"Valderen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

Chapter 4

Farnor slept restlessly, though it seemed to him that he scarcely slept at all, so many times did he start awake violently. Yet sleep he did, he knew, for when he slept, he dreamed, or, more correctly, he slipped from the torment of his waking thoughts into the torment of nightmare.

Awake, he played fitfully with all that had happened, seeking to arrange the events of the past weeks into some form of order, seeking some kind of pattern within which he could find his place, and thence decide what he must do next. But no such pattern emerged. Everything that had happened had seemingly been wild and arbitrary: the silent arrival of the creature, heralded only by a few slaughtered sheep; the unexpected arrival of Nilsson and his men, and the confusion with the tithe gathering that had enabled them to become established at the castle and to take control of the valley before their true character was known; and the mysterious trans-formation of Rannick from village misfit to…

To what?

To some kind of manic… chieftain?… possessed of powers that previously Farnor had heard of only as wild fancies in Yonas’s fireside tales where they were invariably possessed only by those beings who had walked out of the great burning from which all things had come, and who had moved about the world, shaping it through the ages until it had become as it now was. Beings who were now all long vanished.

For all the fever of his anguish, however, Farnor was too close to the soil, to the reality of the mysterious cycle of the growth and death of things, to squander his energies wildly denying what he knew to be true. The how and the why of Rannick’s transformation were questions which capered for the most part at the edge of his thoughts, dancing to the centre only rarely and being almost immediately dismissed from the whirling circle there, where lodged his overpowering desire to destroy Rannick. His dominant concerns were profoundly practical. What was the extent of Rannick’s power? How readily could it be used? How often? And at what cost? For surely nothing was ever truly without cost? There was a balance in all things.

And, most intriguing of all, for what, and how much, did Rannick rely on the creature? For it was the creature he had sent in pursuit when he had felt Farnor’s angry presence, not some battering wind or scorching fire.

And yet, mysteriously, the creature had failed.

Memories of the times when he had found himself at one with the creature returned, welling up inside him like vomit. They were not memories that he relished but he sensed that they were important. He had seen the terror in men’s faces, indeed he had felt – and lusted for – the terror in their hearts as they looked on it… him. And they had been fighting men at that; men used to wielding swords and axes to defend themselves against savage enemies. Yet they had fallen without resistance, like corn before the scythe.

But still, he, Farnor, fleeing in panic, had escaped the creature, though he was sure it had been only a few paces behind him at the end. When he solved that mystery he would have the makings of a weapon which he could wield against both Rannick and the creature, he was sure. For even though he had no measure of his own strange abilities, nor any conscious control over them, he knew that Rannick understood – and feared – them.

Not that this conclusion was reached so straightfor-wardly. It emerged and retreated repeatedly, like a wild animal preparing to cross open ground. Looking, listening, testing the air, waiting for those silent inner voices that would urge it forward, then vanishing again into the tangled undergrowth of childish terror and frenzied blood-red hatred, of despair and grim determi-nation, that seemed to have possession of Farnor’s soul.

And in between this waking confusion, he slept, sometimes tossing and turning, muttering and crying out incoherently, at other times lying motionless while his mind soared off into eerie dreamworlds where the terrors and the furies of his waking thoughts ran hideous riot.

Yet, unvarying throughout, there ran the simple thought that he must return to the valley. He must finish what he had set out to do. He must find Rannick and somehow kill him. No sense of ordered law coloured this thought, neither the far distant king’s, nor even the village council’s. His parents had been cut down at Rannick’s foul whim, and he was tied to that event inexorably. That the bonds were of his own making, he could not know. All he knew was that his every endeav-our must be dedicated to the destruction of the murderer of his mother and father. What might lie beyond that end was one torment that never came to him.

He was thus little rested when finally he awoke to see leaf-greened sunlight percolating through a carved grille covering the window and dimly lighting the room that Edrien had found for him. He jerked upright, gazing about him, alarmed. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded of the silence about him.

There was no reply. And the room was quite empty. Yet for some time he could not shake off the feeling that he was being watched, or perhaps listened to.

Eventually, however, his aching body made itself felt, and the impression faded. Then a lifetime of early rising forced him out of bed. He looked about him as he dressed. The room was simply furnished, containing only the bed, a couple of chairs, and an odd circular table set with tiers of drawers, the like of which he had never seen before. And everything, he realized gradu-ally, seemed to be made of wood – even a bowl on the table, which at home would have been earthenware, was wood. He picked it up gently and examined it closely. At first he thought that it had been elaborately painted, but as he looked at it he saw that it was made out of many different-coloured pieces of wood, tightly jointed together in some manner that he could not discern. For the first time since his parents’ death he felt a distant stirring of wonder; pleasure even.

It shrivelled however, as soon as it touched the bale-ful thoughts that blew through his mind like biting winter winds. Its last residue faded as he ran his fingers lingeringly along the smooth rim of the bowl when he laid it down. The bowl became merely functional and unnecessarily ingenious. As did the wooden handles to the drawers in the circular table, and the peculiar hinges to the door.

His inspection was ended by a sharp knock on the door. As he moved to open it he noticed for the first time that a sword was hanging behind it. He was about to examine this unexpected find when a second, more impatient knock made him snatch open the door irritably.

Edrien bustled in. ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’re up at last, then? I gather the dawn horns didn’t wake you. Bildar said I should leave you until you woke up on your own.’

Without waiting for a response, she walked across the room to the window, where she fiddled with something that Farnor could not quite see. Silently, the grille covering the window divided and the two halves swung apart to form decorative panels on either side of the window. Bright sunlight flooded the room.

Blinking, Farnor moved to the window. He ran a hand over one of the panels. There was a quality about the delicate carving that, for some reason, reminded him of the ring that hung outside Gryss’s cottage, but he was in no mood to pursue the idea. Then, very tenta-tively, he tapped the glass. ‘Well, at least something around here’s not made of wood,’ he said.

Edrien looked at him, puzzled, but did not com-ment. In the light, Farnor noticed for the first time that she had pale brown eyes. It came to him that he had never seen such a colour before. And her hair was light brown as well. Like an autumn leaf, he thought, unwittingly poetical. But the eyes drew his attention again. They looked squarely at him and there was a look in them which seemed to challenge him. He turned away, uncertain how to deal with this strange young woman.

‘I suppose you’re hungry by now, aren’t you?’ she said, unexpectedly.

Farnor nodded cautiously, wary of some taunt.

‘Come on, I’ve arranged breakfast for you.’ With a flick of her head Edrien turned and walked briskly towards the door. Farnor glanced again at the sword hanging there as he followed her out. He was about to ask about it when he realized that he was standing on a narrow platform below which was nothing for some considerable distance except dense foliage and a few large and unwelcoming branches. Involuntarily he froze, his hands tight around the rail in front of him.

‘Sorry,’ Edrien said, turning back to him. ‘I forgot you don’t know anything about trees, do you? I’ll walk more slowly.’

‘I know quite a lot about trees, thank you,’ Farnor managed, straightening up and releasing the handrail as casually as he could. ‘I’ve just never lived in one, that’s all.’

‘What kind of lodge did you live in, then?’

The question made Farnor wince, as visions of his home and his parents rushed into his mind. Edrien however, was looking away and did not notice. With an effort, he set the memories aside, and did his best to give a brief description of a typical village house as they walked along. From time to time his telling faltered as the platform swayed a little, or worse, creaked. He noticed that Edrien made a conscious effort not to smile whenever, instinctively, he reached out and clutched at the handrail.

‘How strange it must be, living on the ground all the time,’ she mused when he had finished.

‘Not as strange as living in a tree,’ he retorted, more defensively than he had intended.

Edrien scowled a little and looked around. Walk-ways were all about them, above and below and on every side, sweeping hither and thither through the enormous leafy bower. Bark-covered walls appeared here and there, punctured by doors and windows.

The whole perspective of the place bewildered Far-nor.

‘There’s nothing strange about living in the trees,’ she said, a little indignantly, after this inspection of her domain. ‘How else are you supposed to live? it’s what all normal people do. We’ve always…’

‘I’ve never seen such splendid trees,’ Farnor inter-rupted hastily, suddenly anxious not to antagonize his guide. ‘There are some fine trees in the valley, but nothing to compare with these. They’re so big. So alive and vigorous looking.’

A proprietorial smile replaced Edrien’s scowl and she looked around again. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as if she had just been paid a particularly pleasant compliment, then, ‘Are you going to be all right on this ladder?’ she asked, her tone concerned. She suddenly slipped through a gap in the handrail and dropped down so that only her head and shoulders were visible above the platform.

‘Yes,’ Farnor said quickly, in preference to giving a more considered answer.

Edrien nodded and then disappeared. Gingerly, Farnor peered over the edge to locate the ladder. Edrien was just bouncing down on to the platform below as he did so and her face turned up to look at him. He turned around and, tightly gripping two well-worn uprights, he cautiously swung a leg from side to side until it made contact with the ladder.

I suppose I’ll get used to this eventually, he thought, unconvincingly, as he began the descent.

It was not a particularly long ladder, but by the time he reached the bottom, his hands were sore and his arms were aching.

‘I see you’re still very stiff,’ Edrien said. ‘But I watched you that time. I think you’re holding the ladder too tightly. Can’t you relax a little? I’m sure it would help.’ She seemed pleased at having arrived at this diagnosis.

‘I’ll try,’ Farnor mumbled, then, hastily changing the subject, ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Bildar’s,’ Edrien replied. ‘He wants to have an-other look at you, to make sure you’re all right.’

‘I thought we were going to eat somewhere,’ Farnor said, an old reluctance to place himself in the hands of a healer rising within him.

‘Bildar will feed us,’ Edrien said, setting off again. She grinned expectantly. ‘He’s an excellent cook.’

As they walked, Farnor became aware for the first time of people on the other walkways. Some of them called out to Edrien, who shouted back or just waved in acknowledgement. Farnor felt extremely self-conscious, all too aware of the contrast between his lumbering, awkward gait and Edrien’s light and easy movements. It did little to help him that almost everyone they encountered stared at him quite openly and with considerable curiosity. Once or twice he saw individuals swinging under the handrails of the platforms to pursue whatever errand it was they were on by climbing rapidly from branch to branch. Occasionally he saw Edrien move as if to do the same, only to recollect herself at the last moment. ‘Doesn’t anyone ever fall?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Oh yes,’ Edrien replied, simply. ‘But not often. It’s not nice.’

Farnor nodded in pained understanding, uncertain how to continue this particular line of conversation.

He was spared any further difficulty, however, by a group of people coming along the platform towards them. For the most part they were young men and women of around his own age, and their chatter and laughter rose up to complement the sunshine streaming through the leafy surroundings. Farnor was unpleas-antly surprised by a twist of sneering anger that suddenly sprang to life within him at the sight and sound of them. He found himself reminded of the darkness that had come to his own homeland unbidden and undeserved and, without realizing it, he held his breath, as if to suffocate this unwelcome response.

There was a brief, confusing flurry as the group reached them and, amid noisy and simultaneous greetings, Farnor found himself introduced very quickly to several people. Vaguely he tried to cling to one or two of the names, but further references to families and relations passed him by completely. He was a little unsettled by the fact that each of the newcomers peered at him intently, especially at his hair. This was not as unsettling however, as the form of greeting which they adopted, which was not as he was used to, to shake hands, but to grip both his arms firmly just above the elbow. After three or four such welcomings Edrien saw his discomfiture and intervened. ‘Gently,’ she said, prizing someone away from him. ‘He’s had…’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘… a nasty fall recently,’ she decided. ‘He’s badly bruised. And we have to get down to Bildar’s now.’

There were some noisy apologies and much under-standing nodding, but the group seemed content to stand and stare until Edrien vigorously shooed them on their way.

As the group retreated noisily, Farnor remained where he was, holding on to the handrail as the swaying of the platform, which had been another concern during the encounter, subsided.

His head was trying to tell him that having with-stood so many people standing in one place, the platform, and whatever supported it, must undeniably be extremely strong, but his heart and his stomach were not listening. Somewhat to his distress, he still felt a lingering anger at the happiness of the people he had just met.

‘Are you all right?’ he heard Edrien asking, yet again.

He relinquished his hold on the handrail and hugged his arms. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, rather than discuss his inner confusion, he added, ‘But does everyone have such powerful hands?’

Edrien’s forehead furrowed and she looked down at her own hands. They were long and delicate. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Come on.’

A few minutes and two more ladders later, they reached a door which Edrien announced as being the entrance to Bildar’s lodge. She was beginning to enjoy the authority of her role as guide to this strange young man. Looking over the handrail, Farnor saw that they were about the height of the Yarrance farmhouse above the forest floor. For some reason, the mere sight of the ground made him feel much safer, even though he knew that a fall from such a height was just as likely to seriously injure or kill him as a fall from much higher.

Edrien knocked vigorously on the door and pushed it open without waiting for permission. She ushered Farnor in.

Any reservations he might have had about visiting the healer disappeared as he stepped inside and was greeted by the savoury smell of cooking. Somewhat to his embarrassment, his stomach rumbled noisily. Edrien laughed and Farnor looked a little guilty. ‘I didn’t realize I was quite so hungry,’ he said uncomfortably.

Bildar emerged from a steamy doorway and ges-tured the two arrivals forward. He gripped Farnor’s arms very gently. ‘You must be extremely hungry by now,’ he said, without any preamble. ‘That’s if I’m any judge of the average young man’s stomach. And you, Edrien, I know, will eat anything, any time.’

‘We were once a starving people,’ Edrien said im-mediately.

‘Not within our known history,’ Bildar replied.

‘But…’ Edrien began.

‘… we must preserve the trait against harsher times in the future.’ Bildar concluded the exchange as if by rote.

‘Something like that,’ Edrien conceded.

Bildar cuffed her gently. ‘That tongue of yours was always too glib, young Edrien,’ he said, motioning both of them towards a table. ‘I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you that you might be just plain greedy, has it?’ he went on, as they sat down.

Edrien shook her head wisely. ‘Not for a moment,’ she said, pursing her lips earnestly.

Bildar grunted.

Farnor watched this apparently regular ritual in silence. Again, he felt unfamiliar whirls of anger rising in response to the love and friendship permeating it. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He shuffled on his chair unhappily.

Then, almost as if he had read Farnor’s mind, Bildar said, ‘Last night, you told us that your parents had been murdered, Farnor.’

Farnor looked up at him, uncertain what was about to happen following this unexpected bluntness. Bildar’s dark brown eyes held him fast.

‘There’s nothing I’ve ever found that can ease the pain you must be suffering, except time. But I’ve known others thus hurt, and you can speak to me about anything, at any time, as the mood takes you. Do you understand what I mean?’

Edrien looked pained and disconcerted by the abrupt mention of this dark topic which she had been assiduously trying to avoid since she collected Farnor, and she glanced nervously from Bildar to Farnor several times as the old man was speaking.

Farnor returned Bildar’s gaze. There was neither offensive intrusion nor simpering pity in it and, under the impact of Bildar’s directness, he felt the small knots of anger within him dissolving into confusion and regret and many other lesser feelings that he could not name. ‘Thank you,’ he said inadequately, after a moment.

Bildar held his gaze for a little longer, then, rubbing his hands together slowly, he said, ‘I’ll get your food.’

As Bildar fussed out of the room, Farnor caught Edrien’s eye. She gave an embarrassed smile and looked awkwardly away from him without speaking. Bildar’s gentle but stark reference to Farnor’s tragedy seemed to have left her exposed and vulnerable in some way. She was uncertain how to behave.

Equally uncertain himself, Farnor gazed around the room. It was obviously much lived in, and was full of splendid disorder. Shelves, stacked untidily with all manner of books, lined much of the walls, and where spaces were available they were filled with boxes, jars, ragged heaps of papers, various ornaments and many small wooden carvings. Farnor noticed several carved wooden inkstands, and it occurred to him that they were very similar to the one that Gryss owned and used so meticulously. He did not dwell on this strange coinci-dence, however, for his attention was drawn by the cutlery with which he was absently toying. Even they were made out of wood. Spoons, forks, knives. He picked up one of the knives and examined the delicate patterns carved into both blade and handle. Then he tested its fine, toothed edge gently against his thumb. It was surprisingly sharp. How did they make such articles? he wondered. And how could they sharpen them?

Bildar ended any further speculation however, by returning with a large tray on which stood two steaming dishes. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘This’ll get you started.’

Edrien bowed slightly as the dish was placed in front of her. ‘Thank you, Woodfar,’ she said. But hunger had swept away Farnor’s usual politeness and he began eating the thick soup ravenously and without comment. Edrien gave Bildar a slightly shamefaced look as Farnor plunged on with his meal, oblivious to all around him. The old man raised his finger a little for silence. ‘Eat,’ he mouthed to her.

Only as he demolished the last of the soup did Far-nor’s awareness of his surroundings begin to return. He looked at his host and his guide guiltily. ‘I didn’t realize I was so hungry,’ he said again.

Bildar smiled, and Edrien laughed outright. ‘No,’ they both said, simultaneously.

‘You can’t ignore the needs of the body for long, whatever’s happened to you,’ Bildar said, chuckling understandingly. ‘You fill your trunk, young man. Your need is honest. And it’s not as if we’re short of anything here.’ Then his eyes widened, and he lifted his head up and sniffed. ‘Oops,’ he said, suddenly flustered, and scuttled quickly out of the room, knocking a brightly coloured figurine on one of the shelves as he swung the tray around wildly in the process.

Involuntarily Farnor reached out to catch the totter-ing statuette even though it was on the other side of the room, but it lolled gently from one side to the other a few times, then finally settled back on its base. ‘I thought it was going to fall and break,’ he said, self-consciously dropping his hands into his lap.

‘Break?’ Edrien queried.

Farnor leaned forward and stared across at the statuette with narrowed eyes. ‘Is it made of wood as well?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Of course,’ Edrien replied. ‘What else could it be?’

‘Well, pot, perhaps,’ Farnor offered, feeling himself moving towards a strange conversation.

‘What’s pot?’ Edrien’s question confirmed his con-cern.

He waved his hands vaguely. ‘Earthenware,’ he said, adding quickly as he saw her begin to frown, ‘Clay, baked hard. And painted.’

‘I’ve heard of that.’ It was Bildar, returning with his tray, laden this time with plates filled with meats and a variety of vegetables. ‘The Koyden-ushav do it, I’ve heard. They say they can make the clay as hard as a good heartwood, and shape it into all manner of things.’

‘You mean axes and knives and things?’ Edrien asked, eyes widening.

Bildar smiled and shook his head. ‘No, only plates and jugs and ornaments,’ he said. ‘It’s hard, but it’s brittle. Like glass, in a way, but not clear.’

Edrien nodded knowingly. ‘And you thought that was made out of… pot?’ she said to Farnor, indicating the figurine.

‘Yes,’ Farnor replied, reaching out to take the plate that Bildar was offering him. ‘It reminded me of an ornament we had at home. I remember my mother was very upset when…’ He stopped abruptly, as a rush of memories took possession of him. He felt a tightening in his chest and throat. Bildar watched him carefully and Edrien’s eyes flicked unhappily between the two of them again, searching for guidance. Breathing deeply, Farnor ruthlessly crushed the memories. That time had gone now. It had no place here, or anywhere, ever again. All that mattered now was to survive so that he could pursue his intention to destroy Rannick. ‘She was very upset when my father broke it,’ he said, coldly and dismissively.

Edrien looked relieved, but Bildar frowned slightly. ‘Eat, the pair of you,’ he said tersely, after a slight pause.

They ate their meal in comparative silence, while Bildar sat nearby and surreptitiously watched Farnor closely. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked, when they had both finished.

Edrien belched loudly, making Farnor jump and calling a reproachful look from Bildar. She apologized insincerely, with a laugh.

‘I feel much better,’ Farnor said, more restrainedly, and patting his stomach. He moved cautiously in his chair. ‘But I’m still full of aches and pains from…’ He stopped.

‘From the beating you told us about?’ Bildar said.

Farnor nodded.

‘I’d like to look you over again, Farnor, if you don’t mind,’ Bildar went on. ‘Just to make sure nothing serious has been done to you.’

Farnor did mind. Even Gryss was someone he used to avoid if he was unwell. He preferred to do as the animals did, namely, retreat to a quiet place and lie still until he was well again. Now however, as in the past, he was trapped by circumstances. Previously subject to the will and cunning of his parents in such matters, he was now subject to the concern and hospitality of his new hosts; not to mention that hint of taunting that seemed to flicker occasionally into Edrien’s eyes. ‘Whatever you say,’ he conceded, with as good a grace as he could manage.

Bildar shepherded him into another room, after asking Edrien if she would clear the table and wash the dishes. She hesitated for a moment, and gave him a dark, narrow-eyed look before she finally stood up and began gathering the dishes together.

It was against a distant background of irritably clunking dishes, rattling cutlery and splashing water, that Farnor submitted to Bildar’s examination. His eyes were peered into. Muscles were poked and prodded and massaged. Limbs were moved up and down, then from side to side, and pushed and pulled, and twisted this way and that, all while Bildar whistled softly and tunelessly to himself. Occasionally he gave a click or a noncommittal but knowing grunt, or he asked a question: Did this hurt? Did that? Can you feel this? How many fingers am I holding up? Have you passed any blood?

This latter reminded Farnor of something else.

‘No,’ he announced when he returned a few minutes later from yet another room, having learned something else intriguing about these tree dwelling people.

Throughout, Bildar made notes on various papers scattered about a small writing desk that he wheeled around the room as he moved back and forth. Seeing Farnor’s curiosity he showed them to him. They were simple pictures of a human body, viewed from the front and the back and various other angles. Each view was peppered with dots, all of which seemed to be joined to one another by finely drawn lines, each bearing a legend of some kind in a neat but very tiny script. The whole effect was more than a little bewildering. Bildar made a half-hearted attempt at explaining the pictures, but abandoned it very quickly when Farnor’s mouth started to drop open. Finally he sat down at a small desk and began slowly leafing through the papers, whistling tunelessly again.

Farnor, sitting on the edge of the couch where most of the prodding had been done, fastened his shirt and gazed around the room. Unlike the room in which he had eaten, this one was quite orderly. Such books as were to be seen were neatly arranged, and there were many pictures on the wall, though pictures was not the most appropriate word, he decided, as they seemed to be simply larger versions of the diagrams on which Bildar had made his notes. There were also one or two devices consisting of poles and pulleys and ropes that he chose not to examine too closely.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Bildar said abruptly, laying down the papers.

Farnor looked at him suspiciously.

‘What happened?’ Bildar repeated more insistently. ‘When you were beaten?’

Anger suddenly welled up inside Farnor. This was none of this man’s business. He would find some way to repay him for his hospitality. But this prying was not acceptable.

Bildar was looking at him narrowly, then quite abruptly his authoritative manner vanished, and he began to flick through his papers again. ‘It’s not that important, if you don’t want to talk about it, Farnor,’ he said with a smile. ‘But you’ve been lucky. There’s nothing seriously wrong with you. I thought so last night, but I wanted to make sure.’ He stood up and walked to a cupboard. ‘I’ve got some liniments and salves that will help to ease your stiffness and help mend some of the bruises and muscle damage.’ He retrieved a small bottle and a jar and handed them to Farnor.

Part of Farnor wanted to refuse them angrily, but he could not respond thus to such simple kindness. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, taking the two items.

‘That’s for the bruising and that’s for the stiffness,’ Bildar said, indicating which was which. He sat down again and leaned back, pivoting his chair on to two legs in a manner that, to Farnor’s eyes, seemed quite perilous. Looking at Farnor shrewdly, he said, ‘It occurs to me too, that being a… ground dweller… you might find all the climbing you’ll have to do round here quite a strain. You’ll find the salve helps with that quite a lot.’ He nodded to himself, pleased with this small piece of cultural perceptiveness. Then he cocked his head to one side, and said conspiratorially, ‘Judging by the lack of noise, I think Edrien’s finished the washing up. It should be safe to go out now.’ But he kept discreetly behind Farnor as they returned to the first room, as if anticipat-ing some form of assault.

Edrien was standing looking out of the window, her shoulders hunched a little. Bildar smiled. ‘Ah, you’ve finished, I see,’ he said heartily. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was going to be so long.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘But we had more to talk about than I’d thought.’ He turned to Farnor as if for support.

Finding himself in the middle of what was obviously a small private feud, Farnor gave an inconclusive movement of his head.

Bildar ploughed on. ‘Come back and see me if you have any problems with your injuries,’ he said to Farnor, adding with quiet significance, ‘Or anything else.’ He turned to Edrien. ‘You’re going to show him round a little more, are you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Then father wants to see him.’

Bildar nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You’ve caused quite a stir, young man. I haven’t heard the branches in such a twitter in many a year. Not since…’

His reminiscence was interrupted by an angry hammering on the door.