“The sun was dying long before I came into the House of the Worm, and it will continue dying long after I have left,” he said, turning away from the window. He was splendid that night, in his costume of pale blue silk and spidergray with the crest of theta stitched above his breast.
“As for the cold,” Annelyn continued, as he led his three companions back toward the feasting table, “I don’t believe that the old sun has anything to do with heat, one way or the other.”
“It does,” said Vermyllar, who had come in brown rags like a mushroom farmer. He and Caralee matched Annelyn stride for stride across the obsidian, their images hurrying at their feet. Riess puffed along behind, struggling to keep up in the mock armor of a bronze knight.
“Did your grandfather tell you that?” Annelyn asked. Riess laughed.
“No,” Vermyllar said, frowning. “But notice, Annelyn, how the sun resembles a hot coal stolen from a firebox?”
“Perhaps,” Annelyn said. He paused beside the wine-bowl and filled two cut-crystal goblets with the rich green wine, fishing in the bowl until he found two worms tied in a writhing knot. He scooped them into Caralee’s drink, and she smiled at the proposition when he handed her the glass. The second goblet, with a single worm, he sipped himself as he turned back to Vermyllar.
“If the sun is nothing but a large coal,” Annelyn continued, “then we need not worry, since we have plenty of smaller coals on hand, and the torch-tenders can always fetch up more from the dark.”
Riess giggled. He had set his knight’s helm on the table and was now munching from a platter of spiced spiders.
“That may be true,” Vermyllar said. “But then you admit the sun is a coal, that it helps to warm the burrows.”
“No,” said Annelyn. “I merely conjectured. In fact, I think the sun is an ornament of sorts, set in the sky by the White Worm to provide us with light and an occasion for masques.”
Suddenly, startlingly, there was laughter, coarse and low. Annelyn’s smile turned abruptly to a frown when he realized that whoever it was laughed not at his wit, but at him . He drew himself up and turned in annoyance.
When he saw who laughed, however, he only raised a glass (and a fine blond eyebrow) in mock salute.
The Meatbringer (so they called him—if he had a truer name, he did not use it) ceased his laughter; there was a silence. He was a low, broad man, a head shorter than Annelyn and uglier than any of the yaga-la-hai , with his straight white hair, mottled pink-brown skin, and enormous flat nose. His orange and crimson image etched by torchlight in the obsidian was taller and more handsome than the Meatbringer himself had ever been.
He had come to the Sun Masque alone and out of costume, horribly out of place, admitted only because of the groun-child he had provided. Instead of masque finery, he wore his familiar suit of milk-white leather, sewn from the skin of dead grouns, with a colorless half-cloak of woven grounhair. Throughout the House of the Worm his boast was known: that he dressed in the skin and hair of grouns he had himself slain. He was the Meatbringer, who went alone into deep burrows without windows.
Caralee looked at him very curiously. “Why did you laugh?” she asked.
“Because your friend is funny,” the Meatbringer said. His voice was too low, too coarse. Annelyn felt a trifle absurd, being insulted by a mottled man who grumbled in the manner of a torch-tender. And now a curious knot of people began to gather around them; the yaga-la-hai were always interested in the odd, and the Meatbringer was oddest of all. Besides, everyone had grown tired of viewing the sun.
“I’m always pleased to find someone who appreciates wit,” Annelyn said, studiously attempting to turn the Meatbringer’s veiled insult into a compliment.
“I do appreciate wit,” the Meatbringer said. “I wish I could find some. This masque is witless.”
He had no subtlety,
“As for the cold,” Annelyn continued, as he led his three companions back toward the feasting table, “I don’t believe that the old sun has anything to do with heat, one way or the other.”
“It does,” said Vermyllar, who had come in brown rags like a mushroom farmer. He and Caralee matched Annelyn stride for stride across the obsidian, their images hurrying at their feet. Riess puffed along behind, struggling to keep up in the mock armor of a bronze knight.
“Did your grandfather tell you that?” Annelyn asked. Riess laughed.
“No,” Vermyllar said, frowning. “But notice, Annelyn, how the sun resembles a hot coal stolen from a firebox?”
“Perhaps,” Annelyn said. He paused beside the wine-bowl and filled two cut-crystal goblets with the rich green wine, fishing in the bowl until he found two worms tied in a writhing knot. He scooped them into Caralee’s drink, and she smiled at the proposition when he handed her the glass. The second goblet, with a single worm, he sipped himself as he turned back to Vermyllar.
“If the sun is nothing but a large coal,” Annelyn continued, “then we need not worry, since we have plenty of smaller coals on hand, and the torch-tenders can always fetch up more from the dark.”
Riess giggled. He had set his knight’s helm on the table and was now munching from a platter of spiced spiders.
“That may be true,” Vermyllar said. “But then you admit the sun is a coal, that it helps to warm the burrows.”
“No,” said Annelyn. “I merely conjectured. In fact, I think the sun is an ornament of sorts, set in the sky by the White Worm to provide us with light and an occasion for masques.”
Suddenly, startlingly, there was laughter, coarse and low. Annelyn’s smile turned abruptly to a frown when he realized that whoever it was laughed not at his wit, but at him . He drew himself up and turned in annoyance.
When he saw who laughed, however, he only raised a glass (and a fine blond eyebrow) in mock salute.
The Meatbringer (so they called him—if he had a truer name, he did not use it) ceased his laughter; there was a silence. He was a low, broad man, a head shorter than Annelyn and uglier than any of the yaga-la-hai , with his straight white hair, mottled pink-brown skin, and enormous flat nose. His orange and crimson image etched by torchlight in the obsidian was taller and more handsome than the Meatbringer himself had ever been.
He had come to the Sun Masque alone and out of costume, horribly out of place, admitted only because of the groun-child he had provided. Instead of masque finery, he wore his familiar suit of milk-white leather, sewn from the skin of dead grouns, with a colorless half-cloak of woven grounhair. Throughout the House of the Worm his boast was known: that he dressed in the skin and hair of grouns he had himself slain. He was the Meatbringer, who went alone into deep burrows without windows.
Caralee looked at him very curiously. “Why did you laugh?” she asked.
“Because your friend is funny,” the Meatbringer said. His voice was too low, too coarse. Annelyn felt a trifle absurd, being insulted by a mottled man who grumbled in the manner of a torch-tender. And now a curious knot of people began to gather around them; the yaga-la-hai were always interested in the odd, and the Meatbringer was oddest of all. Besides, everyone had grown tired of viewing the sun.
“I’m always pleased to find someone who appreciates wit,” Annelyn said, studiously attempting to turn the Meatbringer’s veiled insult into a compliment.
“I do appreciate wit,” the Meatbringer said. “I wish I could find some. This masque is witless.”
He had no subtlety,
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