Beagle, Peter S The Folk of the Air

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happens like that once in a while, with bards."
"A death," Farrell said. "Whose death? How?"
But Hamid walked on, striding out faster than Farrell had ever
seen him, making the red tie lick backwards over his shoulder. "The
voice just came out with it, it does that. Pay it no mind."
He did not speak again until they were nearing the Parnell corner
where Farrell would turn off toward Julie's house. Then he said
thoughtfully, "Word has it that a certain mutual royal friend is no
longer on the street. Glad to hear it," but there was a questioning
tilt at the end.
Farrell said, "He's in the hospital. getting over malnutrition,
kidney trouble, a spot of anemia, and a couple of those things you get
from living out of dumpsters. Also, he's way past time for his regular
dental checkup, and he's under what they call observation because he
has real trouble remembering who and when he is. But he's doing fine."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth about him," Hamid
said. "I'll be honest, I had my doubts as to how much you could take
in." He cut short Farrell's indignant response. "Yeah, I know what you
and I saw Aiffe do, but you got to understand, I have also seen more
than a hundred intelligent people steadily denying something she pulled
off right in front of their eyes. _Unmaking_ it, you hear what I'm
saying? Changing him, changing Micah, to fit the story, I saw them
doing it. Man, he helped found and organize this whole damn League, and
two weeks, three weeks, he was just another crazy black man, gone AWOL,
gone native, the way they got this unfortunate tendency to do." His
voice was shaking as badly as the hand that gripped Farrell's forearm,
the enviable, expected grace of being in sudden shreds. "You ever want
to see the real witchcraft, you watch people protecting their comfort,
their beliefs. That's where it is."
Farrell asked, "Why did you stay in the League?"
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Hamid's control was already reasserting itself when he answered.
"They needed a chronicler, and I needed something to chronicle. I had
my own comfort to look after."
At the corner, he bade Farrell an abrupt good night, turned away,
hesitated, and then added, "You know, another reason I had some trouble
talking about Micah--I guess you know Julie and he were sort of an item
when what happened happened." Farrell nodded. Hamid said, "I wouldn't
take it to heart. But I'd say they do have a certain amount of unf
inished business."
"It's their business," Farrell said. "That voice of yours, on the
other hand, that death tomorrow, I think that's our business. I think
we should pay attention."
Hamid snorted. "That voice'll say anything, it doesn't know
shit." But his eyes were not mocking when he patted Farrell's shoulder.
"Well, we'll pay attention, whatever we can do. That's the thing with
the damn bardic voice, it never comes with instructions you can read.
Worse than useless. See you on the island."
Julie was sleeping soundly when Farrell let himself in, and he
set her alarm clock for a three o'clock summons, sourly certain that
she had spent the evening in Micah Willows' hospital room. But when he
rose from the bed, she turned over, swiftly wide awake, reaching up for
him. "Have a good time," she said. "When in doubt, just surrender. I'll
ransom you."
Farrell kissed her, saying, "I know it's dumb, boys playing war
games. I just want to see what it's like one time."
Julie said, "Don't apologize, for God's sake. Just remember, not
everyone there will be playing. Keep your head down."
She was asleep again when the armored men knocked at the door.
Farrell opened it and saw William the Dubious and two others, all three
cloaked from throat to ankle, but ringing softly when they moved. A
van, bigger and newer than his own, stood twitching in the driveway.
Farrell ducked back into the house, grabbed his lute and the mail shirt
that Julie had insisted he take with him, and went outside.
Ben was sitting in the van, dressed in full Viking battle gear,
all studded leather and painted steel, with heavy arm rings and a bear-
claw necklace. Only the belt-axe and horned helmet were familiar to
Farrell. He was badly frightened for a moment, unsure of whom he was
facing; but then Ben grinned at him and made a uniquely obscene gesture
they had both learned from a Sicilian classmate, and Farrell demanded,
"What the hell are you doing here? You said you didn't go to the wars
anymore."
"Don't yell," Ben said placidly. "People are sleeping. A little
consideration here."
"You had all these papers to grade. You made such a thing out of
it--a zillion papers, no time, no time, be working when you get back
from the playground, Joe. Embarrassed the hell out of me for even
asking you--"
"Grading papers is boring. Wars are fun. Get in, we've got two
other knights to pick up."
Farrell lurched into the seat beside him, asking, "Does Simon
know? He was throwing a major hissy last night because you weren't
coming. Does Sia know?"
Ben said, "Sia sent me to keep you out of mischief. Okay now?
Shut up and put that shirt on, you'll need it."
The drive to Lake Vallejo took a little more than an hour, and
the sky was thinning when they parked the van near a concrete-block
lavatory and walked the rest of the way down to the lakeshore. Farrell
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saw a dozen other cars and pickups parked among the cottonwoods and a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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