Free Earth Magic by Alexei Panshin, Cory Panshin Page B

terms.
    He with the wineskin said, “Hold!” and waved his hand before his companion’s face. “Put your sword by. It is Lord Haldane and his man. They wait you inside to toast your betrothal, young lord.”
    “Did you expect to meet a goblin in the night?” asked Haldane in Nestorian. Though all of Lothor’s knights seemed as much alike to him in their sameness as any handful of chicken feed, he thought he knew these two. They were the patient adventurers who had gone hunting each day with Ivor Fish-Eye.
    “Oh. Yes, goblins. Nestor is full of goblins, but we are well protected. Here, drink of our wine and arm yourselves for the walk back to the hall. It is a far distance you have come without protection. Our southern wine is proof against any horror of the night.”
    And in truth Haldane’s head was ready to be rung again. The skin was passed from hand to hand. The wine was warming.
    When the knight of Chastain had drunk, he offered the skin again to Haldane. “Here. Another drink on your marriage.”
    “No,” said Haldane. “I am just right now.”
    “I will drink,” said Hemming. “To you, my Haldane, my leader.” He saluted Haldane and drank. Then he passed the skin back to the foreign knight.
    “The field is yours,” said Haldane, and they left the outhouse to the strangers.
    The torches in Morca’s hall flared brightly in their rings on the smoke stained columns, sending licking lights across the revelry. The air was close and warm, smelling of meat and men. There were songs and jokes and calls from table to table. As Haldane and Hemming stood in the door, making room for another of Lothor’s men to pass outside, Fat Netta, one of the serving women, slipped on a discarded bone before their eyes. She dropped heavily on her round bottom and her pitcher flew from her hands to drench a carl in ale. He cursed heartily and swung around while men roared. He snatched her up and kissed her soundly, though she was as old as Morca and no prettier. She clouted him with her pitcher and retreated to the kitchen.
    “Bring more ale,” the carl called after her. “Earn another kiss.”
    The calm and quiet of the night were well enough, but this was where the excitement was. It was good to be back in the midst of things. On this night, it was good to be the son of Black Morca. This night, in particular.
    Haldane strode the aisle between the tables, feeling tall, feeling himself grown and ready for marriage, war and command, and all the other things of being a man and a Get. He was stopped by Rolf’s reaching hand thrust out before him. The old carl swung around on his bench, licking his gravy-sopped fingers.
    “Aye, don’t you look good in your new clothes,” he said. “You’ve grown fine, little Haldane Hardhead. You’ll be earning yourself a new name next, and then I won’t know you. To think, you a baron now, with men of your own, and I the man who taught you to sit a horse and string a bow.”
    “Hey, it’s not so bad,” Haldane said. “There is no need to cry.”
    Rolf shook his head. The drink he had taken made him soft. “Time passes. That’s all, time passes.” And then he said, “Here, a present for you. For your wedding.” And he thrust his cord on Haldane, the beautiful string he had brought with him from Chastain. And Haldane could not say no.
    Haldane said, “Morca has promised me more men now. I can have my choice if I ask for it. I will. Shall I ask him for you? I would like you to be one of my own men.”
    Rolf was touched. “Oh, aye. Aye. Ask him.” He controlled his voice with difficulty and wiped his nose with his knuckle.
    Then he said, “I’ve been stealing looks at your partridge princess. She’s strange, but she’s not so strange that she can’t be improved. Just remember, boy—‘It’s bit and spur that make a horse jump.’ Swive her well and she will be a Get in no time.”
    His friend Ludbert beside him said, “Will you teach him that too?” And ducked away