"Glad to meet you, sir," said Timaeus.
"Nnnn-nnnn-nnnn," said the old man. "Nnnnn."
"Sorry about that," said Bertram apologetically. "Since Pater's seizure . . ." He shrugged. "And my uncle, Sir Broderick."
"How do you do," said Timaeus, shaking Broderick's hand.
Broderick peered at Timaeus rather sharply, as if he had heard the name before, and possibly not in a positive context. "Timaeus d'Asperge, eh?" he said. "And your companions?"
"Ah, Sir Jasper de Mobray," said Timaeus. The green light bobbed in midair. "Kraki Kronarsson, of the north."
"Vhen do ve eat?"
"Patience," said Timaeus. "Sidney Stollitt and Nicholas Pratchitt." They alternately curtsied and bowed, Sidney feeling quite out of place in the gown the servants had laid out for her. "And Vincianus Polymage, of the White Council."
Vic had been peering about confusedly, but looked up at his name. "Eh?" he said. "What'sh that?"
Broderick's eyebrows shot up at Vincianus's name. "Greetings all," he said. "And welcome to Castle Biddleburg. Please accept my apologies, but there is a matter I must attend to immediately." And he bustled away.
"Ah, there's Uncle Broderick for you," said Bertram. "Always bustling about on important business. Whisky, anyone? Or a glass of wine?"
The makings stood by on a sideboard, and two servants had appeared to do the honors.
"You got shome of the Shang du Démon?" asked Vincianus.
Bertram inclined his head respectfully. "Yes, of course. Delbert, the '88, I think."
"Very good, sir," said one of the servants, and whisked off to the cellars.
The others settled for Moothlayan whisky or, in Jasper's case, for the Dzorzian sherry that stood on the sideboard. "Broderick's been a great help," Bertram said. "Really rallied round after Pater's seizure. Don't know what I'd do without him."
"One gets the impression he's running the barony virtually unaided," said Timaeus, slightly censoriously.
"Well, yes, but dash it, Tim, you know I was never any good at sums and such. I'm just not cut out to be the wiseand benevolent lord. Broderick enjoys the work, and he can have it, as far as I'm concerned. Personally, I'd be off for Urf Durfal or Hamsterburg in an instant, if he didn't need me here as a figurehead."
"So he's a stand-up guy, as far as you're concerned?" asked Nick.
"Well, yes, rather," said Bertram.
"Doesn't seem to be the general opinion," said Nick. "Ow!" Sidney had kicked him in the shin.
"Shut up," she said, low and urgent.
"I say, what do you mean?" said Bertram.
"Ah, we had a bit of an encounter on the road," admitted Timaeus.
"Mm?" said Bertram, taking a sip of his whisky.
"With a group of bandits," said Jasper. "Most extraordinary group, oddest justification for thievery I've ever heard, and led by a woman. Beatrice, I think she called herself."
Bertram looked up from his whisky. "Beatrice?" he said thoughtfully. "I knew a Beatrice, once." He looked briefly pensive-not his usual mood, it seemed to Sidney. "Lovely gel," he said almost to himself.
The table was a long affair that looked as though it could seat a hundred, as perhaps it did on occasion. They seemed to be the only guests at Biddleburg Castle, for they, the baron's immediate family, and a man of soldierly bearing introduced as Captain Blentz were the only ones at table. They were seated together at one end, while the other extended off, an infinity of linen and candelabra, toward a vast hearth, where some great beast—a whole steer, or perhaps a doe—was roasting on a spit. A small boy wound a crank to keep the spit turning.
Three footmen bustled about, seating the party, holding chairs, and waving out napkins. Two silver wine buckets stood by the table, filled with ice and bottles. Sidney was impressed; ice was expensive. Although, she realized, here in the cool mountains it was probably easier to store ice through the summer than in the hotter lowlands.
There were three forks, three knives, two spoons, three glasses, and four plates at Sidney's place. Nick surveyed this collection of silverware and china and looked nervously at Sidney. "Outside in," she whispered at him; that was the rule her mother had taught her, and while her mother had just enough etiquette to be considered vulgarly nouveau, it was at least more than Sidney herself possessed. Nick nodded with comprehension—start with the outermost utensils and work your way in, a clear enough principle—but puzzled over the butter knife, which lay above the largest plate: Did it come before, after, or in between the two knives to the right of the plates?
Kraki grabbed his water glass, poured its contents into his gullet in a single motion, gulped the water, and crunched on the ice. Sleet spattered everywhere. He seemed disgruntled to realize that his quaff had not been alcoholic. One of the servants, apparently divining this, took a bottle from one of the wine buckets and presented it to Kraki, holding it so that the barbarian might read the label. "Some wine, sir?" he inquired. "A white Linfalian, quite dry—"
Kraki said, "Yah, good," grabbed the bottle, and put it to his lips. Several large swallows later, he put it down with a slam on the table before him, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave a belch. Realizing by the servant's expression that some breach of etiquette had occurred, he added, "Ah—thank you."
"Not at all," murmured the ashen servant, moving away.
A butler whose ruddy jowls, frozen expression, and vast expanse of waistcoat indicated servile dignity fossilized through years of service held out a large silver platter to Sidney's right. With a flourish, a footman whisked off the cover to reveal a broiled fish, dotted with slivered almonds. "Troot Omondine, marss?" inquired the butler; it took Sidney a moment to translate this as "Trout Almondine, miss?" She had heard the same accent in the speech of the other servants here at the castle, and more faintly in that of Beatrice, and had tagged it as common to this region; but in the butler, the accent approached the impenetrable. "Uh, please," she said.
The footman deftly removed a smallish section of trout, laid it precisely at the center of the smallest plate in the pile of three in front of Sidney, arranged three overlapping slices of lemon to the trout's right, and placed a small dish of brown butter below the lemon.
She waited as the other members of her group were served; apparently, guests came before family. Nick was served; then Timaeus; then Kraki. Sidney closed her eyes, expecting some unforgivable crudity, but Kraki merely waved the fish away with a grimace of distaste.
"I do hope you'll be staying with us for a few days," said Uncle Broderick as Baron Barthold was served. A footman tied a napkin about the old man's neck while another deftly sliced his section of trout into small pieces, carefully removing the bones. The baron was the last to be served, and everyone tucked in. "I'm afraid that young Bertram is somewhat insensible to the many charms of our mountain realm," Broderick continued, "and no doubt would enjoy the companionship of ones lately from more settled lands. Too, the villagers will be holding the Feast of Grimaeus, our most colorful local celebration, the day after tomorrow, and you may find it of some passing amusement." While Broderick spoke, Baron Barthold had been attempting to eat his fish; one palsied hand held a fork, the other a silver pusher. He would painstakingly push a piece of fish onto the fork, then raise it, hand fluttering like a leaf in a gale, an expression of intense concentration on his face, toward his mouth. More often than not, the fish would fly off at an unexpected angle across the room, generally to land on the slate flags of the chamber floor, but at least once to hit Nick on the nose. He diplomatically picked the fish off his face and deposited it in his napkin.
Timaeus swallowed hastily and cleared his throat. "Well, aherrrm, as it happens, ah, it seems that we're, ah, expected in Hamsterburg. Quite soon. While it's wonderful to see you again, Bertram, old son, I'm afraid that the fortunes of war, pressure of business, you know the sort of thing . . . " He was floundering, and was evidently relieved when Jasper interrupted.
"Very rude of us, to be sure,"
said Jasper. The green light bobbed over his chair; occasionally, a glass of wine would tilt back and the level of liquid drop, or a fork bob through space bearing a load of fish, which would abruptly disappear. "And it is very kind of you to take us in on such short notice. Still, I fear we must take our leave on the morrow. If there's any way we can repay your hospitality ... "
"No, no, no, no," said Broderick hastily, obviously annoyed. "Hospitality is, er, hospitality, after all; there shall be no thought of repayment, of course, none, no, no. Might one inquire as to the nature of this pressing business?"
Momentary looks of panic were exchanged across the table; their agreed story, that they were merchants, would obviously not do. Several began to talk at once.
"Ah-carpets and housewares for, uh, the war effort—" said Nick.
"We carry diplomatic papers from the Foreign Ministry of—" said Jasper.
"—plan to join in the defense of the Petty States—" said Timaeus.
They fell still in confusion.
"I see," said Broderick in an amused tone. There was an embarrassed silence for a moment. Sidney kicked Nick under the table; carpets and housewares for the war effort, indeed! He gave her an injured glare. The servants wereclearing away the fish dishes and silverware now; Timaeus hid his embarrassment by turning away to hand his dish over.
"Uncle, Timaeus tells me that his group had a bit of a run-in with our local banditti," said Bertram, breaking the silence.
"Oh?" said Broderick, eyebrows shooting skyward. "Egad, they're getting bolder by the day."
"Fear not, milord," said red-faced Captain Blentz, hitherto silent. By his speech, he was obviously more than half soused. "We'll flush the blighters out."
"Yes, yes," said Broderick thoughtfully. "I hope you didn't suffer at their hands?"
"No," said Timaeus, "we came out of it—"
"Apparently, their leader is a woman by the name of Beatrice," interrupted Bertram.
"Ah?" said Broderick, eyeing Bertram; it seemed to Sidney that this was no news to Broderick.
"You don't suppose that could possibly be the daughter of Sir Benton of Bainbridge?" inquired Bertram.
"That traitor?" snapped Broderick. "It was a fine day indeed when he was broken on the wh—" He interrupted himself with a cough, realizing abruptly that this was not appropriate dinner conversation. "A rebel," he explained. "Rose in arms against my brother the baron. We were forced to give him justice."
Sidney looked at the baron, who looked back with haunted eyes, a sliver of fish adhering to his lower lip. "Nnnn-nnn-nnn," he said.
"Terrible, terrible," murmured Jasper.
"Decadent times," said Timaeus soothingly. The footmen had reappeared with an enormous wooden bowl containing mixed fresh greens, along with a silver ewer containing a dressing, and a cubits-long pepper grinder.
"But his daughter . . ." said Bertram.
"I'd heard she had entered a religious order," said Broderick.
"Wouldn't she inherit ... ?" asked Bertram. The butler grandly scooped up a substantial helping of the salad and plopped it on Sidney's plate, while a footman prepared to dish out the dressing and another refreshed her wine.
"No, no," said Broderick. "We have a salian law here, you know that. Besides, the man was a traitor; the estate reverts to the barony." He gave a wolfish grin.
"Ah," said Bertram. "Still, it seems an odd coincidence; both called Beatrice, both with red hair—"
"It would reflect poorly on us if you were beset by bandits again," said Broderick to Timaeus, hastily changing the subject. "Under the circumstances, I must insist that you accept an escort until you reach the border of the barony."
"An escort?" said Timaeus, a little surprised. "Well, of course. Why not?"
The salad crew had reached Kraki's place. "Pah," said Kraki, spitting on the floor. "Is for rabbits. Don't you have any food fit for a man?" The butler was obviously a bit unsettled, but merely motioned the servants to the next place around the table.
"Oh, I say, never fear, old man," said Bertram comfortingly. "There's roast greep for entrée."
"Greep," said Kraki with disgust. "Ach, more fish."
"Fish?" said Bertram, goggling. "What do you mean, fish?"
"Oh, heavens," groaned Timaeus. "Not another—"
"Fish?" said Broderick, sitting bolt upright at the head of the table. "Ye gods, barbarian, where did you get the notion that greep are fish? No, no far from it; the greep is the noblest of animals, a full-antlered beast larger even than the moose of which we hear tell. Well do I know thatmighty creature, for it abounds in the crags and pinnacles of our mountainous domain . . ."
Greep Roti
It is wary prey; some say the mighty greep is smarter even than a man, and who am I to gainsay them? For I have hunted the greep for forty years, man and boy; pursuing that monstrous animal through woods and over mountains, in fair weather, sleet, and snow. And ofttimes, I have returned empty-handed, for the greep is a wily foe, and only the wiliest of hunters may bring it low.
Shall I tell you of the first time I slew the greep? ["Well, actually, " interjected Jasper, but Broderick was not to be dissuaded from telling his tale.] It was forty years ago, when I, a stripling of sixteen, set out in dead of winter, the wind near enough to freeze a man to the marrow. "Egad, Broderick," my father said, "you are mad, to venture forth on such a day."
It was not madness, but youth. It was my fancy to pit myself against the worst that nature could offer, the starkest cold of all. I swaddled myself full and deep, draped a cloth about my mouth to shelter my lungs from at least the cold's sharpest bite, and took my longbow from the armory. For though it is a yeoman's weapon, I have trained in it from infancy, at my father's behest.
I went forth on snowshoes, lunging with a will over the crisp white that blanketed the land. After some time, I climbed a rise, reached its peak—and saw, in the streambed below, a monstrous greep, full seven points, the noble head gnawing at the bark of a tree. There is little sustenance for the greep kind, in the dead of winter; they must forage where they may, and mayhap the bark of a tree was all the nourishment it had found, that bitter day.
Instantly, I went to earth—or to snow, if you will. Stealthily, I reached over my back, toward the bow which, strung, I had slung over my shoulder—
But I got no further than that, for with a snort, divining the presence of a foe, the greep looked up, and looked directly to me with curiously sapient eyes. It bounded, and away.
I rose again to my snowshoes, and lunged after.
'Tis said that a man has the stamina to outrun any beast, and mayhap that is so, on a level plain, in fair weather; but we struggled up and down mountain peaks in the deadliest frost of deep winter. I had no faith that I would be victorious over the greep; but I was young enough to wish victory with peculiar fierceness. I could see the hoof-prints of the greep before me, the strange, semicircular indentations of its splayed toes, toes that gave it traction even in deep snow. I followed the prints relentlessly.
I came to a stream, running quickly enough that only a thin layer of ice sheltered its waters from the cold; quickly enough that no snow lay atop the ice. And here, the greep had followed the stream, taking to water in desperation.
Which way had it gone? A frightened beast would flee downstream, the easy path; but upstream of me, a twig was bent, and the ice was broken, and a branch was missing its load of snow. I was not deceived. I turned uphill, and labored on.
And upward, and upward. Soon, the trees were thinned out, becoming scraggly, and I recognized that I was nearing the timberline—
I saw the greep! The flit of a white tail, lean brown legs leaping through snow. Seemingly, it had waited here, to see if I should venture this far-and, spotting me, had dashed away once more.
I cursed; my bow was over my shoulder still, and I had missed perhaps my only chance. I took my bow in my hands-awkward, you see, to walk in snowshoes, the swinging of the arms constrained by a weapon—and strode onward.
It had been cold by my father's stead; here, a thousandcubits upward, it was colder still. I had accounted bitter wind by my father's house; here, it was the very whip of demons, lashing out across the bare countryside. From the Dzorzian Range eastward, there is no mountain of equivalent height until you come to Oceanus. A thousand miles and more, that wind raged across the continent, until it battered itself against the mountain where I stood; and batter it did, in fury to find itself opposed.
I could feel my mustache freeze, the water of my breath instantly transformed to ice. In sudden fear, I began to check my extremities: Were my fingers white? If I rubbed my ear with snow, did the flesh still sting? This was madness, I realized: to come so high, expose my flesh to this rawness. This was how men died.
I labored on. There was no turning back. I would take my greep, or die.
One Quest, Hold the Dragons Page 4
