possible.”
“And your friend?”
“Thud? What about him?”
“There is something about him I find very strange.”
“I can’t imagine what,” she answers sarcastically. “But don’t judge him by his looks; he’s all right.”
“Please do not misunderstand me! I can see that he is,” he says without a trace of mockery. Turning to Thud, he asks, “where do you come from, if I may ask?”
“Groontocker and Peen.”
“This is another planet?”
“I don’t know; I just cut stone there.”
“I see! An artisan! And before that?”
“I always cut stone there.”
“You were a child once, were you not? Although I admit I find that very hard to imagine.”
Bronwyn almost protests this slur, but then recalls that the very same doubt once ran through her own mind and with uncharacteristic fairness keeps her mouth shut.
“Sure I was, I was a kid like anyone else. Just a little husky that’s all. I’ve always been kind of husky.”
“Please! No offense meant! Believe me when I say that you are a very admirable man. Who else could have brought the princess here safely? Eh?”
“Well...” Thud is embarrassed by the praise and thinks of mentioning his failure in getting Bronwyn to the destination he has promised her, but thinks better of it. Why spoil such a nice compliment?
“But look here, I am serious, and believe me, I have good reason for asking. What do you recall of your boyhood? Do you remember your parents?”
“No, not exactly. I kind of grew up mostly around the streets.” He fidgeted, not sure how far to open himself to a stranger and vaguely embarrassed. He looks to Bronwyn.
“I’d like to know, too, Thud, so go ahead.”
Thud pulls his bag over to his chair and rummages in it for a moment. He pulls a cloth bundle from it and began unwrapping it. Bronwyn is not surprised when Thud lays the hard rubber case of the tintype on the table. He opens it as reverently as he would an icon, or perhaps it is an icon. The sad, silvery face shimmers up at them.
“Holy Sister of Musrum!” whispers the gypsy. “And this...?”
“I always liked to think she’s my Ma, even if she isn’t, but I really don’t remember too good; it’s long ago. I’ve just always has this picture. I don’t know where it came from, really.”
“What is it?” asks the mystified Bronwyn.
“Nothing, nothing. She...the girl in the picture...just reminds me of some...one. It is of no matter.”
“I’ll not have anyone laughing at him!”
“Oh ho! The princess speaks, eh? No, I would not and do not mock your friend. I will show you why not. Henda, come here.”
The strange little creature came waddling and sniffling to its master. The eyes are very much like a bird’s. Bronwyn had seen their like once in a bird her cousin Piers had caught in a net, its wings hopelessly broken.
“Henda, these are very good people; they are friends of mine and so they are friends of yours, too. Understand me?”
Henda’s bright black beads sparkle first at Bronwyn, then at Thud. The raggedy head nods, uncertainly.
“All right, then, you can take those things off your head.”
The sniffling becomes more violent and Henda shies back from the gypsy, eyes jumping twitchily from girl to giant to gypsy, like fleas. Then a hand appears from the midst of the rags. It is small, smooth and pink. Bronwyn realizes with a jolt that it is a child’s hand. It begins unwinding the long scarf that is wrapped around its face. Then Henda turns and smiles at Bronwyn. And smiles and smiles and smiles.
“Do you see why I do not laugh at your big friend, my Princess?”
“What happened to him?” asks the girl, in a hushed voice.
“There is a band of wicked people, not true gypsies, I thank Musrum, who wander through the villages of Mostaza. They are nothing but beggars, thieves, pickpockets and cutthroats, and much worse, as you will see. They have no art, do you understand? They call themselves Verstummellin . They say that it
“And your friend?”
“Thud? What about him?”
“There is something about him I find very strange.”
“I can’t imagine what,” she answers sarcastically. “But don’t judge him by his looks; he’s all right.”
“Please do not misunderstand me! I can see that he is,” he says without a trace of mockery. Turning to Thud, he asks, “where do you come from, if I may ask?”
“Groontocker and Peen.”
“This is another planet?”
“I don’t know; I just cut stone there.”
“I see! An artisan! And before that?”
“I always cut stone there.”
“You were a child once, were you not? Although I admit I find that very hard to imagine.”
Bronwyn almost protests this slur, but then recalls that the very same doubt once ran through her own mind and with uncharacteristic fairness keeps her mouth shut.
“Sure I was, I was a kid like anyone else. Just a little husky that’s all. I’ve always been kind of husky.”
“Please! No offense meant! Believe me when I say that you are a very admirable man. Who else could have brought the princess here safely? Eh?”
“Well...” Thud is embarrassed by the praise and thinks of mentioning his failure in getting Bronwyn to the destination he has promised her, but thinks better of it. Why spoil such a nice compliment?
“But look here, I am serious, and believe me, I have good reason for asking. What do you recall of your boyhood? Do you remember your parents?”
“No, not exactly. I kind of grew up mostly around the streets.” He fidgeted, not sure how far to open himself to a stranger and vaguely embarrassed. He looks to Bronwyn.
“I’d like to know, too, Thud, so go ahead.”
Thud pulls his bag over to his chair and rummages in it for a moment. He pulls a cloth bundle from it and began unwrapping it. Bronwyn is not surprised when Thud lays the hard rubber case of the tintype on the table. He opens it as reverently as he would an icon, or perhaps it is an icon. The sad, silvery face shimmers up at them.
“Holy Sister of Musrum!” whispers the gypsy. “And this...?”
“I always liked to think she’s my Ma, even if she isn’t, but I really don’t remember too good; it’s long ago. I’ve just always has this picture. I don’t know where it came from, really.”
“What is it?” asks the mystified Bronwyn.
“Nothing, nothing. She...the girl in the picture...just reminds me of some...one. It is of no matter.”
“I’ll not have anyone laughing at him!”
“Oh ho! The princess speaks, eh? No, I would not and do not mock your friend. I will show you why not. Henda, come here.”
The strange little creature came waddling and sniffling to its master. The eyes are very much like a bird’s. Bronwyn had seen their like once in a bird her cousin Piers had caught in a net, its wings hopelessly broken.
“Henda, these are very good people; they are friends of mine and so they are friends of yours, too. Understand me?”
Henda’s bright black beads sparkle first at Bronwyn, then at Thud. The raggedy head nods, uncertainly.
“All right, then, you can take those things off your head.”
The sniffling becomes more violent and Henda shies back from the gypsy, eyes jumping twitchily from girl to giant to gypsy, like fleas. Then a hand appears from the midst of the rags. It is small, smooth and pink. Bronwyn realizes with a jolt that it is a child’s hand. It begins unwinding the long scarf that is wrapped around its face. Then Henda turns and smiles at Bronwyn. And smiles and smiles and smiles.
“Do you see why I do not laugh at your big friend, my Princess?”
“What happened to him?” asks the girl, in a hushed voice.
“There is a band of wicked people, not true gypsies, I thank Musrum, who wander through the villages of Mostaza. They are nothing but beggars, thieves, pickpockets and cutthroats, and much worse, as you will see. They have no art, do you understand? They call themselves Verstummellin . They say that it
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