there?”
She looked. The third house in the street was a fine high one, four stories, its windows all shuttered. “So?”
“That’s Reiskeipf’s.”
Mariarta raised her eyebrows. “It must be trouble to keep clean. All those stairs.”
“He has three fumegls for that.”
“Good for him, then. No, bab, I’ll take that,” she said hurriedly, and got her bag off the horse before he could. “There, is that the last one?”
Her father was looking at her sidewise, a sort of approving expression. “You said, not so long ago, that you would marry him.”
Mariarta frowned at him, right there out in front of everybody, as the groom took the horses away. “I said I would do what you wanted,” she said. “What do you want, bab? ”
He grinned at her then. “ Su, not even your mother seems able to get that out of me these days.” He glanced at the high white house, shook his head. “Come on, buobetta, let’s go see about some food.”
•
They went up the stone steps into the big slate-floored common room of the inn, and bespoke the innkeeper for beds and a roast hen, since he had such things. Mariarta’s mouth watered. At home no one would eat a chicken until it was literally on its last legs—what would you do for eggs, otherwise? But she had had one the last time, and the luxury had delighted her. Now she sat in a corner at one of the scrubbed, scarred wooden tables, with a clay cup of wine that one of the kitchen people poured her, gazing at the low sun shining from the white plaster of the walls, while her father stood talking to the innkeeper. More people were sitting in this one room than lived in all of Tschamut. It was unnerving, until you got used to it—all those eyes looking at you. Many of those eyes, among the men, dwelt on her at some length. Mariarta stared back with a slight frown, as her mother had advised her, until they dropped.
Her father came back to her after a few minutes. “Well, there’s only one of the councilors hasn’t left yet—that’s old Theo dil Cardinas from Realp. He caught a flux and won’t leave until tomorrow. Good enough for us: three in company’s better than two.”
For a pleasant hour Mariarta and her father sat talking with people at adjoining tables, and drank wine. At the end of the hour their chicken arrived, and (not coincidentally, Mariarta suspected) so did Theo dil Cardinas, who sat with them and accepted a chicken leg, and began gossiping as if he had known them all his life. He was small, bald and thin, with a brown, incredibly wrinkled face and small bright eyes; a man dressed in sagging woolens that were surely too hot for this weather, and smelled it. His voice sounded like a chough’s creaking, and his laugh (which came often) sounded like a saw in a log. He seemed to have had a lot of wine, to judge by his breath as he leaned toward Mariarta to greet her, and she wondered if his prolonged stay here had more to do with the Treis Retgs’ cellar than any flux. But she was polite to him, for her father had let her know that this was one of the wisest men in Ursera when the mood struck him.
“Nothing new from your part of the world? Thought not,” said Theo, his eyes sharp on Mariarta’s father’s face as he said it. “Bad business, that.”
“Very bad. What news out by you?”
“Nothing much. Some trouble getting the hay harvest in—had a buttatsch running around by the Lieg alp. Caused no end of trouble.”
“Really?” her father said. Buttatschs were not as common as, say, chamois, but more common than brown bear. Some people claimed they were striadira done by annoyed gypsies or Tyrolians, others that they were roving spirits in bondage, looking for someone to say Masses for them. Whatever, they resembled a cowskin without the cow—a rolling, flapping bundle of flayed hide and udders. Some buttatschs glowed in the dark, and made weird threatening noises, or spoke you in strange languages. People had died of the
She looked. The third house in the street was a fine high one, four stories, its windows all shuttered. “So?”
“That’s Reiskeipf’s.”
Mariarta raised her eyebrows. “It must be trouble to keep clean. All those stairs.”
“He has three fumegls for that.”
“Good for him, then. No, bab, I’ll take that,” she said hurriedly, and got her bag off the horse before he could. “There, is that the last one?”
Her father was looking at her sidewise, a sort of approving expression. “You said, not so long ago, that you would marry him.”
Mariarta frowned at him, right there out in front of everybody, as the groom took the horses away. “I said I would do what you wanted,” she said. “What do you want, bab? ”
He grinned at her then. “ Su, not even your mother seems able to get that out of me these days.” He glanced at the high white house, shook his head. “Come on, buobetta, let’s go see about some food.”
•
They went up the stone steps into the big slate-floored common room of the inn, and bespoke the innkeeper for beds and a roast hen, since he had such things. Mariarta’s mouth watered. At home no one would eat a chicken until it was literally on its last legs—what would you do for eggs, otherwise? But she had had one the last time, and the luxury had delighted her. Now she sat in a corner at one of the scrubbed, scarred wooden tables, with a clay cup of wine that one of the kitchen people poured her, gazing at the low sun shining from the white plaster of the walls, while her father stood talking to the innkeeper. More people were sitting in this one room than lived in all of Tschamut. It was unnerving, until you got used to it—all those eyes looking at you. Many of those eyes, among the men, dwelt on her at some length. Mariarta stared back with a slight frown, as her mother had advised her, until they dropped.
Her father came back to her after a few minutes. “Well, there’s only one of the councilors hasn’t left yet—that’s old Theo dil Cardinas from Realp. He caught a flux and won’t leave until tomorrow. Good enough for us: three in company’s better than two.”
For a pleasant hour Mariarta and her father sat talking with people at adjoining tables, and drank wine. At the end of the hour their chicken arrived, and (not coincidentally, Mariarta suspected) so did Theo dil Cardinas, who sat with them and accepted a chicken leg, and began gossiping as if he had known them all his life. He was small, bald and thin, with a brown, incredibly wrinkled face and small bright eyes; a man dressed in sagging woolens that were surely too hot for this weather, and smelled it. His voice sounded like a chough’s creaking, and his laugh (which came often) sounded like a saw in a log. He seemed to have had a lot of wine, to judge by his breath as he leaned toward Mariarta to greet her, and she wondered if his prolonged stay here had more to do with the Treis Retgs’ cellar than any flux. But she was polite to him, for her father had let her know that this was one of the wisest men in Ursera when the mood struck him.
“Nothing new from your part of the world? Thought not,” said Theo, his eyes sharp on Mariarta’s father’s face as he said it. “Bad business, that.”
“Very bad. What news out by you?”
“Nothing much. Some trouble getting the hay harvest in—had a buttatsch running around by the Lieg alp. Caused no end of trouble.”
“Really?” her father said. Buttatschs were not as common as, say, chamois, but more common than brown bear. Some people claimed they were striadira done by annoyed gypsies or Tyrolians, others that they were roving spirits in bondage, looking for someone to say Masses for them. Whatever, they resembled a cowskin without the cow—a rolling, flapping bundle of flayed hide and udders. Some buttatschs glowed in the dark, and made weird threatening noises, or spoke you in strange languages. People had died of the
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