"Sorcerer's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Phyllis Eisenstein)

“Falconhill? A fair distance, young sir. A fair distance indeed.”

“Do you know it?”

“I have never been there, but travelers have spoken to me of the place. A mighty stronghold, they say.” He nodded slowly. “And rich as well.”

Cray interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Will this road take me there?”

“It will, yes, but… have you no map?”

“No.”

“This road joins another, and then it forks and forks again… How is it that you journey to Falconhill without knowing how to find it?”

“I heard it was to the west,” said Cray, “and I thought if I traveled far enough someone could advise me onward.”

“I can advise you well enough, I think, at least to take you to the land it rules, and then you will surely have no further difficulty… but…” He grinned. “No, it would be

unmannerly for me to ask what business takes you there.” But he waited, expectantly, for Cray to respond to his prompting.

“I will find a master there,” said the boy, “to train me in knighthood.” He sniffed at the air, now redolent with the aroma of fowl juices. “Should you not be seeing to the ducks?” he asked.

The landlord rose unhurriedly. “I have not forgotten. They will be ready soon.” He strode to the fireplace, a few paces for his long legs. He prodded the ducks with a long two-tined fork till the juices dripped into the flames, sputtering, and then he turned the spit halfway around. “They will be ready soon indeed,” he called, and then he donned a thick gauntlet and reached into the flames, where a heavy, tightly covered iron pot rested on a grate; he pulled the pot out, setting it on the hearthstone. “I hope you like onions,”

he said.

“I like onions very much,” replied Cray. He could feel his stomach roiling with hunger in response to the savory scent of the duck, and to take his mind off it, he stood up and made a circuit of the room, examining the trophies—antlers, tusks, claws, teeth, even a bear’s skull, yellowed and cracked with age, the lower jaw fixed to the upper with wire.

“Did you take these trophies?” he inquired.

“Me? Oh, no, young sir, except for a few of the very small ones. We used to have an excellent huntsman in these parts, in the days when this was a main trade route to the east and this inn was bursting every night with travelers. He hunted game for the table then, for my father, who was landlord here before me, and we thought the trophies gave the walls a friendly look. And something to keep the guests busy while they waited for their food.”

“What happened to him?” asked Cray.

“Oh, that was many years ago, young sir. He is long dead. Nor have I any need for another like him in these times. I, poor hunter though I am, can take enough game to fill the pot, and there is a duck pond behind the inn, with more than enough birds for my needs. And flavorsome creatures they are, as you will soon discover. Will you take a cup of wine with your meal, young sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A flagon hung on a hook in the wall some distance from the heat of the fireplace; the landlord took the vessel down, and one of the cups that hung nearby as well, and he poured red wine for Cray, setting both cup and flagon on the table. Then he returned to the roasting birds, sliding each off the spit onto one of the broad wooden trenchers that lay stacked on the floor beside the hearthstone. He opened the iron pot next, and the sweet aroma of onions cooked in butter rose from it in a moist cloud; he scooped golden onion slices up with a ladle and mounded them about one of the ducks like a nest, and this trencher he brought to Cray, leaving the other, onionless, close before the fire.

“You’ll not need a knife to disjoint this bird, I promise you,” he said. “The flesh will be as tender as the onions.”

Cray’s mouth watered as he plucked gingerly at one of the drumsticks; he could scarcely touch it, it was still so hot. He looked up at the landlord. “What of your own dinner?” He nodded toward the remaining duck. “It will dry out sitting there.”

“It will keep well enough for a short time. And you might want more.”

Cray freed the leg and took a small bite of the steaming meat. Warm juices invaded his mouth and dripped down his chin. The landlord proffered a kerchief.

“It is delicious,” Cray said, somewhat indistinctly, as he chewed. “But I cannot eat more than one duck, I’m sure. You take the other.”