Free The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) by Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman Page B

would have sufficient power for that monstrous task, and is much given to crying, ‘Alas for the days of Guidry!’ ”
    At least, it looked like Guidry . There was a Guidry’s Well up north. But Basil supposed it could have been Cully . Or even Godfrey . Montague’s handwriting was scratchy and faded, but he was close to the king, and every sentence was precious.
    Basil kept at the notebook until his ink ran low and the fading light reminded him that he was out of candles. Whereupon he noticed that his head also ached, his mouth was as dry as the Twelve-Months’ Drought, and his belly was as empty as his inkwell. Beer was what he needed, and some food, and more ink, and probably firewood and candles as well. Which meant that he was going to have to go out.
    He swore, and put on his hat. If he had a servant, he wouldn’t have to interrupt his work for trifles. But a servant’s yearly hire was a half-dozen new books, a winter’s worth of wood. He simply could not afford it.
    Basil blew out his candle and locked his door behind him. The Horn Chair of History paid a good stipend, he thought as he felt his way down the stairs. It would cover not only a manservant, but new rooms and bookshelves and wax candles and all the books he needed. His chances of capturing that prize were small, though; when Tortua stepped down, the Chair would inevitably go to an established historian, not a jumped-up country boy with a minor book and a couple of mildly controversial monographs to his credit. It was foolish to think otherwise, wasn’t it?
    In the dank front hall, the scruffy boy who kept the door let him out. The evening was clear but cold. Shivering, Basil made for the nearest tavern, the Ink Pot, traditional gathering-place of poets and rhetoricians. Disinclined to company, he found an empty table by the wall and ordered burned ale and a fowl pie. The ale appeared almost immediately; Basil watched over the edge of his tankard as a hilarious group of students by the fire argued some fine point of rhetoric. One boy had his foot up on a bench, lunging like a swordsman with an accusing finger to his laughing opponent’s nose. Only eight years ago, he’d still been one of them. He sipped the fragrant brew and smiled to himself. And now he was dreaming of the Horn Chair. Still, why shouldn’t he dream? Because, he answered himself, he was not even thirty yet; an infant among magisters. Yet who were his rivals, after all? Ancient history was not a popular subject, and Doctors of History were few. Only Crabbe posed any real competition—but Crabbe had many enemies. As far as Basil knew, his only enemy was Crabbe himself.
    The fowl pie came; he ate it and was contemplating more ale when a black-gowned student detached himself from the group by the fire and headed toward Basil’s corner.
    “Doctor St Cloud,” said the young man brightly. “Good evening.”
    This time, Basil recognized him immediately. “Campion, isn’t it?”
    “May I sit down?” The green eyes were a little glassy with drink, the white hand heavy on the table’s edge.
    Basil saw no reason why he should mince words with a man who was, after all, both drunk and rude. “No,” he said flatly.
    Theron Campion staggered, catching himself against Basil’s shoulder. “Oops,” he said. “Sorry. Just sit here quietly. You won’t know I’m here.” He eased himself onto the bench next to Basil, thigh to thigh. Basil recoiled as though the touch had burned him.
    “Sorry,” said Campion again, and moved away.
    “Don’t you think you should go home while you can still walk?” Basil asked coldly.
    “I’m not so drunk as all that,” said Campion. “I can still say ‘Seven seditious swordsmen sailed in exile to Sardinopolis.’ Shall I buy you a drink? The wine’s not so bad here, if you know what to ask for.” He smiled like a cat who knows where the cream is kept. “I know what to ask for.”
    Basil laughed. “I’m sure you do. No, you shall not buy me