his fingers barely agreeing to close on it, and turned around to start back.
"Michael!"
Savarin came through the gate. Michael leaned on his stick, grateful for a friendly tone and an excuse to rest a bit longer. His chest now felt as if it were filled with water. He coughed and wiped his forehead.
"You're in training?" Savarin asked. Michael nodded and swallowed. "Well, that can't hurt."
"Oh, yeah?"
"They are teaching you. how to fight, perhaps, how to fight Sidhe?"
He shook his head. "They're teaching me how to run away from Sidhe."
Savarin scowled. "When can you get back here? There are people I'd like you to meet."
"I don't know. They're going to have me run more errands for them. Maybe later."
"If you can, come to the schoolhouse - it's on the other side of the street from the Yard. In the middle of town. I teach languages, things like that, besides teaching newcomers. Come see me."
Michael agreed and pointed with the stick. "I have to get back now."
"Look at that!" a high-pitched masculine voice shouted from the crowd. "They give the bastard a fortune in wood!"
"Shut up!" Savarin cried, waving his arms and advancing on the crowd. "Go home, shut up, shut up!"
Michael tried to pick up his pace again, what little he had had in the first place. Halfway, the agony began to subside and the run became easier. He had heard of second wind but had never experienced it before. His body seemed to resign itself to the situation and make the best of things.
It was late morning when he came to the creek and crossed it, then clumped to where Spart was standing on the mound. Spart took his stick and called to the other Crane Women with a sharp whistle.
Coom emerged from the hut to inspect him. She palped his legs and arms and shook her head violently, tossing her dust-gray hair. "Usgal! Nalk," she said, pointing to the stream. "You stink."
"That's not fair," he said, frowning resentfully.
"Things won't be fair again until you've bathed," Spart said. "Then follow Coom away from here and you'll keep on working."
"But I'm exhausted."
"You didn't run without stopping," she said. In the hut, Nare cackled and withdrew her face from the window.
Michael dragged his feet to the stream and removed his clothes. He was down to his underpants before any notion of modesty occured to him. He glanced back at Spart, but she was on her haunches plaiting reeds into a mat. She paid him no attention. He kept his underpants on and dipped a foot gingerly into the water.
Of course, it was freezing. He closed his eyes. They would think him an idiot or a coward if he always hesitated. He stepped back and then ran forward, plunging in feet first. The shock was considerable; when he surfaced, he could hardly breath and his teeth chattered like expert telegraphy. Still, it was better to bear the hardship than put up with more ridicule.
As he rubbed the silty, mica-flecked water over his skin, he once again noticed the pungent herbal smell. Apparently that was the nature of water in the Realm. He crawled out of the creek - which was about four feet deep in the middle - and shook his arms and legs, scattering ribbons of water across the bank. Still damp, he put on his clothes, but held the jacket by its yoke and carried it to where Spart was plaiting her reeds. I
She turned her attention away from her work to look him up and down and shook her head pityingly. "Only a fool would dive into water so cold."
Michael nodded without argument. That was their game; he could go along with them. "Thanks," he said.
And so it went for the first five days.
Chapter Nine
The Crane Women ran Michael around the level grasslands, with the stick and without it, sometimes one or two of them pacing him and giving directions. They seemed tireless. When he was near collapse from exertion, they wouldn't even be breathing hard. After a while, Michael suspected Sidhe and Breeds just didn't get tired. He asked about that once, and Nare simply
"Michael!"
Savarin came through the gate. Michael leaned on his stick, grateful for a friendly tone and an excuse to rest a bit longer. His chest now felt as if it were filled with water. He coughed and wiped his forehead.
"You're in training?" Savarin asked. Michael nodded and swallowed. "Well, that can't hurt."
"Oh, yeah?"
"They are teaching you. how to fight, perhaps, how to fight Sidhe?"
He shook his head. "They're teaching me how to run away from Sidhe."
Savarin scowled. "When can you get back here? There are people I'd like you to meet."
"I don't know. They're going to have me run more errands for them. Maybe later."
"If you can, come to the schoolhouse - it's on the other side of the street from the Yard. In the middle of town. I teach languages, things like that, besides teaching newcomers. Come see me."
Michael agreed and pointed with the stick. "I have to get back now."
"Look at that!" a high-pitched masculine voice shouted from the crowd. "They give the bastard a fortune in wood!"
"Shut up!" Savarin cried, waving his arms and advancing on the crowd. "Go home, shut up, shut up!"
Michael tried to pick up his pace again, what little he had had in the first place. Halfway, the agony began to subside and the run became easier. He had heard of second wind but had never experienced it before. His body seemed to resign itself to the situation and make the best of things.
It was late morning when he came to the creek and crossed it, then clumped to where Spart was standing on the mound. Spart took his stick and called to the other Crane Women with a sharp whistle.
Coom emerged from the hut to inspect him. She palped his legs and arms and shook her head violently, tossing her dust-gray hair. "Usgal! Nalk," she said, pointing to the stream. "You stink."
"That's not fair," he said, frowning resentfully.
"Things won't be fair again until you've bathed," Spart said. "Then follow Coom away from here and you'll keep on working."
"But I'm exhausted."
"You didn't run without stopping," she said. In the hut, Nare cackled and withdrew her face from the window.
Michael dragged his feet to the stream and removed his clothes. He was down to his underpants before any notion of modesty occured to him. He glanced back at Spart, but she was on her haunches plaiting reeds into a mat. She paid him no attention. He kept his underpants on and dipped a foot gingerly into the water.
Of course, it was freezing. He closed his eyes. They would think him an idiot or a coward if he always hesitated. He stepped back and then ran forward, plunging in feet first. The shock was considerable; when he surfaced, he could hardly breath and his teeth chattered like expert telegraphy. Still, it was better to bear the hardship than put up with more ridicule.
As he rubbed the silty, mica-flecked water over his skin, he once again noticed the pungent herbal smell. Apparently that was the nature of water in the Realm. He crawled out of the creek - which was about four feet deep in the middle - and shook his arms and legs, scattering ribbons of water across the bank. Still damp, he put on his clothes, but held the jacket by its yoke and carried it to where Spart was plaiting her reeds. I
She turned her attention away from her work to look him up and down and shook her head pityingly. "Only a fool would dive into water so cold."
Michael nodded without argument. That was their game; he could go along with them. "Thanks," he said.
And so it went for the first five days.
Chapter Nine
The Crane Women ran Michael around the level grasslands, with the stick and without it, sometimes one or two of them pacing him and giving directions. They seemed tireless. When he was near collapse from exertion, they wouldn't even be breathing hard. After a while, Michael suspected Sidhe and Breeds just didn't get tired. He asked about that once, and Nare simply
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