Wizards’ Worlds by Andre Norton Read Free Book Online Page B

also understand, and he rammed and pounded the warped wood
     back into place, though he could not reset the bar he had levered out.
    Slowly he put aside mail and outer clothing, laying it across the chest. He spread
     out the bedding over the hide webbing. Surprisingly the rough sheets, the two woven
     covers were clean. They even (now that he had drawn lungfuls of fresh air to awaken
     his sense of smell) were fragrant with some kind of herb.
    Trystan stretched out, pulled the covers about his ears, drowsy and content, willing
     himself to sleep.
    He awoke to a clatter at the door. At first he frownedup at the cobwebbed rafters above. What had he dreamed? Deep in his mind there was
     a troubled feeling, a sense that a message of some importance had been lost. He shook
     his head against such fancies and padded to the door, opened it for the entrance of
     the elder serving man, a dour-faced, skeleton-thin fellow who was more cleanly of
     person than the pot boy. He carried a covered kettle, which he put down on the chest
     before he spoke.
    “Water for washing, master. There be grain mush, pig cheek, and ale below.”
    “Well enough.” Trystan slid the lid off the pot. Steam curled up. He had not expected
     this small luxury, and he took its arrival as an omen of fortune for the day.
    Below the long room was empty. The lame boy was washing off table tops, splashing
     water on the floor in great scummy dollops. His mistress stood, hands on her hips,
     her elbows outspread like crooked wings, her sharp chin with its two haired warts
     outthrust like a spear to threaten the woman before her, well cloaked against the
     outside winter, but with her hood thrown back to expose her face.
    That face was thin, with sharp features lacking any claim to comeliness, since the
     stretched skin was mottled with unsightly brown patches. But her cloak, Trystan saw,
     was good wool, certainly not that of a peasant wench. She carried a bundle in one
     hand, and in the other was a short-hafted hunting spear, its butt scarred as if it
     had served her more as a journey staff than a weapon.
    “Well enough, wench. But here you work for the food in your mouth, the clothing on
     your back.” The mistress shot a single glance at Trystan before she centered her attention
     once more on the girl.
    Girl, Trystan thought she was. Though by the Favor of Likerwolf certainly her face
     was not that of a dewy maid, being rather enough to turn a man’s thoughts more quickly
     to other things when he looked upon her.
    “Put your gear on the shelf yonder,” the mistressgestured. “Then come to work, if you speak the truth on wanting that.”
    She did not watch to see her orders obeyed, but came to the table where Trystan had
     seated himself.
    “Grain mush, master. And a slicing of pig jowl—ale fresh drawn—”
    He nodded, sitting much as he had the night before, fingering the finely wrought guard
     about his wrist, his eyes half closed as if he were still wearied, or else turned
     his thoughts on things not about him.
    The mistress stumped away. But he was not aware she had returned until someone slid
     a tray onto the table. It was the girl, her shrouding of cloak gone, so that the tight
     bodice of the pleated skirt could be seen. And he was right: she did not wear peasant
     clothes, that was a skirt divided for riding, though it had now been shortened enough
     to show boots, scuffed and worn, straw protruding from their tops. Her figure was
     thin, yet shapely enough to make a man wonder at the fate which wedded such to that
     horror of a face. She did not need her spear for protection; all she need do was show
     her face to any would-be ravisher and she would be as safe as the statue of Gunnora
     the farmers carried through their fields at first sowing.
    “Your food, master.” She was deft, far more so than the mistress, as she slid the
     platter of crisp browned mush and thin-sliced pink meat onto the board.
    “Thanks given,” Trystan found