scratched his naval. “Your right, hey?”
“And I insist upon it.”
Yawn. Stretch. Scratch again. The warder craned his neck to watch the progress of a nearby dice game. “Well…” after a long moment, “I’ll pass the word along, sib. I’ll pass the word along…”
And so, eventually, the word was passed back.
“You, there. Archie-bait,” said the warder one afternoon. “Strip down and wash your crummy rags and ribs. I’ll open the water-room for y‘, there’s wood for fire and pots to boil the fleas in.”
“Good!” said Jon-Joras, peeling off his clothes and taking the little shovel of embers from the man. And—“What? Soap? Why—”
“Mustn’t smell bad when you’re up before The Man,” the warder said. So Jon-Joras heated water and boiled his clothes and enjoyed the luxury of soap for the first time in—how long?—as he scrubbed himself down in the dank and seldom-used water-room. He wrapped himself in the riding-cloak and waited for the garments to dry.
Serm said: “Tell him you’ll pay any fine within reason. That dragon-cod can’t even read his own name unless it’s written in gold ink.”
And Trond said: “Your line has to be, that you realize it’s been all a mistake, in fact, it’s kind of amusing, and you’re not mad at all. But High King Pung-Pickle, or whatever his name is, will be getting ready to tear the states apart, board by board, if you don’t show up—and soon.”
Serm said: “You must get word to our band. To the Poets.”
And Trond said: “You were lost in the woods and we offered to guide you back for a fee. That’s all. It’s a true word, isn’t it? So—that’s all. Hue? You never even heard of Hue.”
And at last the clothes were dry and Jon-Joras followed the guards who held his tether, out into the starlit, sweet-smelling night. A pony-wagon was waiting, its sides enveloped in black curtains. They did not bother to explain or apologize for binding his feet and gagging him. The conclusion came to Jon-Joras, not for the first time, that the exercise of civil rights in the City-State of Drogue left a good deal to be desired.
Facing them at the other end of the long hall was The Chair itself—so far, an unoccupied piece of furniture. It was, however, the most elaborate piece of furniture he had seen anywhere at anytime: high, enormous, carved profusely, polished, gilded, cushioned in velvet and damask. He thought of the noisome and verminous rushes on the hard, stinking, sodden floor of the prison room. A bitter taste was in his mouth.
The guards jerked him to a stop, removed his gag. He, familiar, after all, with the intensely sophisticated court of King Por-Paulo, watched with the interested eye of a connoisseur the ceremonies which accompanied the entrance of His Serene Supremacy, the Chairman, as the latter took his seat on The Chair. Roelorix III was a swift and slender man in his late thirties; tucking his purple-slippered feet under him, he made slight movements of head and hand. The guards nudged Jon-Joras.
Who identified himself as, a Private Man of his king, stated his reason for being here on Prime World… “Earth,” he corrected himself… and went on to say, “I address The Puissant Chair for attention to grievances.”
The Puissant Chair, looking a little weary, a little cynical, invited him—by the smallest change of expression, to continue his address. He explained his being present at the impromptu dragon hunt, described that melancholy scene. The Chairman at once became intent, and more and more so as Jon-Joras proceeded with his description of the Kar-chee Castle and what went on therein. He had only hesitated an instant, recalling Trond’s advice to say nothing of it; then decided that it was best to tell the whole truth.
Indeed, he spoke freely of everything… omitting only the matter of his duel to the death with Thorm. It did not seem to him to be pertinent, and, besides, he could not bring himself to dwell upon
“And I insist upon it.”
Yawn. Stretch. Scratch again. The warder craned his neck to watch the progress of a nearby dice game. “Well…” after a long moment, “I’ll pass the word along, sib. I’ll pass the word along…”
And so, eventually, the word was passed back.
“You, there. Archie-bait,” said the warder one afternoon. “Strip down and wash your crummy rags and ribs. I’ll open the water-room for y‘, there’s wood for fire and pots to boil the fleas in.”
“Good!” said Jon-Joras, peeling off his clothes and taking the little shovel of embers from the man. And—“What? Soap? Why—”
“Mustn’t smell bad when you’re up before The Man,” the warder said. So Jon-Joras heated water and boiled his clothes and enjoyed the luxury of soap for the first time in—how long?—as he scrubbed himself down in the dank and seldom-used water-room. He wrapped himself in the riding-cloak and waited for the garments to dry.
Serm said: “Tell him you’ll pay any fine within reason. That dragon-cod can’t even read his own name unless it’s written in gold ink.”
And Trond said: “Your line has to be, that you realize it’s been all a mistake, in fact, it’s kind of amusing, and you’re not mad at all. But High King Pung-Pickle, or whatever his name is, will be getting ready to tear the states apart, board by board, if you don’t show up—and soon.”
Serm said: “You must get word to our band. To the Poets.”
And Trond said: “You were lost in the woods and we offered to guide you back for a fee. That’s all. It’s a true word, isn’t it? So—that’s all. Hue? You never even heard of Hue.”
And at last the clothes were dry and Jon-Joras followed the guards who held his tether, out into the starlit, sweet-smelling night. A pony-wagon was waiting, its sides enveloped in black curtains. They did not bother to explain or apologize for binding his feet and gagging him. The conclusion came to Jon-Joras, not for the first time, that the exercise of civil rights in the City-State of Drogue left a good deal to be desired.
Facing them at the other end of the long hall was The Chair itself—so far, an unoccupied piece of furniture. It was, however, the most elaborate piece of furniture he had seen anywhere at anytime: high, enormous, carved profusely, polished, gilded, cushioned in velvet and damask. He thought of the noisome and verminous rushes on the hard, stinking, sodden floor of the prison room. A bitter taste was in his mouth.
The guards jerked him to a stop, removed his gag. He, familiar, after all, with the intensely sophisticated court of King Por-Paulo, watched with the interested eye of a connoisseur the ceremonies which accompanied the entrance of His Serene Supremacy, the Chairman, as the latter took his seat on The Chair. Roelorix III was a swift and slender man in his late thirties; tucking his purple-slippered feet under him, he made slight movements of head and hand. The guards nudged Jon-Joras.
Who identified himself as, a Private Man of his king, stated his reason for being here on Prime World… “Earth,” he corrected himself… and went on to say, “I address The Puissant Chair for attention to grievances.”
The Puissant Chair, looking a little weary, a little cynical, invited him—by the smallest change of expression, to continue his address. He explained his being present at the impromptu dragon hunt, described that melancholy scene. The Chairman at once became intent, and more and more so as Jon-Joras proceeded with his description of the Kar-chee Castle and what went on therein. He had only hesitated an instant, recalling Trond’s advice to say nothing of it; then decided that it was best to tell the whole truth.
Indeed, he spoke freely of everything… omitting only the matter of his duel to the death with Thorm. It did not seem to him to be pertinent, and, besides, he could not bring himself to dwell upon
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