his wrist, “She stung me only, but I have pulled her fang.”

He reached behind him and brought out her knife. He flipped it in his hand and caught it by its well-worn black leather haft.

Morca roared at that. “I told you she had spirit. Your first war wound. When you have her in your marriage bed you can trade her stroke for stroke and wound for wound.”

But Haldane’s tongue knew his first war wound better. It touched the rough edge of his chipped tooth. His life was a knot, a chaos of wants and fears, but at the moment he was sure of one thing.

“I have no wish to marry this fat little foreign girl, father,” Haldane said. “She does not know Garmund from Garulf.”

“You have no wish,” said Morca. “My wish is your wish, and my wish is that you marry.”

The moment of certainty passed. Morca stared at his son so dominatingly that the boy’s resolve broke and drained away.

“Hear me all of you!” Morca shouted. “I want no more argument. It is settled now! The sealing will be a week tomorrow and that is the end of it.”

Haldane said, “Bath night.” His submission.

Morca said, “Is it? So it is. We’ll have our baths in that morning, before the betrothal.” His acceptance.

“But first we have to speak with Furd Heavyhand. Make yourself ready, Haldane. We ride to find him come morning.”

Chapter 7

T
HE BANQUET IN CELEBRATION OF THE BETROTHAL
of Princess Marthe, youngest and dearest to Lothor of Chastain of all his daughters, a child whose father’s fathers were Jehannes and the Three Kings of Nestria, but whose mother’s mothers were even older, to Lord Haldane, son and second to Black Morca, who would be a prince if the Gets had princes, was an early success. Men drank from full stoups and ate from full plates in the same great hall where they had bathed in the morning and witnessed the beginning of an epic in the afternoon. The banquet was the capstone of the day.

An ox fit for best guests turned over one fire. On the other spit hung a wild boar returned by Ivor Fish-Eye’s hunters. The chief tumult of platter filling was over and men were well settled to their meat and drink.

The dowry Morca had brought back from Chastain as his price for allowing his son to marry the Princess Marthe lay on display before the dais. All but the great doors, which had been fitted and hung while Morca pursued his business with Furd Heavyhand. Men admired the treasure for its bulk and Morca for his nerve. Morca Bride-Stealer. Ho, ho. At his work again.

From his great chair at the table on the dais Morca could see his new doors. He ate beef and sopped his plate with bread. He wore pink ribands braided in his beard for the occasion.

At the table with Morca were other great people. At Morca’s right hand, telling him stories to keep him amused, was Oliver, his strange and formidable maker of magic, visible evidence for all the room of Morca’s control of powerful forces. Oliver had shed his usual serviceable red woolen for magenta robes of cloth that dazzled the eye.

At Morca’s left hand was Lothor of Chastain, cloaked in blue brocade. He pecked at his food and did not laugh at Oliver’s stories, even though they were told in Nestorian. He was without his dog tonight, but between bites he fondled the scepter that lay beside his plate, symbol of the slender power of Chastain, as he always did in the presence of the Gets.

Between Lothor and Haldane sat Princess Marthe, the only woman who ate in all the room. Morca had allowed her to eat this meal at the table to give Lothor reason to leave lighthearted. Marthe wore pale blue and white, the colors of ice. Like her father, she was silent except when addressed.

Haldane sat in Morca’s second chair, brought downstairs from Morca’s quarters. He cut Marthe’s pork for her with a new narrow knife he had. His chair, much smaller than Morca’s, framed him neatly. Morca had given it to him after the betrothal. Like so much else that had happened in this last week, it was evidence of his father’s favor.

Barons and carls and knights of Chastain spilled ale on the rushes and stuffed their guts with meat and savory kitchen dishes. A serving woman carried a trencher new-brought from the kitchen to Svein All-White All-Wrong on his stair and let the oldster breach the pottage. At the next table, Rolf the carl sat with his again friend Ludbert, who had gambled for his fork and won. The fork had a new owner now and these two ate with their knives, spoons, and fingers like regular Gets.

Elsewhere, together sat Soren Seed-Sower and Furd Heavyhand, both Morca’s men now. They ate bite for bite and drank drink for drink and haggled bride price. Companions at another table were Ivor Fish-Eye, eating of the boar his party had taken while they hunted the wurox but found only its stone turds, and Aella of Long Barrow. Aella had returned to Morca’s dun as he had promised. If he had been too late for bath and betrothal, pell-melling up just before the gates were to be closed at nightfall, he had yet been in time for the banquet.

And at the end of the table below Haldane sat Hemming, his army, keeping him constant company with his eye. When Haldane—son, Get, story prince, new baron, new washed, new clothed, new betrothed, well filled and happy—set forth for the outhouse half through the banquet to relieve himself of too much ale and excitement, Hemming Paleface rose and followed at his heels through Morca’s splendid new doors and into the night.

Haldane stepped off the porch and into the yard. He breathed the comfort of the night. The air was cool after the close warmth of the hall, and smelled of the living spring. The wind whistled light nonsense through the stockade walls, her merry syrinx. It was a gay time to be alive. The crescent moon had bedded early and the stars were lightly veiled. It was quiet here. The voices within were muffled by the new doors.

“Well, where are we to?” asked Hemming Paleface at Haldane’s elbow.

Haldane clapped him on the shoulder. Fiercely, he said, “We are off to the outhouse. Are you game to try, though they be as thick as sand fleas all about us?”

“Who?” asked simple Hemming.

“Why, the enemy. The enemy.” Haldane put his hand to his sword. “Will you strike down any man who prevents us from our goal?”

Hemming laughed and nodded. “My head is giddy from craning and from drinking black ale, but you are my captain, Haldane. I will have their lives for you. Oh, it is good to be a Get tonight!”

Haldane and his army bared their swords and rushed through the yard striking singing giant blows that could not be parried. They laughed and Hemming fell and they slew the night many times before Haldane had Hemming on his feet again and they won through to the outhouse and safety. They collapsed against the walls and hungered for breath. For a Get who was half a Nestorian, Hemming was a good Get.

“My sides ache so much I am near to puking,” said Haldane. “I can’t take this. I must stop laughing. Oh, I am dizzy.”

“I owe you my life,” said Hemming. “If not for you, I would have been slain where I fell.”

Haldane waved it away. “It was nothing. You may have chance someday to serve me like.”

The guard in the tower nearby at the corner of the stockade called to find what the hurly was about. They were laughing so loud that his call was lost and he must needs call again.

“Enough,” said Haldane to Hemming. “We must be sober.” He raised his voice in answer. “It is nothing. We are funning. We fight bogies.”

“How goes the feast?”

“Drunk. Can we send you ale or meat?”

“Na. No need. I have eaten and I expect my relief at the first moment.”

The two young Gets passed inside the outhouse to seek their own relief. When they were pissed dry, their heads were clearer. As they shook themselves and straightened their clothes, Haldane said, “Come early summer when Lothor is back in Dunbar, Morca and I mean to go raping in Chastain. There is a place in the party for you, Hemming.”

Hemming had no chance to reply. As they left the outhouse, there were two men on the path. They were knights of Chastain, Lothor’s men, quietly drunk for such a gay banquet. One waved a wineskin, the other a sword. They lacked only dice to be ready to duel any man they met on his own terms.

He with the wineskin said, “Hold!” and waved his hand before his companion’s face. “Put your sword by. It is Lord Haldane and his man. They wait you inside to toast your betrothal, young lord.”

“Did you expect to meet a goblin in the night?” asked Haldane in Nestorian. Though all of Lothor’s knights seemed as much alike to him in their sameness as any handful of chicken feed, he thought he knew these two. They were the patient adventurers who had gone hunting each day with Ivor Fish-Eye.

“Oh. Yes, goblins. Nestor is full of goblins, but we are well protected. Here, drink of our wine and arm yourselves for the walk back to the hall. It is a far distance you have come without protection. Our southern wine is proof against any horror of the night.”

And in truth Haldane’s head was ready to be rung again. The skin was passed from hand to hand. The wine was warming.

When the knight of Chastain had drunk, he offered the skin again to Haldane. “Here. Another drink on your marriage.”

“No,” said Haldane. “I am just right now.”

“I will drink,” said Hemming. “To you, my Haldane, my leader.” He saluted Haldane and drank. Then he passed the skin back to the foreign knight.

“The field is yours,” said Haldane, and they left the outhouse to the strangers.

The torches in Morca’s hall flared brightly in their rings on the smoke stained columns, sending licking lights across the revelry. The air was close and warm, smelling of meat and men. There were songs and jokes and calls from table to table. As Haldane and Hemming stood in the door, making room for another of Lothor’s men to pass outside, Fat Netta, one of the serving women, slipped on a discarded bone before their eyes. She dropped heavily on her round bottom and her pitcher flew from her hands to drench a carl in ale. He cursed heartily and swung around while men roared. He snatched her up and kissed her soundly, though she was as old as Morca and no prettier. She clouted him with her pitcher and retreated to the kitchen.

“Bring more ale,” the carl called after her. “Earn another kiss.”

The calm and quiet of the night were well enough, but this was where the excitement was. It was good to be back in the midst of things. On this night, it was good to be the son of Black Morca. This night, in particular.

Haldane strode the aisle between the tables, feeling tall, feeling himself grown and ready for marriage, war and command, and all the other things of being a man and a Get. He was stopped by Rolf’s reaching hand thrust out before him. The old carl swung around on his bench, licking his gravy-sopped fingers.

“Aye, don’t you look good in your new clothes,” he said. “You’ve grown fine, little Haldane Hardhead. You’ll be earning yourself a new name next, and then I won’t know you. To think, you a baron now, with men of your own, and I the man who taught you to sit a horse and string a bow.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Haldane said. “There is no need to cry.”

Rolf shook his head. The drink he had taken made him soft. “Time passes. That’s all, time passes.” And then he said, “Here, a present for you. For your wedding.” And he thrust his cord on Haldane, the beautiful string he had brought with him from Chastain. And Haldane could not say no.

Haldane said, “Morca has promised me more men now. I can have my choice if I ask for it. I will. Shall I ask him for you? I would like you to be one of my own men.”

Rolf was touched. “Oh, aye. Aye. Ask him.” He controlled his voice with difficulty and wiped his nose with his knuckle.

Then he said, “I’ve been stealing looks at your partridge princess. She’s strange, but she’s not so strange that she can’t be improved. Just remember, boy—‘It’s bit and spur that make a horse jump.’ Swive her well and she will be a Get in no time.”

His friend Ludbert beside him said, “Will you teach him that too?” And ducked away from Rolf’s hand.

Haldane Bridegroom made his way to the dais and sat down again in his chair. His own chair. He was not yet accustomed to having a back to rest against and an arm to lean on, but he liked the chair well. It made him proud and happy. In the frame of the chair, he felt himself the picture of Morca’s heir.

But after a single bite of meat grown cold, he leaned forward to see past the lesser part of his epic, eating her last meal here on the dais. Not eating. There was a slice of beef untouched lying atop the pork that he had been good enough to cut for her since she was too dainty to use her hands and he would not give her knife back to let her cut him again as she had threatened. Marthe’s head hung over her plate and her hands were tucked away in her lap.

Haldane said, “What have I missed while I was gone?” He wished to know what pleasures he had traded for his swallow of Chastain wine.

“Ah,” Morca said in Nestorian. “I was asking your bride if it is true that she cannot tell Garulf from Garmund. It is true. She has no answer. You have much to teach her, Haldane. Start with that.”

The plump child princess shook her head dumbly. She turned her head away from Morca into her shoulder.

“It is easy,” Haldane said to the buried face. “Garmund was my grandfather. He was king. Garulf was his brother. He was king before Garmund.”

“There you are!” said Morca. “It is as easy as that.”

But the girl did not look up. She seemed ready to cry. Where was her fire now? Haldane was disgusted. As soon as Lothor was safely gone, he would take her away to a private room and shut the door behind her.

Lothor glanced up then, tapped the hard knob of his stick against palm and gestured with it, speaking in his whip-thin voice:

“They are right,” he said. “You remember the Three Kings of Nestria without confusion, my child. Garulf and Garmund are as easy as Leon, Leonus, and Leonidus. Garulf was he that we killed at Stone Heath and left for crows to pick over. Garmund was the other. He would sneak secretly into the West, rob and burn, and slip away. Like Morca, his son. Can you remember that? It is simplicity itself.”

Marthe nodded without words. Haldane was thunderstruck by Lothor’s presumption. Oliver could only stare.

But Black Morca was so angered by these words of Lothor’s that he slammed the tableboard with his fist and made the dishes dance. Morca was so angered that he could not speak. The ribands in his beard quivered. He struck the table again and again until it rang like a bell and came nigh to cracking. A platter fell to the floor spilling good meat and juices amidst the rush cover. The room stilled and all eyes turned to Morca at these evidences of his wrath.

Oliver was the first who was able to speak through the silence that followed. He said, “You speak bravely for one so far from home. An I were you, I would shave my tongue and be content to leave it unwagged until the hair grew back. Or I were safe again in Chastain.”

“But you are not me, fat man,” said Lothor of Chastain. “And I am no barefoot wizard piddling with dinner magic, Jan be thanked. Nor am I a bride-thief barbarian king. The time has come for all of us to show ourselves. We are what we are. And there am I.”

He pointed to the doorway and Morca’s eye followed, as Haldane had looked after the witch Jael’s misleading hand. The new doors, once Lothor’s, now Morca’s, stood wide-flung. The room silenced. In the doorway stood two Get barons, Egil Two-Fist and Coughing Romund, no friends to Morca. Behind them was a press of men, Get barons and carls. And Lothor’s knights of Chastain, naked swords in hand, fresh come from killing the watch and throwing open the gates. Romund coughed in the silence and then they were pouring into the room, all sober and intent on ending Morca’s pretensions in one stroke.

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