"JOHN MORRESSY - The game is a foot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morressy John)

JOHN MORRESSY

THE GAME IS A FOOT

THE WIZARD KEDRIGERN would have conceded, reluctantly and grudgingly, that an inn had one advantage over a campsite in the woods: it was more likely to be warm. In a good humor, he might even admit possible superiority in a second area: an inn might conceivably be dry as well. That was as far as he would go in praise of inns. Aside from those two undeniable but unpredictable comforts, he considered a stay at an inn a poor second to a night spent by a brook, with a good fire to keep away the wildlife large and small and a solid protective spell to discourage human intruders.
Home, of course, was his first preference, and he left it with reluctance. Home meant the company of Princess, the efficiency of Spot, and the comfort of his fireside and his books. Inns offered misery at exorbitant prices. Inns were dirty, noisy, crowded, smoky, and smelly. The food was awful, the wine corrosive, the service unspeakable, and the rooms small. The beds were full of lice and the building was full of people, all of whom chattered while awake and snored when asleep. Dogs barked and cats yowled through the night.
The animals could be silenced and the lice kept at bay by a spell, but coping with the people was difficult without calling attention to oneself, and that was not Kedrigern's way. He had learned long ago that a sensible wizard does not call attention to himself without good cause.
But when the rain is falling and the wind is rising and wolves are howling in the moonless night and a man is far from home and weary in mind and body and low on magical reserves from working a difficult disenchantment, prejudices melt away and reason yields. When he glimpsed the light ahead, and coming closer saw through the shifting curtain of rain the unmistakable outlines of an inn and its stable and outbuildings, Kedrigern felt a warm glow of benevolence toward all inns and innkeepers. Surely this establishment, so fortunately found, would prove to be the One Good Inn, the exception to the unhappy rule. A master chef. A connoisseur's cellar. A punctilious housekeeper. Amiable company. He fervently hoped so.
For a time, it seemed that this might be the case. The place looked uncommonly clean. He obtained a room and a bed all to himself, a rare boon. A fragrant stew was bubbling in the cooking pot, and when he sat down to dine he found the bread almost fresh, and the wine drinkable. Having eaten, he settled himself before the fire for warming and drying. The only other guests were a middle-aged couple and a husky young man with a firm jaw and a stern expression. They were seated on benches, the couple sleeping soundly. Their snoring was all but inaudible.
Kedrigern nodded to the young man, who returned the nod but said nothing. That was fine with Kedrigern. He was not a man given to small talk and idle chat. This inn was turning out to be all he could wish, short of being in his own cottage.
After a time the innkeeper, a slow-moving man named Corgin, drew up a stool and joined them. The company sat for a time in silence, listening to the wind complain around the corners of the inn while the fire crackled and the sleepers snored. Kedrigern felt pleasantly drowsy, and began to nod off. Corgin, his voice lowered out of concern for the sleeping couple, leaned to him and asked, "What brings a scholar out on such a foul night, if I may ask, Master Siger?"
Caught off his guard, Kedrigern gave a start and blinked. He was momentarily puzzled, but quickly recovered his wits. Siger. Scholar. Yes, of course, Siger of Trondhjem. He had identified himself as an itinerant scholar. It was an incognito he used often in his travels, one that aroused no unwarranted fear or unhealthy suspicion among those he encountered. "I'm on my way to visit a philosopher. I have some questions about his observations on mutability," he replied.
"Oh. Mutability." Corgin nodded, looking very serious.
"Fascinating subject, mutability."
"Don't know much about it, myself."
"Hardly anyone does."
After a long pause, Corgin asked, "What is mutability, anyway?"
"I'm not quite certain. That's why I'm visiting the philosopher," Kedrigern said.
Corgin pondered that for a time, then gave another slow nod. The young man did not join the conversation, and the sleepers slept on. The dialogue lapsed, as Kedrigern had meant it to. He yawned. After a long silence, the innkeeper said, "We don't get many philosophers passing this way."
"Philosophers aren't much for traveling."
"No." After a longer silence, the innkeeper said, "We get a lot of merchants. Some pilgrims. Last month a courier stayed here. No philosophers, though. Or scholars."
Kedrigern gave a little noncommittal grunt. He could feel his eyes, and his mind, glazing over.
"We have a sheriff here tonight," said the innkeeper, indicating with his thumb the young man.
Kedrigern raised a hand in salute. "I'm Siger of Trondhjem," he said, giving his scholar's pseudonym.
"My name is Rury," said the sheriff. "I enforce the king's justice in this part of the kingdom."
"Are you here in your professional capacity, or are --"
A knock at the door broke in on his inquiry and shattered the peaceful scene in an instant. It was not a casual knock, but an importunate blow that resounded through the house and set pots and dishes to rattling, and it was quickly followed by a dozen more blows of equal force and several indistinct, but angry, shouts. Corgin sprang to his feet and hurried to the door. The sleeping couple started awake with a cry of alarm. Rury's hand went to his dagger. Kedrigern, who more out of habit than caution had worked a basic warning spell before entering the inn, was unperturbed. "Nothing to worry about. It's only a traveler," he said.
Rury gave him a quick suspicious glance. "How do you know?"
"A simple exercise in logic. Robbers don't knock, they break in. And any traveler looking for a meal and a bed on a night like this is sure to knock impatiently."
Kedrigern was outwardly nonchalant; inwardly he was furious with himself for his lapse. Once reveal the slightest hint of wizardly power and everyone in the vicinity wants a spell or a charm or a disenchantment, and there goes your peace and quiet.
A cold breeze swept through the room and set the fire to fluttering. The door crashed shut and a loud grating voice bellowed, "Food for me and my men, and your best chamber, and be quick about it, innkeeper! I travel on the king's business. I am Sir Buldram of the Hard Hand, famed throughout the land for my hot temper."
The words had an immediate effect on the hearthside company. Rury muttered under his breath and spat into the flames. The sleepers, now wide awake, exchanged a dark glance; the man bared his teeth and growled indistinct but unmistakably angry words.
Corgin backed into the room, bowing and babbling, "Yes, Sir Buldram. I'll prepare your accommodations. Best chamber in the house. Right over the kitchen. Always fragrant and warm. Sit right down and I'll bring stew for you and your men. An honor and a privilege to serve you, Sir Buldram." He paused to rub the tabletop clean with his apron.
"Bring your best wine, and bring it quickly! And if it is not to my taste, I'll pour a hogshead of it down your throat, do you hear me?" the bellowing voice came again, followed by heavy footsteps and the appearance of a huge figure in red and black who strode to the hearth, turned his back to the fire, folded his brawny arms, and glared upon the other guests.
Sir Buldram loomed a head over Kedrigern and extended a hand's-breadth wider on either side. His scowling face was red, his beard and brows black, his head close-cropped. He looked with contempt from one face to another, then said to the older couple, "It's time for the likes of you to be in your beds. Be off. I require your bench."
The man rose slowly and helped his wife to her feet. His voice shook as he said, "It's fitting. You took our home and our land. Now you take our bench, too."
"Be careful, grandfather. You speak to a servant of the king," said the knight. He glowered down on the couple for a moment, then smiled -- an unexpected and unpleasant spectacle -- and said, "I remember you. Yes, I remember you well, old man. Kettry is your name. And your wife is named Hilla. Rebellious types. Refused to pay the king's taxes."
"We had no money," said the woman.
"You had a house, crops, animals, furniture."
"And you took it all," said the man.
"Not half what you owed. But since you seem to have held back enough to squander on an inn, I'll collect the balance when I depart, or take it out of your hides."
Kedrigern had had enough of this. He had entered the inn intending to conserve his magic, but Sir Buldram's manner was so intolerable, his voice so harsh, his very presence so offensive that it could not be ignored. People like Buldram, unless stopped in their tracks, only got worse.
He opted for a simple spell. Before Buldram's men joined the company, he gestured toward the fire and whispered a phrase. The fire flared up and billowed forth a roaring golden tongue. A great cloud of steam arose, and the knight's cloak went up in flames. He gave a cry and began groping at his cloak pin. Kedrigern jumped up, snatched a heavy salver from one of the tables, and began to swat Buldram's back and buttocks vigorously, shouting, "Quick, lend a hand! We must save him!"
Rury and Kettry rushed to beat at the flames with poker and shovel. Hilla doused the knight with ale. After several minutes of frenzied activity and wild shouts, with Buldram howling and cursing and the others crying, "Over here! Get this spot! Harder, it's not out yet!" and beating at the flames with zeal, Buldram finally managed to free himself from his cloak. It fell to the floor, and the firefighters trampled it into a soggy mass while the knight looked on, speechless, rubbing his broad backside. Kedrigern glanced at him, let out a cry of alarm, and flung a mug of ale directly in his face.
"His beard! It's smoking!" he said, taking up another mug. "We must make sure it's out."
"Enough of your help!" Buldram roared, throwing up his hands. "Buldram of the Hard Hand needs no man's help."
Kedrigern looked at him with an expression of childlike innocence. "We couldn't stand by idle while a servant of the king went up in flames, sir knight."
"It would be disloyal," Rury said, and Kettry and Hilla nodded in agreement.
Two hard-faced men burst into the room, swords drawn. "Is all well, my lord?"