Trullion: Alastor 2262 by Jack Vance Read Free Book Online

apple wine. He seemed only bored … From across the field came a groaning, creaking sound, then a tremendous crash. Glinnes went to look from the end of the verandah. He turned back to Glay. “Your friends have just cut down one of our oldest barchnut trees.”
    “One of your trees,” said Glay with a faint smile.
    “You won’t ask them to leave?”
    “They wouldn’t heed me. I owe them favors.”
    “Do they have names?”
    "Their names are Ashmor and Harving. The daughter is Duissane. The crone is Immifalda.”
    Going to his luggage, Glinnes brought forth his service handgun, which he dropped into his pocket. Glay watched with a sardonic droop to his lips, then muttered something to Marucha. Glinnes marched off across the meadow. The pleasant pale light of afternoon seemed to clarify all the close colors and invest the distances with a luminous shimmer. Glinnes’ heart swelled with many emotions: grief, longing for the old sweet times, anger with Glay which surged past his attempts to subdue it.
    He approached the camp. Six pairs of eyes watched his every step, appraised every aspect. The camp was none too clean, although, on the other hand, it was not too dirty; Glinnes had seen worse. Two fires were burning. At one of these a boy turned a spit stuck full with plump young wood-hens. A caldron over the other fire emitted an acrid herbal stench: the Drossets were preparing a batch of Travanyi beer, which eventually colored their eyeballs a startling golden yellow. The woman stirring the mess was stern and keen-featured. Her hair had been dyed bright red and hung in two plaits down her back. Glinnes moved to avoid the reek.
    A man approached from the fallen tree, where he had been gathering barchnuts. Two hulking young men ambled behind him. All three wore black breeches tucked into sagging black boots, loose shirts of beige silk, colored neckerchiefs typical Treyanyi costume. Vang Drosset wore a flat black hat from which his taffy-colored hair burst forth in exuberant curls. His skin was an odd biscuit-brown; his eyes glowed yellow, as if illuminated from behind. Altogether an impressive man, and not a person to be trifled with, thought Glinnes. He said, “You are Vang Drosset? I am Glinnes Hulden, Squire of Rabendary Island. I must ask you to move your camp.”
    Vang Drosset motioned to his sons, who brought forward a pair of wicker chairs. “Sit and take refreshment,” said Vang Drosset. “We will discuss our leaving.”
    Glinnes smiled and shook his head. “I must stand.” If he sat and drank their tea he became beholden, and they then could ask for favors. He glanced past Vang Drosset to the boy turning the spit, and now he saw that it was not a boy but a slender, shapely girl of seventeen or eighteen. Vang Drosset spoke a syllable over his shoulder; the girl rose to her feet and went to the dull red tent. As she entered, she turned a glance back over her shoulder. Glinnes glimpsed a pretty face, with eyes naturally golden, and golden-red curls that clung about her head and dangled past her ears to her neck.
    Vang Drosset grinned, showing a set of gleaming white teeth. “As to moving camp, I beg that you give us leave to remain. We do no harm here.”
    “I’m not so sure. Trevanyi make uncomfortable neighbors. Beasts and fowl disappear, and other items as well.”
    “We have stolen neither beast nor fowl” Vang Drossefs voice was gentle.
    “You have just destroyed a grand tree, and only to pick the nuts more easily.”
    “The forest is full of trees. We needed firewood. Surely it is no great matter.”
    “Not to you. Do you know I played in that tree when I was a boy? Look! See where I carved my mark! In that crotch I built an eyrie, where sometimes I slept at nights. That tree I loved!” Vang Drosset gave a delicate grimace at the idea of a man loving a tree. His two sons laughed contemptuously, and turning away, began to throw knives at a target. Glinnes continued. “Firewood? The forrest is full