The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4), Fred Saberhagen [100 best novels of all time TXT] 📗

      Response from inside was immediate, in the form of a tentative rattling, as of a heavy doorbar in its sockets. Then came a brief silence as of hesitation, or perhaps a consultation carried on too quietly to be audible outside. Then the bar rattled again, this time banging decisively as it was thrown aside. Bolts clattered, and a moment later the left half of the double door was creaking open.

      Standing before the travelers was one man, unarmed and not very large, his gray beard and hair in wild disarray, his watery blue eyes blinking in the morning sun. The man’s clothes —leather trousers, leather vest over a once-white shirt—were so stained and generally shabby that Zoltan was ready at first to take the fellow for a servant. Behind the entranceway in which he stood stretched the dim length of a great hall, where the littered condition of floor and tables, along with a few overturned chairs, suggested at first glance that a notable revel of some kind might have been held here last night.

      The fellow who had opened the door looked at the Lady Yambu again, face-to-face this time, and bowed to her at once. “Welcome,” he said, in a somewhat more courteous tone than before. He stood aside. “Come in, my lady, come in.” But having said that much he stopped, seeming not to know how to proceed.

      “Thank you, Sir Wizard,” said the lady dryly, entering the house. And Zoltan, turning his head suddenly to look at the man once more, could see that the rings on his stained fingers were marked with insignia of power, and were of a richness that certainly no menial servant wore; and that a chain of thin gold encircled the man’s wrinkled neck and went down inside his dirty shirt.

      Yambu grabbed her companion by the sleeve and pulled him forward. “This is Zoltan of Tasavalta, who travels with me. Now may we know your name? Your public name at least?” It was a common practice for wizards of any rank to keep their true names unknown to any besides themselves.

      Their reluctant host nodded abstractedly in Zoltan’s direction, acknowledging the introduction. Then he turned back to his more important guest. “Call me Gesner, Lady Yambu. May I ask, what is this information that you have?”

      The lady told him briefly of the incidents in the village last night. Meanwhile, not waiting for any further invitation, she moved on into the great hall, the graybeard moving at her side. Zoltan followed. Seen at closer range, the disorder was more evident than ever. And it was older—as if some feasting might have been suddenly interrupted many days ago, and only a minimum of serious housekeeping performed since. Leftover food in dishes had long since dried, and there was a smell in the air of stale drink and garbage. The ashes in the enormous hearth looked utterly cold and dead.

      “And is that all, my lady?” The decrepit looking magician sounded disappointed. “I mean—skirmishes like that are common. Why should you think my master would consider it vital news?”

      Ignoring Gesner’s question, Yambu looked about her and asked him in turn: “Where is your master? You are certainly not the lord of the manor here?”

      A different voice replied, speaking from behind her: “No, he’s not. I—I am here.”

      Turning to a broad stairway that came down at one end of the hall, Zoltan to his surprise saw a somewhat overweight adolescent boy, two or three years younger than himself, dressed in rich clothing but looking nervous and incompetent and frightened.

      At this point two girls, also well dressed, and both somewhat younger than the boy, appeared on the stairs above him. These girls, moving like people who were reluctant to advance but still more frightened of being left behind, edged slowly downward on the stairs, keeping close behind the youth who had spoken.

      And the fat boy continued his own uncertain descent of the stairs. He paused, shortly before reaching the bottom, to repeat his claim, as if he thought it quite natural that his audience should doubt him. “I am Bonar, the chief of Clan Malolo.” At his side he wore a small sword, hung from a belt that did not quite appear to fit.

      Yambu, the experienced diplomat, surveyed the situation, and appeared to be ready to take the young man at his word, at least for now. Addressing him politely, she related again, with more detail, what had happened in the village last night, with emphasis on how the alarm raised by Zoltan had prevented harm. This time she included the visit of the mermaids and their warning.

      The lady’s manner, more than the content of what she said, had a soothing and reassuring effect upon the frightened inmates of the manor. Zoltan got the impression that they were beginning to be willing, perhaps irrationally, to trust her now, that these representatives of the Malolo clan were looking for someone they could trust.

      Before Lady Yambu had finished relating her story, the young people had all completed their descent of the stairs and were surrounding her and Zoltan in the great hall. The two girls, who were Bonar’s sisters as Zoltan had suspected from the first, were named Rose and Violet. Now, while Gesner stood back frowning silently, the three family members bombarded the two visitors with questions.

      What had Yambu and Zoltan seen on the other side of the river? What evidence was there of military activity in that direction? On these points the travelers could be reassuring, at least in a negative sense. They had not traveled on the far bank, and had not seen a living soul over there for several days. Nor had either of them observed anything at all military in that direction, unless last night’s disturbance at the fishing village was to be counted. Zoltan and Yambu now related that story again, and hearing it seemed to reassure their hosts slightly.

      There was a brief silence.

      “What is wrong here?” Yambu asked the young people finally. “It is plain