Windhaven - Страница 30

“They were nice,” S’Rella said, blushing. “Won’t you come tonight? There’s to be another party. Garth is going to roast a whole seacat, and his sister is providing ale.”

“No,” Val said. “They have ale enough and food enough where I’m staying, and it suits me better.” He glanced at Maris. “No doubt it suits us all better.”

Maris refused to be baited. “Where are you staying?”

“A tavern about two miles down the sea road. Not the sort of place you’d care to visit. They don’t get many flyers there, just miners and landsguard and some less willing to talk about their professions. I doubt they’d know how to treat a flyer properly.”

Maris frowned in annoyance. “Do you ever stop?”

“Stop?” He smiled.

All at once Maris was filled with a perverse determination to erase that smile, to prove Val wrong. “You don’t even know the flyers,” she said. “What right have you to hate them so? They’re people, no different from you—no, that’s wrong, they are different. They’re warmer and more generous.”

“The warmth and generosity of flyers is fabled,” Val said. “No doubt that’s why only flyers are welcome at flyer parties.”

“They welcomed me,” S’Rella said.

Val gave her a long look, cautious and measuring. Then he shrugged and the thin smile returned to his lips.

“You’ve convinced me,” he said. “I’ll come to this party tonight, if they’ll let a land-bound through the door.”

“Come as my guest, then,” Maris said, “if you refuse to call yourself a flyer. And put aside your damned hostility for a few hours. Give them a chance.”

“Please,” S’Rella said. She took his hand and smiled hopefully at him.

“Oh, they’ll have a chance to show their warmth and generosity,” Val said. “But I won’t beg for it, or polish their wings, or sing songs in their praise.” He stood up abruptly. “Now, I would like to get some flying in. Is there a pair of wings I might use?”

Maris nodded and directed him to the cabin where his wings were hung. After he was gone, she turned to S’Rella. “You care for him a lot, don’t you?” she said softly.

S’Rella lowered her eyes and blushed. “I know he’s cruel at times, Maris, but he’s not always like that.”

“Maybe that’s so,” Maris admitted. “He hasn’t let me get to know him very well. Just—just be careful, all right, S’Rella? Val has a lot of hurt in him and sometimes people like that, when they’ve been hurt a lot, get back by hurting others, even those who care for them.”

“I know,” S’Rella said. “Maris, you don’t think—they won’t hurt him tonight, will they? The flyers?”

“I think he wants them to,” Maris said, “so you’ll see that he’s right about them—about us. But I’m hoping that we’ll prove him wrong.”

S’Rella said nothing. Maris finished her drink and rose. “Come,” she said. “There’s still time for more practice, and you need it. Let’s get our wings back on.”

By early evening it was common knowledge among the flyers that Val One-Wing was on Skulny and intended to challenge. How the word had gotten out Maris was unsure. Perhaps Dorrel had said something, or perhaps Val had been recognized, or perhaps the news had come in from Eastern with some flyer who knew that Val had taken ship from Airhome. It was out and flying in any case. Twice Maris heard the epithet “One-Wing” as she and S’Rella walked back to their cabin in the flyer village, and outside their door a young flyer Maris knew casually from the Eyrie stopped her and asked point-blank if the rumor was true. When Maris admitted that it was, the other woman whistled and shook her head.

It was not quite dark when Maris and S’Rella wandered up to the lodge, but the main room was already half-full of flyers, drinking and talking in small clusters. The promised seacat was roasting on a spit above the fire, but by the look of it still had several hours to go.

Garth’s sister, a stout plain-faced woman named Riesa, drew Maris a mug of her ale from one of three huge wooden casks that had been set along one wall. “It’s good,” Maris said after tasting. “Although I confess I’m no expert. Wine and kivas are my usual drinks.”

Riesa laughed. “Well, Garth swears by it, and he’s drunk enough ale in his time to float a small trading fleet.”

“Where is Garth?” S’Rella asked. “I thought he’d be here.”

“He should be, later,” Riesa said. “He wasn’t feeling well, so he sent me on ahead. I think it was just an excuse to avoid helping with the barrels, actually.”

“Wasn’t feeling well?” Maris said. “Riesa, is everything all right? He’s been ill frequently of late, hasn’t he?”

Riesa’s pleasant smile faded. “Has he told you, Maris? I wasn’t sure. It’s only been the past half-year. It’s his joints. When it gets bad, they swell up on him something terrible, and even when they aren’t swelling he’s got pain.” She leaned a little closer. “I’m worried about him, in truth. Dorrel is too. He’s seen healers, here and in Stormtown too, but no one has been able to do much. And he’s drinking more than he used to.”

Maris was appalled. “I knew Dorrel was fretting over him, but I thought it was just his drinking.” She hesitated. “Riesa, has Garth told the Landsman about his troubles?”

Riesa shook her head. “No, he’s—” She interrupted herself to draw a mug for a craggy-looking Easterner and resumed only after he had drifted away. “He’s afraid, Maris.”

“Why is he afraid?” S’Rella asked quietly, looking from Maris to Riesa and back again. She had been standing silently by Maris’ elbow, listening.

“If a flyer is sick,” Maris said, “the Landsman can call together the island’s other flyers, and if they agree, he can take the wings from the sick one, lest they be lost at sea.” She looked back toward Riesa. “Then Garth is still flying missions as if he were well,” she said, with concern in her voice. “The Landsman isn’t sparing him.”

“No,” Riesa said, chewing on her lip. “I’m frightened for him, Maris. The pain comes on so suddenly sometimes, and if it should come while he’s flying—I’ve told him to speak to the Landsman, but he won’t hear of it. His wings are everything to him, you know that. All you flyers are alike.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Maris said firmly.

“Dorrel has spoken to him endlessly,” Riesa said. “It does no good. You know how stubborn Garth can be.”

“He should lay down his wings,” S’Rella blurted suddenly.

Riesa gave her a hard look. “Child, you don’t know what you are saying. You are the Woodwinger Garth met last night, are you not? Maris’ friend?”

S’Rella nodded.

“Yes, Garth spoke of you,” Riesa said. “You would understand better if you were a flyer. You and I, we can only watch from outside, we can never feel as a flyer feels about his wings. At least Garth has told me so.”

“I will be a flyer,” S’Rella insisted.

“Certainly you will, child,” Riesa said, “but you are not now, and that is why you talk so easily of laying down the wings.”

But S’Rella looked offended. She stood very stiffly and said, “I’m not a child, and I do understand.” She might have said more, but just then the door opened and she and Maris both glanced in that direction.

Val had arrived.

“Excuse me,” Maris said, taking Riesa by the forearm and giving her a squeeze for reassurance. “We’ll talk more later.” She hurried to where Val stood, his dark eyes sweeping the room, one hand resting on the hilt of his ornate knife in a pose that was half nervousness and half challenge.

“A small party,” he said noncommittally when Maris and S’Rella joined him.

“It’s early,” Maris replied. “Give it time. Come, let’s get you a drink and a bit of food.” She gestured to the far wall, where a lavish table had once again been spread with spiced eggs, fruit, cheese, bread, various shellfish, sweetmeats, and pastries. “The seacat is the main course, but we’ll be waiting hours for that,” she concluded.

Val took in the seacat on the spit and the table covered with other edibles. “I see the flyers are eating simply once again,” he said. But he let himself be led across the room, where he ate two spiced eggs and a wedge of cheese before pausing to pour a goblet of wine.

Around them the party went on; Val had attracted no particular attention. But Maris did not know if that was because the others had accepted him, or simply failed to recognize him.

The three of them stood quietly for a few moments, S’Rella talking to Val in a low voice while he sipped at his wine and nibbled some more cheese, Maris quaffing her ale and watching the front door a bit apprehensively each time it opened. It had grown dark outside, and the lodge was rilling up rapidly. A dozen Shotaners she knew only vaguely swept in all at once, still in their red uniforms, followed by a half-dozen Easterners she knew not at all. One of them climbed atop Riesa’s ale casks; a companion tossed him up a guitar, and he began to sing flyers’ songs in a passably mellow voice. Beneath him the crowd grew dense, and listeners began to shout up requests.

Maris, still glancing at the door whenever it opened, drifted a bit closer to Val and S’Rella, and tried to listen to them above the music.

Then the music stopped.

In mid-song, suddenly singer and guitar both grew silent, and the silence flowed across the room, as conversations ceased and all eyes turned curiously to the man perched atop the ale keg. In less than a minute, everyone in the lodge was looking at him.