flavor, that can melt the saliva from granite.
“I tell you, Dray Prescot, if we reach this town and order up a meal of vosk and there are no momolams, I shall seriously consider marmelizing you.”
“I am surprised to hear you voice so uncouth a word.”
“Yes, it is fit only for savages. But, in these circumstances—”
And then we both held, stark still, poised, as voices floated in from the trees. Laughing voices, shrilling, and with the voices the sounds of bottles and glasses — surely, bottles and glasses?
Cautiously, we crept forward.
The funny thing is, and I was well aware that we might at any moment be fighting for our lives, I was thinking that the golden-yellow tubers, these famous momolams, are more often eaten with roast ponsho than with vosk. We reached a crusty-barked tree and hunkered down, and slowly, cautiously, looked around, one each side.
The trail lay nearer to Seg than to me. I saw a small clearing, uncluttered with undergrowth except for a strange plant rather like a large gourd, from the top of which extended a thick stalk crowned with an orange flower.
From the gourd section came the sound of voices and the rattle of bottle lip against glass.
Perhaps Seg made more noise than I did. Perhaps because he was just the nearer of the two of us... As lean and tough as I was, he would have been no juicier...
I stared out on the strange plant.
Certainly the gourd was of a size to hold two or three people. But I did not think two or three people were inside having a party. The stem bearing its orange flower lifted some fifteen feet from the top of the gourd, swaying gently five meters or so up, and as I took all this in, and realized what this was all about, so I was yelling my head off and jumping forward, sword raised.
“Seg!”
The stem lashed.
The orange flower opened, revealing massed spines.
It struck. It struck full at Seg’s head.
I roared in, just bashing in a full-shouldered charge at the stem, and with the sword slashing and hacking, cutting through the fibrous vegetable growth. Thick green liquid gushed. The flower writhed. It twisted in on itself, blindly seeking its tormentor. I took a tremendous swing and the steel bit and then the flower hit me a thwack across the shoulder and head over heels I went into the muck.
It seemed to me only a moment or two later that a woman’s voice said, “Well, pantor Seg, your friend is alive, it seems.”
And Seg’s voice, as though from a distance: “For which I give thanks to Erthyr the Bow, and to all the Lords of Creation.” And, then, because he was Seg Segutorio, and the truest blade comrade a man could ever hope for, he added, “And, anyway, he has the skull of a vosk and the hide of a boloth, the speed of a leem and the strength of a zhantil.”
The woman laughed.
“I see you two get on together.”
“I owe him ten gold pieces for this one—”
I tried to open my eyes, and the woman’s voice sharpened.
“You would pay him ten gold croxes for saving your life? Is that what you value yourself at?”
“No, mistress Tlima, it is a bet I lost.”
“I see—”
But, it was clear, she did not see at all.
The glue holding my lids down parted with some pain and light flooded in. I blinked, and Seg said, “About time.”
Just to keep him going, I said, “Ten gold crox pieces, and not clipped, either.”
He laughed.
His laugh rang out, joyous, full.
I sat up.
When my shoulder returned and attached itself to my body, I went to give it a rub, and the woman put a hand out and stopped me.
“Leave it, pantor. It is bandaged.”
She was apim, full of face and figure, wearing a dark blue gown with white lace, and her features were those of a woman who has fought through life, and sees some comfort before they ship her off to the Ice Floes of Sicce.
We were in a tavern, with a thatched roof and wooden beams, with wooden walls and wooden floor, and the furniture was plain and simple and clean. I ached all
“I tell you, Dray Prescot, if we reach this town and order up a meal of vosk and there are no momolams, I shall seriously consider marmelizing you.”
“I am surprised to hear you voice so uncouth a word.”
“Yes, it is fit only for savages. But, in these circumstances—”
And then we both held, stark still, poised, as voices floated in from the trees. Laughing voices, shrilling, and with the voices the sounds of bottles and glasses — surely, bottles and glasses?
Cautiously, we crept forward.
The funny thing is, and I was well aware that we might at any moment be fighting for our lives, I was thinking that the golden-yellow tubers, these famous momolams, are more often eaten with roast ponsho than with vosk. We reached a crusty-barked tree and hunkered down, and slowly, cautiously, looked around, one each side.
The trail lay nearer to Seg than to me. I saw a small clearing, uncluttered with undergrowth except for a strange plant rather like a large gourd, from the top of which extended a thick stalk crowned with an orange flower.
From the gourd section came the sound of voices and the rattle of bottle lip against glass.
Perhaps Seg made more noise than I did. Perhaps because he was just the nearer of the two of us... As lean and tough as I was, he would have been no juicier...
I stared out on the strange plant.
Certainly the gourd was of a size to hold two or three people. But I did not think two or three people were inside having a party. The stem bearing its orange flower lifted some fifteen feet from the top of the gourd, swaying gently five meters or so up, and as I took all this in, and realized what this was all about, so I was yelling my head off and jumping forward, sword raised.
“Seg!”
The stem lashed.
The orange flower opened, revealing massed spines.
It struck. It struck full at Seg’s head.
I roared in, just bashing in a full-shouldered charge at the stem, and with the sword slashing and hacking, cutting through the fibrous vegetable growth. Thick green liquid gushed. The flower writhed. It twisted in on itself, blindly seeking its tormentor. I took a tremendous swing and the steel bit and then the flower hit me a thwack across the shoulder and head over heels I went into the muck.
It seemed to me only a moment or two later that a woman’s voice said, “Well, pantor Seg, your friend is alive, it seems.”
And Seg’s voice, as though from a distance: “For which I give thanks to Erthyr the Bow, and to all the Lords of Creation.” And, then, because he was Seg Segutorio, and the truest blade comrade a man could ever hope for, he added, “And, anyway, he has the skull of a vosk and the hide of a boloth, the speed of a leem and the strength of a zhantil.”
The woman laughed.
“I see you two get on together.”
“I owe him ten gold pieces for this one—”
I tried to open my eyes, and the woman’s voice sharpened.
“You would pay him ten gold croxes for saving your life? Is that what you value yourself at?”
“No, mistress Tlima, it is a bet I lost.”
“I see—”
But, it was clear, she did not see at all.
The glue holding my lids down parted with some pain and light flooded in. I blinked, and Seg said, “About time.”
Just to keep him going, I said, “Ten gold crox pieces, and not clipped, either.”
He laughed.
His laugh rang out, joyous, full.
I sat up.
When my shoulder returned and attached itself to my body, I went to give it a rub, and the woman put a hand out and stopped me.
“Leave it, pantor. It is bandaged.”
She was apim, full of face and figure, wearing a dark blue gown with white lace, and her features were those of a woman who has fought through life, and sees some comfort before they ship her off to the Ice Floes of Sicce.
We were in a tavern, with a thatched roof and wooden beams, with wooden walls and wooden floor, and the furniture was plain and simple and clean. I ached all
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