CHAPTER VI Had Princess Mary been capable of reflection at that moment, she would have been more surprised than 835 Mademoiselle Bourienne at the change that had taken place in herself. From the moment she recognized that dear, loved face, a new life force took possession of her and compelled her to speak and act apart from her own will. From the time Rostov entered, her face became suddenly transformed. It was as if a light had been kindled in a carved and painted lantern and the intricate, skillful, artistic work on its sides, that previously seemed dark, coarse, and meaningless, was suddenly shown up in unexpected and striking beauty. For the first time all that pure, spiritual, inward travail through which she had lived appeared on the
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surface. All her inward labor, her dissatisfaction with herself, her sufferings, her strivings after goodness, her meekness, love, and self-sacrifice–all this now shone in those radiant eyes, in her delicate smile, and in every trait of her gentle face. Rostov saw all this as clearly as if he had known her whole life. He felt that the being before him was quite different from, and better than, anyone he had met before, and above all better than himself. Their conversation was very simple and unimportant. They spoke of the war, and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their sorrow about it; they spoke of their last meeting–Nicholas trying to change the subject–they talked of the governor s kind wife, of Nicholas relations, and of Princess Mary s. She did not talk about her brother, diverting
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the conversation as soon as her aunt mentioned Andrew. Evidently she could speak of Russia s misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her brother was too near her heart and she neither could nor would speak lightly of him. Nicholas noticed this, as he noticed every shade of Princess Mary s character with an observation unusual to him, and everything confirmed his conviction that she was a quite unusual and extraordinary being. Nicholas blushed and was confused when people spoke to him about the princess (as she did when he was mentioned) and even when he thought of her, but in her presence he felt quite at ease, and said not at all what he had prepared, but what, quite appropriately, occurred to him at the moment. When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as is usual when
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there are children, turned to Prince Andrew s little son, caressing him and asking whether he would like to be an hussar. He took the boy on his knee, played with him, and looked round at Princess Mary. With a softened, happy, timid look she watched the boy she loved in the arms of the man she loved. Nicholas also noticed that look and, as if understanding it, flushed with pleasure and began to kiss the boy with good natured playfulness. As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society, and Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again; but all the same the governor s wife went on with her matchmaking, passing on to Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said of him and vice versa, and insisting on his declaring himself
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to Princess Mary. For this purpose she arranged a meeting between the young people at the bishop s house before Mass. Though Rostov told the governeor s wife that he would not make any declaration to Princess Mary, he promised to go. As at Tilsit Rostov had not allowed himself to doubt that what everybody considered right was right, so now, after a short but sincere struggle between his effort to arrange his life by his own sense of justice, and in obedient submission to circumstances, he chose the latter and yielded to the power he felt irresistibly carrying him he knew not where. He knew that after his promise to Sonya it would be what he deemed base to declare his feelings to Princess Mary. And he knew that he would never act basely. But he
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also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart) that by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those who were guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong, but was doing something very important–more important than anything he had ever done in his life. After meeting Princess Mary, though the course of his life went on externally as before, all his former CHAPTER VI 836 amusements lost their charm for him and he often thought about her. But he never thought about her as he had thought of all the young ladies without exception whom he had met in society, nor as he had for a long time, and at one time rapturously, thought about Sonya. He had
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pictured each of those young ladies as almost all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her in his imagination to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing gown, his wife at the tea table, his wife s carriage, little ones, Mamma and Papa, their relations to her, and so on–and these pictures of the future had given him pleasure. But with Princess Mary, to whom they were trying to get him engaged, he could never picture anything of future married life. If he tried, his pictures seemed incongruous and false. It made him afraid. CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VII 837 The dreadful news of the battle of Borodino, of our losses in killed and wounded, and the still more
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terrible news of the loss of Moscow reached Voronezh in the middle of September. Princess Mary, having learned of her brother s wound only from the Gazette and having no definite news of him, prepared (so Nicholas heard, he had not seen her again himself) to set off in search of Prince Andrew. When he received the news of the battle of Borodino and the abandonment of Moscow, Rostov was not seized with despair, anger, the desire for vengeance, or any feeling of that kind, but everything in Voronezh suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an indefinite feeling of shame and awkwardness. The conversations he heard seemed to him insincere; he did not know how to judge all these affairs and felt that only in the regiment would everything again become clear to him. He made
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haste to finish buying the horses, and often became unreasonably angry with his servant and squadron quartermaster. A few days before his departure a special thanksgiving, at which Nicholas was present, was held in the cathedral for the Russian victory. He stood a little behind the governor and held himself with military decorum through the service, meditating on a great variety of subjects. When the service was over the governor s wife beckoned him to her. \ Have you seen the princess?\ she asked, indicating with a movement of her head a lady standing on the opposite side, beyond the choir. Nicholas immediately recognized Princess Mary not so much by the profile he saw under her bonnet as by the feeling of solicitude, timidity, and pity that immediately overcame him. Princess Mary, evidently engrossed
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by her thoughts, was crossing herself for the last time before leaving the church. Nicholas looked at her face with surprise. It was the same face he had seen before, there was the same general expression of refined, inner, spiritual labor, but now it was quite differently lit up. There was a pathetic expression of sorrow, prayer, and hope in it. As had occurred before when she was present, Nicholas went up to her without waiting to be prompted by the governor s wife and not asking himself whether or not it was right and proper to address her here in church, and told her he had heard of her trouble and sympathized with his whole soul. As soon as she heard his voice a vivid glow kindled in her face, lighting up both her sorrow and her joy.
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\ There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess,\ said Rostov. \ It is that if your brother, Prince Andrew Nikolievich, were not living, it would have been at once announced in the Gazette, as he is a colonel.\ The princess looked at him, not grasping what he was saying, but cheered by the expression of regretful sympathy on his face. \ And I have known so many cases of a splinter wound\ (the Gazette said it was a shell) \ either proving fatal at once or being very slight,\ continued Nicholas. \ We must hope for the best, and I am sure…\ Princess Mary interrupted him. \ Oh, that would be so dread…\ she began and, prevented by agitation from finishing, she bent her
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head with a movement as graceful as everything she did in his presence and, looking up at him gratefully, went out, following her aunt. That evening Nicholas did not go out, but stayed at home to settle some accounts with the horse dealers. When he had finished that business it was already too late to go anywhere but still too early to go to bed, and for a long time he paced up and down the room, reflecting on his life, a thing he rarely did. CHAPTER VII Princess Mary had made an agreeable impression on him when he had met her in Smolensk province. His 838 having encountered her in such exceptional circumstances, and his mother having at one time mentioned her to
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CHAPTER XXVII It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last penny on drink, and a drunken man to 794 smash mirrors or glasses for no apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actions which from an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal power and strength, affirming the existence of a higher, nonhuman criterion of life. From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time at the Sloboda Palace he had been continuously under its influence, but only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it
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by what he had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the Rostovs that he would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was very sensitive. Pierre s physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding–all this kept him in a state of excitement bordering on insanity. It was two o clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only
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thought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his fancy he did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the blow or the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and melancholy enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance. \ Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish!\ he thought. \ Yes, I will approach… and then suddenly… with pistol or dagger? But that is all the same! It is not I but the hand of Providence that punishes thee, I shall say,\ thought he, imagining what he would say when killing Napoleon. \ Well then, take me and execute me!\ he went on, speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression. While Pierre, standing in
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the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of Makar Alexeevich, always so timid before but now quite transformed. His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He was obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing embarrassment on Pierre s face immediately grew bold and, staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room. \ They re frightened,\ he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. \ I say I won t surrender, I say… Am I not right, sir?\ He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor. Gerasim and the porter,
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who had followed Makar Alexeevich, stopped him in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man. Makar Alexeevich, frowning with exertion, held on to the pistol and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head. \ To arms! Board them! No, you shan t get it,\ he yelled. \ That will do, please, that will do. Have the goodness–please, sir, to let go! Please, sir…\ pleaded Gerasim, trying carefully to steer Makar Alexeevich by the elbows back to the door. \ Who are you? Bonaparte!…\ shouted Makar Alexeevich. CHAPTER XXVII \ That s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow
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me to have the pistol.\ 795 \ Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this?\ shouted Makar Alexeevich, brandishing the pistol. \ Board them!\ \ Catch hold!\ whispered Gerasim to the porter. They seized Makar Alexeevich by the arms and dragged him to the door. The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a tipsy, hoarse voice. Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule. \ It s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!\ she cried. Gerasim and the porter let Makar Alexeevich go, and in the now silent corridor the sound of
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several hands knocking at the front door could be heard. CHAPTER XXVIII CHAPTER XXVIII 796 Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not retire–an irresistible curiosity kept him there. There were two of them. One was an officer–a tall, soldierly, handsome man–the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced a few steps he stopped,
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having apparently decided that these were good quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his mustache and lightly touched his hat. \ Bonjour, la compagnie!\ * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him. *\ Good day, everybody!\ No one gave any reply. \ Vous etes le bourgeois?\ * the officer asked Gerasim. *\ Are you the master here?\ Gerasim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look. \ Quartier, quartier, logement!\ said the officer, looking down at the little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. \ Les francais
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sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fachons pas, mon vieux!\ * added he, clapping the scared and silent Gerasim on the shoulder. \ Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?\ he asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre s eyes. Pierre moved away from the door. *\ Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good fellows. What the devil! There, don t let us be cross, old fellow!\ Again the officer turned to Gerasim and asked him to show him the rooms in the house. \ Master, not here–don t understand… me, you…\ said Gerasim, trying to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them. Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerasim s nose, intimating that he did not
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understand him either, and moved, limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makar Alexeevich appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With a madman s cunning, Makar Alexeevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim. \ Board them!\ yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol Makar Alexeevich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door. Forgetting his intention of concealing his
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knowledge of French, Pierre, snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer and addressed him in French. CHAPTER XXVIII \ You are not wounded?\ he asked. \ I think not,\ answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. \ But I have had a lucky escape this time,\ he added, pointing to the damaged plaster of the wall. \ Who is that man?\ said he, looking sternly at Pierre. 797 \ Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred,\ said Pierre rapidly, quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. \ He is an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing.\ The officer went up to
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Makar Alexeevich and took him by the collar. Makar Alexeevich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall. \ Brigand! You shall pay for this,\ said the Frenchman, letting go of him. \ We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon traitors,\ he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic gesture. Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand. \ You have saved my
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life. You are French,\ said he. For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could perform a great deed, and to save his life–the life of M. Ramballe, captain of the 13th Light Regiment–was undoubtedly a very great deed. But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer s conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him. \ I am Russian,\ he said quickly. \ Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others,\ said the officer, waving his finger before his nose and smiling. \ You shall tell me all about that presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we to do with this man?\ he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother. Even if Pierre were
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not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer s look and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makar Alexeevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished. The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his arm. \ You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it you. Lead that man away!\ said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room. The
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soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits, but the officer sternly checked them. \ You will be called in when you are wanted,\ he said. The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time to visit the kitchen, came up to his CHAPTER XXVIII officer. \ Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen,\ said he. \ Shall I serve them up?\ \ Yes, and some wine,\ answered the captain. 798 CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXIX 799 When the
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French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the parlor–the first room they entered. To Pierre s assurances that he was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving his life. Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for
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perceiving the feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre s feelings were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man s animated obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre. \ A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito,\ said the officer, looking at Pierre s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger. \ I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That is all I can say.\ There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the word) in the officer s voice, in the expression of his face and in his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the Frenchman s smile,
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pressed the hand held out to him. \ Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September,\ he introduced himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under his mustache. \ Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance with that maniac s bullet in my body?\ Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing, began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him. \ Oh, please!\ said he. \ I understand your reasons. You are an officer… a superior officer perhaps. You have borne
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arms against us. That s not my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at your service. You belong to the gentry?\ he concluded with a shade of inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. \ Your baptismal name, if you please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say…. That s all I want to know.\ When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man, munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking his lips, and repeating–\ Excellent! Delicious!\ His face grew red and
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was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass, taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to the French and had been given a special name. They called it limonade de cochon (pig s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de cochon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine
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rendered the captain still more lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner. \ Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving me from that maniac…. You see, I have bullets enough in my body already. Here is one I got at Wagram\ (he touched his side) \ and a second at Smolensk\ –he showed a scar on his cheek–\ and this leg which as you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great battle of la Moskowa. Sacre Dieu! It was splendid! That deluge of fire was worth CHAPTER XXIX 800 seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may be proud of it! And on my
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honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it.\ \ I was there,\ said Pierre. \ Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The great redoubt held out well, by my pipe!\ continued the Frenchman. \ And you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times–sure as I sit here. Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your grenadiers were splendid, by heaven! I saw them close up their ranks six times in succession and march as if on parade. Fine fellows! Our King of Naples, who knows what s what, cried Bravo! Ha, ha!
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So you are one of us soldiers!\ he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. \ So much the better, so much the better, Monsieur Pierre! Terrible in battle… gallant… with the fair\ (he winked and smiled), \ that s what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren t they?\ The captain was so naively and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily at him. Probably the word \ gallant\ turned the captain s thoughts to the state of Moscow. \ Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of?\ \ Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians entered it?\ asked Pierre.
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\ Ha, ha, ha!\ The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting Pierre on the shoulder. \ What a thing to say!\ he exclaimed. \ Paris?… But Paris, Paris…\ \ Paris–the capital of the world,\ Pierre finished his remark for him. The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindly eyes. \ Well, if you hadn t told me you were Russian, I should have wagered that you were Parisian! You have that… I don t know what, that…\ and having uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence. \ I have been in Paris. I spent years there,\ said Pierre. \ Oh yes, one
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sees that plainly. Paris!… A man who doesn t know Paris is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Talma, la Duchenois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards,\ and noticing that his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly: \ There is only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don t esteem you the less for it.\ Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed talking with this cheerful and good-natured man. \ To return to your ladies–I hear they are lovely. What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow. What a
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chance those girls have missed! Your peasants, now–that s another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to know us better than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all the world s capitals…. We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to know. And then the Emperor…\ he began, but Pierre interrupted him. \ The Emperor,\ Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed, \ is the Emperor…?\ CHAPTER XXIX 801 \ The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius- that s what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so…. I assure you I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count…. But that man has
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vanquished me. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has covered France. When I understood what he wanted–when I saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: That is a monarch, and I devoted myself to him! So there! Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest man of the ages past or future.\ \ Is he in Moscow?\ Pierre stammered with a guilty look. The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled. \ No, he will make his entry tomorrow,\ he replied, and continued his talk. Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at the gate and by Morel, who came to say
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that some Wurttemberg hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain s horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly because the hussars did not understand what was said to them in French. The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a stern voice asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer, and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already occupied. The German who knew little French, answered the two first questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding officer, but in reply to the third question which he did not understand said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the quartermaster of the regiment and his commander had ordered him to occupy all
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the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German, translated what the German said to the captain and gave the captain s reply to the Wurttemberg hussar in German. When he had understood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The captain went out into the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice. When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as that was it
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was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk and the conversation with this good-natured man had destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last few days and which was essential for the execution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not know why, but he felt a foreboding that he would not carry out his intention. He struggled against the confession of his weakness but dimly felt that he could not overcome it and that his former gloomy
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frame of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first man he met. The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling a tune. The Frenchman s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesture with which he twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. \ I will go away immediately. I won t say another word to him,\ thought Pierre. He thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of weakness tied him to the spot; he wished to get up and go away, but could not do so. The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and down the room twice. His eyes shone and
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his mustache twitched as if he were smiling to himself at some amusing thought. CHAPTER XXIX 802 \ The colonel of those Wurttembergers is delightful,\ he suddenly said. \ He s a German, but a nice fellow all the same…. But he s a German.\ He sat down facing Pierre. \ By the way, you know German, then?\ Pierre looked at him in silence. \ What is the German for shelter ?\ \ Shelter?\ Pierre repeated. \ The German for shelter is Unterkunft.\ \ How do you say it?\ the captain asked quickly and doubtfully. \ Unterkunft,\ Pierre repeated. \ Onterkoff,\ said the captain
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and looked at Pierre for some seconds with laughing eyes. \ These Germans are first-rate fools, don t you think so, Monsieur Pierre?\ he concluded. \ Well, let s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel!\ he called out gaily. Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on his companion s face. Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him. \ There now, we re sad,\ said he, touching Pierre s hand. \ Have I upset you? No, really, have you anything against me?\ he asked Pierre. \ Perhaps it s the state of affairs?\
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Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman s eyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him. \ Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death. I say it with my hand on my heart!\ said he, striking his chest. \ Thank you,\ said Pierre. The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that \ shelter\ was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenly brightened. \ Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship!\ he cried gaily, filling two glasses with wine. Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his too,
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again pressed Pierre s hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a pensive attitude. \ Yes, my dear friend,\ he began, \ such is fortune s caprice. Who would have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I am in Moscow with him. I must tell you, mon cher,\ he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, \ that our name is one of the most ancient in France.\ And with a Frenchman s easy and naive frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, \ ma pauvre
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mere\ playing of course an important part in the story. \ But all that is only life s setting, the real thing is love- love! Am I not right, Monsieur Pierre?\ said he, CHAPTER XXIX growing animated. \ Another glass?\ Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third. 803 \ Oh, women, women!\ and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs. There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the officer s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe s love stories had the sensual
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character which Frenchmen regard as the special charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with such sincere conviction that he alone had experienced and known all the charm of love and he described women so alluringly that Pierre listened to him with curiosity. It was plain that l amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was not that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for Natasha. (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one he considered the \ love of clodhoppers\ and the other the \ love of simpletons.\ ) L amour which the Frenchman worshiped consisted principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a combination of incongruities giving the chief
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charm to the feeling. Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming, innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise. The conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in the mother s sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of a distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he–the lover–assumed the role of the husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where \ shelter\ is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat sauerkraut and the young girls are \ too blonde.\ Finally, the latest episode
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in Poland still fresh in the captain s memory, and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of life continually occurred in the captain s stories) and the Pole had entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de coeur) while himself entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so: \ I have saved your life, and I save your honor!\ Having repeated these words the captain wiped his eyes and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection. Listening to the captain s tales, Pierre–as often happens
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late in the evening and under the influence of wine–followed all that was told him, understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of personal memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While listening to these love stories his own love for Natasha unexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe s tales. Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the Sukharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had not produced an effect upon him–he had not even once recalled it. But now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very
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important and poetic. \ Peter Kirilovich, come here! We have recognized you,\ he now seemed to hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her smile, her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair… and there seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this. Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband. CHAPTER XXIX 804 Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he understood love for a women
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somewhat differently. He said that in all his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could never be his. \ Tiens!\ said the captain. Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name. Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in the world, and especially therefore above himself. When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he understood that. The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand it he begged
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Pierre to continue. \ Platonic love, clouds…\ he muttered. Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together, something loosened Pierre s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his marriage, Natasha s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe s questions he also told what he had at first concealed–his own position and even his name. More than anything else in Pierre s story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre
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was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station. When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the Pokrovka a fire glowed–the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre s heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerasim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the town. There was nothing terrible
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in the one small, distant fire in the immense city. Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. \ There now, how good it is, what more does one need?\ thought he. And suddenly remembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned against the fence to save himself from falling. Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep. CHAPTER XXX CHAPTER XXX 805 The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was watched
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from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the retreating troops, with many different feelings. The Rostov party spent the night at Mytishchi, fourteen miles from Moscow. They had started so late on the first of September, the road had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been forgotten for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning they woke late and were again delayed so often that they only got as far as Great Mytishchi. At ten o clock that evening the Rostov family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The Rostovs servants and coachmen and the orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending
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to their masters, had supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches. In a neighboring hut lay Raevski s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had spent the first night in the same yard as the Rostovs. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at Mytishchi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the wounded man. In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another fire. One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was Little
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Mytishchi burning–set on fire by Mamonov s Cossacks. \ But look here, brothers, there s another fire!\ remarked an orderly. All turned their attention to the glow. \ But they told us Little Mytishchi had been set on fire by Mamonov s Cossacks.\ \ But that s not Mytishchi, it s farther away.\ \ Look, it must be in Moscow!\ Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down on its steps. \ It s more to the left, why, Little Mytishchi is over there, and this is right on the other side.\ Several men joined the first two. \ See how it s flaring,\ said one. \ That s
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a fire in Moscow: either in the Sushchevski or the Rogozhski quarter.\ No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance. Old Daniel Terentich, the count s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at Mishka. \ What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?… The count will be calling and there s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.\ \ I only ran out to get some water,\ said Mishka. CHAPTER XXX 806 \ But what do you think, Daniel Terentich? Doesn t it look as if that glow were in Moscow?\ remarked
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one of the footmen. Daniel Terentich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all silent. The glow spread, rising and failing, farther and farther still. \ God have mercy…. It s windy and dry…\ said another voice. \ Just look! See what it s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners!\ \ They ll put it out, no fear!\ \ Who s to put it out?\ Daniel Terentich, who had hitherto been silent, was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. \ Moscow it is, brothers,\ said he. \ Mother Moscow, the white…\ his voice faltered, and he gave way to an old man s sob.
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And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard, words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count s old valet. CHAPTER XXXI CHAPTER XXXI The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was burning. The count donned his 807 dressing gown and went out to look. Sonya and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only Natasha and the countess remained in the room. Petya was no longer with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for Troitsa. The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natasha,
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pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father s words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three houses off. \ Oh, how terrible,\ said Sonya returning from the yard chilled and frightened. \ I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there s an awful glow! Natasha, do look! You can see it from the window,\ she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind. But Natasha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sonya, to the surprise and annoyance of the
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countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell Natasha of Prince Andrew s wound and of his being with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with Sonya. Sonya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin. \ Look, Natasha, how dreadfully it is burning!\ said she. \ What s burning?\ asked Natasha. \ Oh, yes, Moscow.\ And as if in order not to offend Sonya and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude. \ But you
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didn t see it!\ \ Yes, really I did,\ Natasha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left in peace. Both the countess and Sonya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to Natasha. The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was wont to do when Natasha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her. \ You are cold. You are trembling all over. You d better lie down,\ said the countess. \ Lie down? All right, I will. I ll lie down at
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once,\ said Natasha. When Natasha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see him, that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger, she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving what they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the countess knew so well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same way
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on the bench where she had seated herself on arriving. She was planning something and either deciding or had already decided CHAPTER XXXI 808 something in her mind. The countess knew this, but what it might be she did not know, and this alarmed and tormented her. \ Natasha, undress, darling; lie down on my bed.\ A bed had been made on a bedstead for the countess only. Madame Schoss and the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor. \ No, Mamma, I will lie down here on the floor,\ Natasha replied irritably and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open window the moans of the adjutant could be heard
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more distinctly. She put her head out into the damp night air, and the countess saw her slim neck shaking with sobs and throbbing against the window frame. Natasha knew it was not Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage; but this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The countess exchanged a look with Sonya. \ Lie down, darling; lie down, my pet,\ said the countess, softly touching Natasha s shoulders. \ Come, lie down.\ \ Oh, yes… I ll lie down at once,\ said Natasha, and began hurriedly undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat. When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat down
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with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the floor, jerked her thin and rather short plait of hair to the front, and began replaiting it. Her long, thin, practiced fingers rapidly unplaited, replaited, and tied up her plait. Her head moved from side to side from habit, but her eyes, feverishly wide, looked fixedly before her. When her toilet for the night was finished she sank gently onto the sheet spread over the hay on the side nearest the door. \ Natasha, you d better lie in the middle,\ said Sonya. \ I ll stay here,\ muttered Natasha. \ Do lie down,\ she added crossly, and buried her face in the pillow. The countess, Madame Schoss, and Sonya undressed hastily and lay down. The small lamp in
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front of the icons was the only light left in the room. But in the yard there was a light from the fire at Little Mytishchi a mile and a half away, and through the night came the noise of people shouting at a tavern Mamonov s Cossacks had set up across the street, and the adjutant s unceasing moans could still be heard. For a long time Natasha listened attentively to the sounds that reached her from inside and outside the room and did not move. First she heard her mother praying and sighing and the creaking of her bed under her, then Madame Schoss familiar whistling snore and Sonya s gentle breathing. Then the countess called to Natasha. Natasha did not answer. \ I think she s asleep, Mamma,\ said Sonya softly.
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After short silence the countess spoke again but this time no one replied. Soon after that Natasha heard her mother s even breathing. Natasha did not move, though her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt, was growing cold on the bare floor. As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied near by. The shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the adjutant was heard. Natasha sat up. CHAPTER XXXI \ Sonya, are you asleep? Mamma?\ she whispered. No one replied. Natasha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and stepped cautiously on the cold and 809
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CHAPTER XXII quantity of gorgeously colored feathers that I could not but be struck with the startling resemblance the concourse bore to a band of the red Indians of my own Earth. 77 One of the staff called the attention of Than Kosis to the presence of my companion above them and the ruler motioned for him to descend. As they waited for the troops to move into position facing the jeddak the two talked earnestly together, the jeddak and his staff occasionally glancing up at me. I could not hear their conversation and presently it ceased and all dismounted, as the last body of troops had wheeled into position before their emperor. A member of the staff advanced toward the troops, and calling the name
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of a soldier commanded him to advance. The officer then recited the nature of the heroic act which had won the approval of the jeddak, and the latter advanced and placed a metal ornament upon the left arm of the lucky man. Ten men had been so decorated when the aide called out, \ John Carter, air scout!\ Never in my life had I been so surprised, but the habit of military discipline is strong within me, and I dropped my little machine lightly to the ground and advanced on foot as I had seen the others do. As I halted before the officer, he addressed me in a voice audible to the entire assemblage of troops and spectators. \ In recognition, John Carter,\ he said, \ of your remarkable courage and
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skill in defending the person of the cousin of the jeddak Than Kosis and, singlehanded, vanquishing three green warriors, it is the pleasure of our jeddak to confer on you the mark of his esteem.\ Than Kosis then advanced toward me and placing an ornament upon me, said: \ My cousin has narrated the details of your wonderful achievement, which seems little short of miraculous, and if you can so well defend a cousin of the jeddak how much better could you defend the person of the jeddak himself. You are therefore appointed a padwar of The Guards and will be quartered in my palace hereafter.\ I thanked him, and at his direction joined the members of his staff. After the ceremony I returned my machine to its quarters on the roof of
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the barracks of the air-scout squadron, and with an orderly from the palace to guide me I reported to the officer in charge of the palace. CHAPTER XXII I FIND DEJAH The major-domo to whom I reported had been given instructions to station me near the person of the jeddak, who, in time of war, is always in great danger of assassination, as the rule that all is fair in war seems to constitute the entire ethics of Martian conflict. He therefore escorted me immediately to the apartment in which Than Kosis then was. The ruler was engaged in conversation with his son, Sab Than, and several courtiers of his household, and did not perceive my entrance. The walls of the apartment were completely hung with splendid tapestries
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which hid any windows or doors which may have pierced them. The room was lighted by imprisoned rays of sunshine held between the ceiling proper and what appeared to be a ground-glass false ceiling a few inches below. CHAPTER XXII My guide drew aside one of the tapestries, disclosing a passage which encircled the room, between the hangings and the walls of the chamber. Within this passage I was to remain, he said, so long as Than Kosis 78 was in the apartment. When he left I was to follow. My only duty was to guard the ruler and keep out of sight as much as possible. I would be relieved after a period of four hours. The major-domo then left me. The tapestries were
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of a strange weaving which gave the appearance of heavy solidity from one side, but from my hiding place I could perceive all that took place within the room as readily as though there had been no curtain intervening. Scarcely had I gained my post than the tapestry at the opposite end of the chamber separated and four soldiers of The Guard entered, surrounding a female figure. As they approached Than Kosis the soldiers fell to either side and there standing before the jeddak and not ten feet from me, her beautiful face radiant with smiles, was Dejah Thoris. Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga, advanced to meet her, and hand in hand they approached close to the jeddak. Than Kosis looked up in surprise, and, rising, saluted her. \ To what strange freak do I
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owe this visit from the Princess of Helium, who, two days ago, with rare consideration for my pride, assured me that she would prefer Tal Hajus, the green Thark, to my son?\ Dejah Thoris only smiled the more and with the roguish dimples playing at the corners of her mouth she made answer: \ From the beginning of time upon Barsoom it has been the prerogative of woman to change her mind as she listed and to dissemble in matters concerning her heart. That you will forgive, Than Kosis, as has your son. Two days ago I was not sure of his love for me, but now I am, and I have come to beg of you to forget my rash words and to accept the assurance of the Princess of Helium that when the time comes she
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will wed Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga.\ \ I am glad that you have so decided,\ replied Than Kosis. \ It is far from my desire to push war further against the people of Helium, and, your promise shall be recorded and a proclamation to my people issued forthwith.\ \ It were better, Than Kosis,\ interrupted Dejah Thoris, \ that the proclamation wait the ending of this war. It would look strange indeed to my people and to yours were the Princess of Helium to give herself to her country s enemy in the midst of hostilities.\ \ Cannot the war be ended at once?\ spoke Sab Than. \ It requires but the word of Than Kosis to bring peace. Say it, my father, say the word that will hasten
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my happiness, and end this unpopular strife.\ \ We shall see,\ replied Than Kosis, \ how the people of Helium take to peace. I shall at least offer it to them.\ Dejah Thoris, after a few words, turned and left the apartment, still followed by her guards. Thus was the edifice of my brief dream of happiness dashed, broken, to the ground of reality. The woman for whom I had offered my life, and from whose lips I had so recently heard a declaration of love for me, had lightly forgotten my very existence and smilingly given herself to the son of her people s most hated enemy. Although I had heard it with my own ears I could not believe it. I must search out her apartments and force her to
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repeat the cruel truth to me alone before I would be convinced, and so I deserted my post and hastened through the passage behind the tapestries toward the door by which she had left the chamber. Slipping quietly through this opening I discovered a maze of winding corridors, branching and turning in every direction. CHAPTER XXII Running rapidly down first one and then another of them I soon became hopelessly lost and was standing 79 panting against a side wall when I heard voices near me. Apparently they were coming from the opposite side of the partition against which I leaned and presently I made out the tones of Dejah Thoris. I could not hear the words but I knew that I could not possibly be mistaken in
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the voice. Moving on a few steps I discovered another passageway at the end of which lay a door. Walking boldly forward I pushed into the room only to find myself in a small antechamber in which were the four guards who had accompanied her. One of them instantly arose and accosted me, asking the nature of my business. \ I am from Than Kosis,\ I replied, \ and wish to speak privately with Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium.\ \ And your order?\ asked the fellow. I did not know what he meant, but replied that I was a member of The Guard, and without waiting for a reply from him I strode toward the opposite door of the antechamber, behind which I could hear Dejah Thoris conversing.
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But my entrance was not to be so easily accomplished. The guardsman stepped before me, saying, \ No one comes from Than Kosis without carrying an order or the password. You must give me one or the other before you may pass.\ \ The only order I require, my friend, to enter where I will, hangs at my side,\ I answered, tapping my long-sword; \ will you let me pass in peace or no?\ For reply he whipped out his own sword, calling to the others to join him, and thus the four stood, with drawn weapons, barring my further progress. \ You are not here by the order of Than Kosis,\ cried the one who had first addressed me, \ and not only shall you not enter the apartments
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of the Princess of Helium but you shall go back to Than Kosis under guard to explain this unwarranted temerity. Throw down your sword; you cannot hope to overcome four of us,\ he added with a grim smile. My reply was a quick thrust which left me but three antagonists and I can assure you that they were worthy of my metal. They had me backed against the wall in no time, fighting for my life. Slowly I worked my way to a corner of the room where I could force them to come at me only one at a time, and thus we fought upward of twenty minutes; the clanging of steel on steel producing a veritable bedlam in the little room. The noise had brought Dejah Thoris to the door of her apartment, and there she
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stood throughout the conflict with Sola at her back peering over her shoulder. Her face was set and emotionless and I knew that she did not recognize me, nor did Sola. Finally a lucky cut brought down a second guardsman and then, with only two opposing me, I changed my tactics and rushed them down after the fashion of my fighting that had won me many a victory. The third fell within ten seconds after the second, and the last lay dead upon the bloody floor a few moments later. They were brave men and noble fighters, and it grieved me that I had been forced to kill them, but I would have willingly depopulated all Barsoom could I have reached the side of my Dejah Thoris in no other way. Sheathing my bloody blade I advanced toward
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my Martian Princess, who still stood mutely gazing at me without sign of recognition. \ Who are you, Zodangan?\ she whispered. \ Another enemy to harass me in my misery?\ CHAPTER XXII \ I am a friend,\ I answered, \ a once cherished friend.\ 80 \ No friend of Helium s princess wears that metal,\ she replied, \ and yet the voice! I have heard it before; it is not–it cannot be–no, for he is dead.\ \ It is, though, my Princess, none other than John Carter,\ I said. \ Do you not recognize, even through paint and strange metal, the heart of your chieftain?\ As I came close to
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her she swayed toward me with outstretched hands, but as I reached to take her in my arms she drew back with a shudder and a little moan of misery. \ Too late, too late,\ she grieved. \ O my chieftain that was, and whom I thought dead, had you but returned one little hour before–but now it is too late, too late.\ \ What do you mean, Dejah Thoris?\ I cried. \ That you would not have promised yourself to the Zodangan prince had you known that I lived?\ \ Think you, John Carter, that I would give my heart to you yesterday and today to another? I thought that it lay buried with your ashes in the pits of Warhoon, and so today I have promised my body to another to
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save my people from the curse of a victorious Zodangan army.\ \ But I am not dead, my princess. I have come to claim you, and all Zodanga cannot prevent it.\ \ It is too late, John Carter, my promise is given, and on Barsoom that is final. The ceremonies which follow later are but meaningless formalities. They make the fact of marriage no more certain than does the funeral cortege of a jeddak again place the seal of death upon him. I am as good as married, John Carter. No longer may you call me your princess. No longer are you my chieftain.\ \ I know but little of your customs here upon Barsoom, Dejah Thoris, but I do know that I love you, and if you meant the last words you
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spoke to me that day as the hordes of Warhoon were charging down upon us, no other man shall ever claim you as his bride. You meant them then, my princess, and you mean them still! Say that it is true.\ \ I meant them, John Carter,\ she whispered. \ I cannot repeat them now for I have given myself to another. Ah, if you had only known our ways, my friend,\ she continued, half to herself, \ the promise would have been yours long months ago, and you could have claimed me before all others. It might have meant the fall of Helium, but I would have given my empire for my Tharkian chief.\ Then aloud she said: \ Do you remember the night when you offended me? You called me your princess
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without having asked my hand of me, and then you boasted that you had fought for me. You did not know, and I should not have been offended; I see that now. But there was no one to tell you what I could not, that upon Barsoom there are two kinds of women in the cities of the red men. The one they fight for that they may ask them in marriage; the other kind they fight for also, but never ask their hands. When a man has won a woman he may address her as his princess, or in any of the several terms which signify possession. You had fought for me, but had never asked me in marriage, and so when you called me your princess, you see,\ she faltered, \ I was hurt, but even then, John Carter, I did
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not repulse you, as I should have done, until you made it doubly worse by taunting me with having won me through combat.\ \ I do not need ask your forgiveness now, Dejah Thoris,\ I cried. \ You must know that my fault was of ignorance of your Barsoomian customs. What I failed to do, through implicit belief that my petition would be presumptuous and unwelcome, I do now, Dejah Thoris; I ask you to be my wife, and by all the Virginian fighting blood that flows in my veins you shall be.\ CHAPTER XXII \ No, John Carter, it is useless,\ she cried, hopelessly, \ I may never be yours while Sab Than lives.\ \ You have sealed his death warrant, my princess–Sab Than
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dies.\ \ Nor that either,\ she hastened to explain. \ I may not wed the man who slays my husband, even in 81 self-defense. It is custom. We are ruled by custom upon Barsoom. It is useless, my friend. You must bear the sorrow with me. That at least we may share in common. That, and the memory of the brief days among the Tharks. You must go now, nor ever see me again. Good-bye, my chieftain that was.\ Disheartened and dejected, I withdrew from the room, but I was not entirely discouraged, nor would I admit that Dejah Thoris was lost to me until the ceremony had actually been performed. As I wandered along the corridors, I was as absolutely lost in the mazes of winding
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passageways as I had been before I discovered Dejah Thoris apartments. I knew that my only hope lay in escape from the city of Zodanga, for the matter of the four dead guardsmen would have to be explained, and as I could never reach my original post without a guide, suspicion would surely rest on me so soon as I was discovered wandering aimlessly through the palace. Presently I came upon a spiral runway leading to a lower floor, and this I followed downward for several stories until I reached the doorway of a large apartment in which were a number of guardsmen. The walls of this room were hung with transparent tapestries behind which I secreted myself without being apprehended. The conversation of the guardsmen was general, and awakened no interest in me until
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an officer entered the room and ordered four of the men to relieve the detail who were guarding the Princess of Helium. Now, I knew, my troubles would commence in earnest and indeed they were upon me all too soon, for it seemed that the squad had scarcely left the guardroom before one of their number burst in again breathlessly, crying that they had found their four comrades butchered in the antechamber. In a moment the entire palace was alive with people. Guardsmen, officers, courtiers, servants, and slaves ran helter-skelter through the corridors and apartments carrying messages and orders, and searching for signs of the assassin. This was my opportunity and slim as it appeared I grasped it, for as a number of soldiers came hurrying past my hiding place I fell in behind them and followed
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through the mazes of the palace until, in passing through a great hall, I saw the blessed light of day coming in through a series of larger windows. Here I left my guides, and, slipping to the nearest window, sought for an avenue of escape. The windows opened upon a great balcony which overlooked one of the broad avenues of Zodanga. The ground was about thirty feet below, and at a like distance from the building was a wall fully twenty feet high, constructed of polished glass about a foot in thickness. To a red Martian escape by this path would have appeared impossible, but to me, with my earthly strength and agility, it seemed already accomplished. My only fear was in being detected before darkness fell, for I could not make the leap in broad daylight while the court below
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and the avenue beyond were crowded with Zodangans. Accordingly I searched for a hiding place and finally found one by accident, inside a huge hanging ornament which swung from the ceiling of the hall, and about ten feet from the floor. Into the capacious bowl-like vase I sprang with ease, and scarcely had I settled down within it than I heard a number of people enter the apartment. The group stopped beneath my hiding place and I could plainly overhear their every word. \ It is the work of Heliumites,\ said one of the men. CHAPTER XXII 82 \ Yes, O Jeddak, but how had they access to the palace? I could believe that even with the diligent care of your
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guardsmen a single enemy might reach the inner chambers, but how a force of six or eight fighting men could have done so unobserved is beyond me. We shall soon know, however, for here comes the royal psychologist.\ Another man now joined the group, and, after making his formal greetings to his ruler, said: \ O mighty Jeddak, it is a strange tale I read in the dead minds of your faithful guardsmen. They were felled not by a number of fighting men, but by a single opponent.\ He paused to let the full weight of this announcement impress his hearers, and that his statement was scarcely credited was evidenced by the impatient exclamation of incredulity which escaped the lips of Than Kosis. \ What manner of weird tale are you bringing
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me, Notan?\ he cried. \ It is the truth, my Jeddak,\ replied the psychologist. \ In fact the impressions were strongly marked on the brain of each of the four guardsmen. Their antagonist was a very tall man, wearing the metal of one of your own guardsmen, and his fighting ability was little short of marvelous for he fought fair against the entire four and vanquished them by his surpassing skill and superhuman strength and endurance. Though he wore the metal of Zodanga, my Jeddak, such a man was never seen before in this or any other country upon Barsoom. \ The mind of the Princess of Helium whom I have examined and questioned was a blank to me, she has perfect control, and I could not read one iota of it. She said that she witnessed
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a portion of the encounter, and that when she looked there was but one man engaged with the guardsmen; a man whom she did not recognize as ever having seen.\ \ Where is my erstwhile savior?\ spoke another of the party, and I recognized the voice of the cousin of Than Kosis, whom I had rescued from the green warriors. \ By the metal of my first ancestor,\ he went on, \ but the description fits him to perfection, especially as to his fighting ability.\ \ Where is this man?\ cried Than Kosis. \ Have him brought to me at once. What know you of him, cousin? It seemed strange to me now that I think upon it that there should have been such a fighting man in Zodanga, of whose name, even,
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we were ignorant before today. And his name too, John Carter, who ever heard of such a name upon Barsoom!\ Word was soon brought that I was nowhere to be found, either in the palace or at my former quarters in the barracks of the air-scout squadron. Kantos Kan, they had found and questioned, but he knew nothing of my whereabouts, and as to my past, he had told them he knew as little, since he had but recently met me during our captivity among the Warhoons. \ Keep your eyes on this other one,\ commanded Than Kosis. \ He also is a stranger and likely as not they both hail from Helium, and where one is we shall sooner or later find the other. Quadruple the air patrol, and let every man who leaves the
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city by air or ground be subjected to the closest scrutiny.\ Another messenger now entered with word that I was still within the palace walls. \ The likeness of every person who has entered or left the palace grounds today has been carefully examined,\ concluded the fellow, \ and not one approaches the likeness of this new padwar of the guards, other than that which was recorded of him at the time he entered.\ \ Then we will have him shortly,\ commented Than Kosis contentedly, \ and in the meanwhile we will repair to the apartments of the Princess of Helium and question her in regard to the affair. She may know more than CHAPTER XXIII she cared to divulge to you, Notan. Come.\
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83 They left the hall, and, as darkness had fallen without, I slipped lightly from my hiding place and hastened to the balcony. Few were in sight, and choosing a moment when none seemed near I sprang quickly to the top of the glass wall and from there to the avenue beyond the palace grounds. CHAPTER XXIII LOST IN THE SKY Without effort at concealment I hastened to the vicinity of our quarters, where I felt sure I should find Kantos Kan. As I neared the building I became more careful, as I judged, and rightly, that the place would be guarded. Several men in civilian metal loitered near the front entrance and in the rear were others. My only means of reaching,
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unseen, the upper story where our apartments were situated was through an adjoining building, and after considerable maneuvering I managed to attain the roof of a shop several doors away. Leaping from roof to roof, I soon reached an open window in the building where I hoped to find the Heliumite, and in another moment I stood in the room before him. He was alone and showed no surprise at my coming, saying he had expected me much earlier, as my tour of duty must have ended some time since. I saw that he knew nothing of the events of the day at the palace, and when I had enlightened him he was all excitement. The news that Dejah Thoris had promised her hand to Sab Than filled him with dismay. \ It cannot be,\ he
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exclaimed. \ It is impossible! Why no man in all Helium but would prefer death to the selling of our loved princess to the ruling house of Zodanga. She must have lost her mind to have assented to such an atrocious bargain. You, who do not know how we of Helium love the members of our ruling house, cannot appreciate the horror with which I contemplate such an unholy alliance.\ \ What can be done, John Carter?\ he continued. \ You are a resourceful man. Can you not think of some way to save Helium from this disgrace?\ \ If I can come within sword s reach of Sab Than,\ I answered, \ I can solve the difficulty in so far as Helium is concerned, but for personal reasons I would prefer that another struck
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the blow that frees Dejah Thoris.\ Kantos Kan eyed me narrowly before he spoke. \ You love her!\ he said. \ Does she know it?\ \ She knows it, Kantos Kan, and repulses me only because she is promised to Sab Than.\ The splendid fellow sprang to his feet, and grasping me by the shoulder raised his sword on high, exclaiming: \ And had the choice been left to me I could not have chosen a more fitting mate for the first princess of Barsoom. Here is my hand upon your shoulder, John Carter, and my word that Sab Than shall go out at the point of my sword for the sake of my love for Helium, for Dejah Thoris, and for you. This very night I shall
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try to reach his quarters in the palace.\ \ How?\ I asked. \ You are strongly guarded and a quadruple force patrols the sky.\ He bent his head in thought a moment, then raised it with an air of confidence. CHAPTER XXIII \ I only need to pass these guards and I can do it,\ he said at last. \ I know a secret entrance to the palace 84 through the pinnacle of the highest tower. I fell upon it by chance one day as I was passing above the palace on patrol duty. In this work it is required that we investigate any unusual occurrence we may witness, and a face peering from the pinnacle of the high tower
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of the palace was, to me, most unusual. I therefore drew near and discovered that the possessor of the peering face was none other than Sab Than. He was slightly put out at being detected and commanded me to keep the matter to myself, explaining that the passage from the tower led directly to his apartments, and was known only to him. If I can reach the roof of the barracks and get my machine I can be in Sab Than s quarters in five minutes; but how am I to escape from this building, guarded as you say it is?\ \ How well are the machine sheds at the barracks guarded?\ I asked. \ There is usually but one man on duty there at night upon the roof.\ \ Go to the
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roof of this building, Kantos Kan, and wait me there.\ Without stopping to explain my plans I retraced my way to the street and hastened to the barracks. I did not dare to enter the building, filled as it was with members of the air-scout squadron, who, in common with all Zodanga, were on the lookout for me. The building was an enormous one, rearing its lofty head fully a thousand feet into the air. But few buildings in Zodanga were higher than these barracks, though several topped it by a few hundred feet; the docks of the great battleships of the line standing some fifteen hundred feet from the ground, while the freight and passenger stations of the merchant squadrons rose nearly as high. It was a long climb up the face of the
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building, and one fraught with much danger, but there was no other way, and so I essayed the task. The fact that Barsoomian architecture is extremely ornate made the feat much simpler than I had anticipated, since I found ornamental ledges and projections which fairly formed a perfect ladder for me all the way to the eaves of the building. Here I met my first real obstacle. The eaves projected nearly twenty feet from the wall to which I clung, and though I encircled the great building I could find no opening through them. The top floor was alight, and filled with soldiers engaged in the pastimes of their kind; I could not, therefore, reach the roof through the building. There was one slight, desperate chance, and that I decided I must take–it was for Dejah Thoris, and
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no man has lived who would not risk a thousand deaths for such as she. Clinging to the wall with my feet and one hand, I unloosened one of the long leather straps of my trappings at the end of which dangled a great hook by which air sailors are hung to the sides and bottoms of their craft for various purposes of repair, and by means of which landing parties are lowered to the ground from the battleships. I swung this hook cautiously to the roof several times before it finally found lodgment; gently I pulled on it to strengthen its hold, but whether it would bear the weight of my body I did not know. It might be barely caught upon the very outer verge of the roof, so that as my body swung out at
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Chapter 14 \ Yeh don t say so. Jim Conklin. . .poor cuss!\ All about them were other small fires surrounded by men with their little black utensils. From one of these near came sudden sharp voices in a row. It appeared that two light-footed soldiers had been teasing a huge, bearded man, causing him to spill coffee upon his blue knees. The man had gone into a rage and had sworn 56 comprehensively. Stung by his language, his tormentors had immediately bristled at him with a great show of resenting unjust oaths. Possibly there was going to be a fight. The friend arose and went over to them, making pacific motions with his arms. \ Oh, here, now, boys, what s th use?\
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he said. \ We ll be at th rebs in less n an hour. What s th good fightin mong ourselves?\ One of the light-footed soldiers turned upon him red-faced and violent. \ Yeh needn t come around here with yer preachin . I s pose yeh don t approve a fightin since Charley Morgan licked yeh; but I don t see what business this here is a yours or anybody else.\ \ Well, it ain t,\ said the friend mildly. \ Still I hate t see–\ There was a tangled argument. \ Well, he–,\ said the two, indicating their opponent with accusative forefingers. The huge soldier was quite purple with rage. He pointed at the two soldiers with
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his great hand, extended clawlike. \ Well, they–\ But during this argumentative time the desire to deal blows seemed to pass, although they said much to each other. Finally the friend returned to his old seat. In a short while the three antagonists could be seen together in an amiable bunch. \ Jimmie Rogers ses I ll have t fight him after th battle t -day,\ announced the friend as he again seated himself. \ He ses he don t allow no interferin in his business. I hate t see th boys fightin mong themselves.\ The youth laughed. \ Yer changed a good bit. Yeh ain t at all like yeh was. I remember when you an that Irish feller–\ He stopped and laughed
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again. \ No, I didn t use t be that way,\ said his friend thoughtfully. \ That s true nough.\ \ Well, I didn t mean–\ began the youth. The friend made another deprecatory gesture. \ Oh, yeh needn t mind, Henry.\ There was another little pause. \ Th reg ment lost over half th men yestirday,\ remarked the friend eventually. \ I thought a course they was all dead, but, laws, they kep a-comin back last night until it seems, after all, we didn t lose but a few. They d been scattered all over, wanderin around in th woods, fightin with other reg ments, an everything. Jest like you done.\
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\ So?\ said the youth. Chapter 15 Chapter 15 The regiment was standing at order arms at the side of a lane, waiting for the command to march, when 57 suddenly the youth remembered the little packet enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope which the loud young soldier with lugubrious words had intrusted to him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward his comrade. \ Wilson!\ \ What?\ His friend, at his side in the ranks, was thoughtfully staring down the road. From some cause his expression was at that moment very meek. The youth, regarding him with sidelong glances, felt impelled to change his purpose. \ Oh, nothing,\
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he said. His friend turned his head in some surprise, \ Why, what was yeh goin t say?\ \ Oh, nothing,\ repeated the youth. He resolved not to deal the little blow. It was sufficient that the fact made him glad. It was not necessary to knock his friend on the head with the misguided packet. He had been possessed of much fear of his friend, for he saw how easily questionings could make holes in his feelings. Lately, he had assured himself that the altered comrade would not tantalize him with a persistent curiousity, but he felt certain that during the first period of leisure his friend would ask him to relate his adventures of the previous day. He now rejoiced in the possession of
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a small weapon with which he could prostrate his comrade at the first signs of a cross-examination. He was master. It would now be he who could laugh and shoot the shafts of derision. The friend had, in a weak hour, spoken with sobs of his own death. He had delivered a melancholy oration previous to his funeral, and had doubtless in the packet of letters, presented various keepsakes to relatives. But he had not died, and thus he had delivered himself into the hands of the youth. The latter felt immensely superior to his friend, but he inclined to condescension. He adopted toward him an air of patronizing good humor. His self-pride was now entirely restored. In the shade of its flourishing growth he stood with braced and self-confident legs, and since nothing could
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now be discovered he did not shrink from an encounter with the eyes of judges, and allowed no thoughts of his own to keep him from an attitude of manfulness. He had performed his mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man. Indeed, when he remembered his fortunes of yesterday, and looked at them from a distance he began to see something fine there. He had license to be pompous and veteranlike. His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight. In the present, he declared to himself that it was only the doomed and the damned who roared with sincerity at circumstance. Few but they ever did it. A man with a full stomach and the respect of his fellows had no business to scold about anything that he might
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think to be wrong in the ways of the universe, or even with the ways of society. Let the unfortunates rail; the others may play marbles. Chapter 15 58 He did not give a great deal of thought to these battles that lay directly before him. It was not essential that he should plan his ways in regard to them. He had been taught that many obligations of a life were easily avoided. The lessons of yesterday had been that retribution was a laggard and blind. With these facts before him he did not deem it necessary that he should become feverish over the possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours. He could leave much to chance. Besides, a faith in himself had secretly blossomed. There was a
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little flower of confidence growing within him. He was now a man of experience. He had been out among the dragons, he said, and he assured himself that they were not so hideous as he had imagined them. Also, they were inaccurate; they did not sting with precision. A stout heart often defied, and defying, escaped. And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods and doomed to greatness? He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle. As he recalled their terror-struck faces he felt a scorn for them. They had surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely necessary. They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with discretion and dignity. He was aroused from this reverie by his friend, who, having hitched about
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nervously and blinked at the trees for a time, suddenly coughed in an introductory way, and spoke. \ Fleming!\ \ What?\ The friend put his hand up to his mouth and coughed again. He fidgeted in his jacket. \ Well,\ he gulped at last, \ I guess yeh might as well give me back them letters.\ Dark, prickling blood had flushed into his cheeks and brow. \ All right, Wilson,\ said the youth. He loosened two buttons of his coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet. As he extended it to his friend the latter s face was turned from him. He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because during it he had been trying to invent
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a remarkable comment on the affair. He could conjure up nothing of sufficient point. He was compelled to allow his friend to escape unmolested with his packet. And for this he took unto himself considerable credit. It was a generous thing. His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame. As he contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and stout. He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his acts; he was an individual of extraordinary virtues. He reflected, with condescending pity: \ Too bad! Too bad! The poor devil, it makes him feel tough!\ After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle pictures he had seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the hearts of the people glow with stories of war.
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He could see himself in a room of warm tints telling tales to listener. He could exhibit laurels. They were insignificant; still, in a district where laurels were infrequent, they might shine. He saw his gaping audience picturing him as the central figure in blazing scenes. And he imagined the consternation and the ejaculations of his mother and the young lady at the seminary as they drank his recitals. Their vague feminine formula for beloved ones doing brave deeds on the field of battle without risk of life would be destroyed. Chapter 16 Chapter 16 59 A sputtering of musketry was always to be heard. Later, the cannon had entered the dispute. In the fog-filled air their voices made a thudding
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sound. The reverberations were continual. This part of the world led a strange, battleful existence. The youth s regiment was marched to relieve a command that had lain long in some damp trenches. The men took positions behind a curving line of rifle pits that had been turned up, like a large furrow, along the line of woods. Before them was a level stretch, peopled with short, deformed stumps. From the woods beyond came the dull popping of the skirmishers and pickets, firing in the fog. From the right came the noise of a terrific fracas. The men cuddled behind the small embankment and sat in easy attitudes awaiting their turn. Many had their backs to the firing. The youth s friend lay down, buried his face in his arms, and almost instantly, it seemed, he was
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in a deep sleep. The youth leaned his breast against the brown dirt and peered over at the woods and up and down the line. Curtains of trees interfered with his ways of vision. He could see the low line of trenches but for a short distance. A few idle flags were perched on the dirt hills. Behind them were rows of dark bodies with a few heads sticking curiously over the top. Always the noise of skirmishers came from the woods on the front and left, and the din on the right had grown to frightful proportions. The guns were roaring without an instant s pause for breath. It seemed that the cannon had come from all parts and were engaged in a stupendous wrangle. It became impossible to make a sentence heard. The
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youth wished to launch a joke–a quotation from newspapers. He desired to say, \ All quiet on the Rappahannock,\ but the guns refused to permit even a comment upon their uproar. He never successfully concluded the sentence. But at last the guns stopped, and among the men in the rifle pits rumors again flew, like birds, but they were now for the most part black creatures who flapped their wings drearily near to the ground and refused to rise on any wings of hope. The men s faces grew doleful from the interpreting of omens. Tales of hesitation and uncertainty on the part of those high in place and responsibility came to their ears. Stories of disaster were borne into their minds with many proofs. This din of musketry on the right, growing like a released genie of sound, expressed and emphasized
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the army s plight. The men were disheartened and began to mutter. They made gestures expressive of the sentence: \ Ah, what more can we do?\ And it could always be seen that they were bewildered by the alleged news and could not fully comprehend a defeat. Before the gray mists had been totally obliterated by the sun rays, the regiment was marching in a spread column that was retiring carefully through the woods. The disordered, hurrying lines of the enemy could sometimes be seen down through the groves and little fields. They were yelling, shrill and exultant. At this sight the youth forgot many personal matters and became greatly enraged. He exploded in loud sentences. \ B jiminey, we re generaled by a lot a lunkheads.\ \ More than
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one feller has said that t -day,\ observed a man. His friend, recently aroused, was still very drowsy. He looked behind him until his mind took in the meaning of the movement. Then he sighed. \ Oh, well, I s pose we got licked,\ he remarked sadly. Chapter 16 The youth had a thought that it would not be handsome for him to freely condemn other men. He made an attempt to restrain himself, but the words upon his tongue were too bitter. He presently began a long and intricate denunciation of the commander of the forces. 60 \ Mebbe, it wa n t all his fault–not all together. He did th best he knowed. It s our luck t
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git licked often,\ said his friend in a weary tone. He was trudging along with stooped shoulders and shifting eyes like a man who has been caned and kicked. \ Well, don t we fight like the devil? Don t we do all that men can?\ demanded the youth loudly. He was secretly dumfounded at this sentiment when it came from his lips. For a moment his face lost its valor and he looked guiltily about him. But no one questioned his right to deal in such words, and presently he recovered his air of courage. He went on to repeat a statement he had heard going from group to group at the camp that morning. \ The brigadier said he never saw a new reg ment fight the way we fought yestirday, didn t he?
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And we didn t do better than many another reg ment, did we? Well, then, you can t say it s th army s fault, can you?\ In his reply, the friend s voice was stern. \ A course not,\ he said. \ No man dare say we don t fight like th devil. No man will ever dare say it. Th boys fight like hell-roosters. But still–still, we don t have no luck.\ \ Well, then, if we fight like the devil an don t ever whip, it must be the general s fault,\ said the youth grandly and decisively. \ And I don t see any sense in fighting and fighting and fighting, yet always losing through some derned old lunkhead of a general.\ A
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sarcastic man who was tramping at the youth s side, then spoke lazily. \ Mebbe yeh think yeh fit th hull battle yestirday, Fleming,\ he remarked. The speech pierced the youth. Inwardly he was reduced to an abject pulp by these chance words. His legs quaked privately. He cast a frightened glance at the sarcastic man. \ Why, no,\ he hastened to say in a conciliating voice \ I don t think I fought the whole battle yesterday.\ But the other seemed innocent of any deeper meaning. Apparently, he had no information. It was merely his habit. \ Oh!\ he replied in the same tone of calm derision. The youth, nevertheless, felt a threat. His mind shrank from going near to the danger, and thereafter he was silent. The
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significance of the sarcastic man s words took from him all loud moods that would make him appear prominent. He became suddenly a modest person. There was low-toned talk among the troops. The officers were impatient and snappy, their countenances clouded with the tales of misfortune. The troops, sifting through the forest, were sullen. In the youth s company once a man s laugh rang out. A dozen soldiers turned their faces quickly toward him and frowned with vague displeasure. The noise of firing dogged their footsteps. Sometimes, it seemed to be driven a little way, but it always returned again with increased insolence. The men muttered and cursed, throwing black looks in its direction. In a clear space the troops were at last halted. Regiments and brigades, broken and detached through their encounters with
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thickets, grew together again and lines were faced toward the pursuing bark of the enemy s infantry. This noise, following like the yelpings of eager, metallic hounds, increased to a loud and joyous burst, and Chapter 16 61 then, as the sun went serenely up the sky, throwing illuminating rays into the gloomy thickets, it broke forth into prolonged pealings. The woods began to crackle as if afire. \ Whoop-a-dadee,\ said a man, \ here we are! Everybody fightin . Blood an destruction.\ \ I was willin t bet they d attack as soon as th sun got fairly up,\ savagely asserted the lieutenant who commanded the youth s company. He jerked without mercy
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at his little mustache. He strode to and fro with dark dignity in the rear of his men, who were lying down behind whatever protection they had collected. A battery had trundled into position in the rear and was thoughtfully shelling the distance. The regiment, unmolested as yet, awaited the moment when the gray shadows of the woods before them should be slashed by the lines of flame. There was much growling and swearing. \ Good Gawd,\ the youth grumbled, \ we re always being chased around like rats! It makes me sick. Nobody seems to know where we go or why we go. We just get fired around from pillar to post and get licked here and get licked there, and nobody knows what it s done for. It makes a man feel like a damn
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kitten in a bag. Now, I d like to know what the eternal thunders we was marched into these woods for anyhow, unless it was to give the rebs a regular pot shot at us. We came in here and got our legs all tangled up in these cussed briers, and then we begin to fight and the rebs had an easy time of it. Don t tell me it s just luck! I know better. It s this derned old–\ The friend seemed jaded, but he interrupted his comrade with a voice of calm confidence. \ It ll turn out all right in th end,\ he said. \ Oh ,the devil it will! You always talk like a dog-hanged parson. Don t tell me! I know–\ At this time there was
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an interposition by the savage-minded lieutenant, who was obliged to vent some of his inward dissatisfaction upon his men. \ You boys shut right up! There no need a your wastin your breath in long-winded arguments about this an that an th other. You ve been jawin like a lot a old hens. All you ve got t do is to fight, an you ll get plenty a that t do in about ten minutes. Less talkin an more fightin is what s best for you boys. I never saw sech gabbling jackasses.\ He paused, ready to pounce upon any man who might have the temerity to reply. No words being said, he resumed his dignified pacing. \ There s too much chin music
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an too little fightin in this war, anyhow,\ he said to them, turning his head for a final remark. The day had grown more white, until the sun shed his full radiance upon the thronged forest. A sort of a gust of battle came sweeping toward that part of the line where lay the youth s regiment. The front shifted a trifle to meet it squarely. There was a wait. In this part of the field there passed slowly the intense moments that precede the tempest. A single rifle flashed in a thicket before the regiment. In an instant it was joined by many others. There was a mighty song of clashes and crashes that went sweeping through the woods. The guns in the rear, aroused and enraged by shells that had been thrown burr-like
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at them, suddenly involved themselves in a hideous altercation with another band of guns. The battle roar settled to a rolling thunder, which was a single, long explosion. In the regiment there was a peculiar kind of hesitation denoted in the attitudes of the men. They were worn, exhausted, having slept but little and labored much. They rolled their eyes toward the advancing battle as they stood awaiting the shock. Some shrank and flinched. They stood as men tied to stakes. Chapter 17 Chapter 17 62 This advance of the enemy had seemed to the youth like a ruthless hunting. He began to fume with rage and exasperation. He beat his foot upon the ground, and scowled with hate at the swirling
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smoke that was approaching like a phantom flood. There was a maddening quality in this seeming resolution of the foe to give him no rest, to give him no time to sit down and think. Yesterday he had fought and had fled rapidly. There had been many adventures. For to-day he felt that he had earned opportunities for contemplative repose. He could have enjoyed portraying to uninitiated listeners various scenes at which he had been a witness or ably discussing the processes of war with other proved men. Too it was important that he should have time for physical recuperation. He was sore and stiff from his experiences. He had received his fill of all exertions, and he wished to rest. But those other men seemed never to grow weary; they were fighting with their old speed. He had a
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wild hate for the relentless foe. Yesterday, when he had imagined the universe to be against him, he had hated it, little gods and big gods; to-day he hated the army of the foe with the same great hatred. He was not going to be badgered of his life, like a kitten chased by boys, he said. It was not well to drive men into final corners; at those moments they could all develop teeth and claws. He leaned and spoke into his friend s ear. He menaced the woods with a gesture. \ If they keep on chasing us, by Gawd, they d better watch out. Can t stand TOO much.\ The friend twisted his head and made a calm reply. \ If they keep on a-chasin us they ll drive us all inteh th
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river.\ The youth cried out savagely at this statement. He crouched behind a little tree, with his eyes burning hatefully and his teeth set in a curlike snarl. The awkward bandage was still about his head, and upon it, over his wound, there was a spot of dry blood. His hair was wondrously tousled, and some straggling, moving locks hung over the cloth of the bandage down toward his forehead. His jacket and shirt were open at the throat, and exposed his young bronzed neck. There could be seen spasmodic gulpings at his throat. His fingers twined nervously about his rifle. He wished that it was an engine of annihilating power. He felt that he and his companions were being taunted and derided from sincere convictions that they were poor and puny. His knowledge of his
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inability to take vengeance for it made his rage into a dark and stormy specter, that possessed him and made him dream of abominable cruelties. The tormentors were flies sucking insolently at his blood, and he thought that he would have given his life for a revenge of seeing their faces in pitiful plights. The winds of battle had swept all about the regiment, until the one rifle, instantly followed by others, flashed in its front. A moment later the regiment roared forth its sudden and valiant retort. A dense wall of smoke settled down. It was furiously slit and slashed by the knifelike fire from the rifles. To the youth the fighters resembled animals tossed for a death struggle into a dark pit. There was a sensation that he and his fellows, at bay, were pushing back,
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always pushing fierce onslaughts of creatures who were slippery. Their beams of crimson seemed to get no purchase upon the bodies of their foes; the latter seemed to evade them with ease, and come through, between, around, and about with unopposed skill. When, in a dream, it occurred to the youth that his rifle was an impotent stick, he lost sense of everything but his hate, his desire to smash into pulp the glittering smile of victory which he could feel upon the faces of his enemies. The blue smoke-swallowed line curled and writhed like a snake stepped upon. It swung its ends to and fro in an agony of fear and rage. Chapter 17 The youth was not conscious that he was erect upon his feet. He did
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not know the direction of the ground. Indeed, once he even lost the habit of balance and fell heavily. He was up again immediately. One thought went through the chaos of his brain at the time. He wondered if he had fallen because he had been shot. But the suspicion flew away at once. He did not think more of it. 63 He had taken up a first position behind the little tree, with a direct determination to hold it against the world. He had not deemed it possible that his army could that day succeed, and from this he felt the ability to fight harder. But the throng had surged in all ways, until he lost directions and locations, save that he knew where lay the enemy. The flames bit
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him, and the hot smoke broiled his skin. His rifle barrel grew so hot that ordinarily he could not have borne it upon his palms; but he kept on stuffing cartridges into it, and pounding them with his clanking, bending ramrod. If he aimed at some changing form through the smoke, he pulled the trigger with a fierce grunt, as if he were dealing a blow of the fist with all his strength. When the enemy seemed falling back before him and his fellows, he went instantly forward, like a dog who, seeing his foes lagging, turns and insists upon being pursued. And when he was compelled to retire again, he did it slowly, sullenly, taking steps of wrathful despair. Once he, in his intent hate, was almost alone, and was firing, when all those near him had ceased.
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He was so engrossed in his occupation that he was not aware of a lull. He was recalled by a hoarse laugh and a sentence that came to his ears in a voice of contempt and amazement. \ Yeh infernal fool, don t yeh know enough t quit when there ain t anything t shoot at? Good Gawd!\ He turned then and, pausing with his rifle thrown half into position, looked at the blue line of his comrades. During this moment of leisure they seemed all to be engaged in staring with astonishment at him. They had become spectators. Turning to the front again he saw, under the lifted smoke, a deserted ground. He looked bewildered for a moment. Then there appeared upon the glazed vacancy of his eyes a diamond point of
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intelligence. \ Oh,\ he said, comprehending. He returned to his comrades and threw himself upon the ground. He sprawled like a man who had been thrashed. His flesh seemed strangely on fire, and the sounds of the battle continued in his ears. He groped blindly for his canteen. The lieutenant was crowing. He seemed drunk with fighting. He called out to the youth: \ By heavens, if I had ten thousand wild cats like you I could tear th stomach outa this war in less n a week!\ He puffed out his chest with large dignity as he said it. Some of the men muttered and looked at the youth in awestruck ways. It was plain that as he had gone on loading and firing and cursing without proper intermission, they had found
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time to regard him. And they now looked upon him as a war devil. The friend came staggering to him. There was some fright and dismay in his voice. \ Are yeh all right, Fleming? Do yeh feel all right? There ain t nothin th matter with yeh, Henry, is there?\ \ No,\ said the youth with difficulty. His throat seemed full of knobs and burrs. These incidents made the youth ponder. It was revealed to him that he had been a barbarian, a beast. He had fought like a pagan who defends his religion. Regarding it, he saw that it was fine, wild, and, in some ways, easy. He had been a tremendous figure, no doubt. By this struggle he had overcome obstacles which he had
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Chapter 17 admitted to be mountains. They had fallen like paper peaks, and he was now what he called a hero. And he had not been aware of the process. He had slept, and, awakening, found himself a knight. He lay and basked in the occasional stares of his comrades. Their faces were varied in degrees of blackness 64 from the burned powder. Some were utterly smudged. They were reeking with perspiration, and their breaths came hard and wheezing. And from these soiled expanses they peered at him. \ Hot work! Hot work!\ cried the lieutenant deliriously. He walked up and down, restless and eager. Sometimes his voice could be heard in a wild, incomprehensible laugh. When he had a particularly profound thought upon the
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science of war he always unconsciously addressed himself to the youth. There was some grim rejoicing by the men. \ By thunder, I bet this army ll never see another new reg ment like us!\ \ You bet!\ \ A dog, a woman, an a walnut tree Th more yeh beat em, th better they be! That s like us.\ \ Lost a piler men, they did. If an ol woman swep up th woods she d git a dustpanful.\ \ Yes, an if she ll come around ag in in bout an hour she ll get a pile more.\ The forest still bore its burden of clamor. From off under the trees
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came the rolling clatter of the musketry. Each distant thicket seemed a strange porcupine with quills of flame. A cloud of dark smoke, as from smoldering ruins, went up toward the sun now bright and gay in the blue, enameled sky. Chapter 18 Chapter 18 65 The ragged line had respite for some minutes, but during its pause the struggle in the forest became magnified until the trees seemed to quiver from the firing and the ground to shake from the rushing of men. The voices of the cannon were mingled in a long and interminable row. It seemed difficult to live in such an atmosphere. The chests of the men strained for a bit of freshness, and their throats craved water.
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There was one shot through the body, who raised a cry of bitter lamentation when came this lull. Perhaps he had been calling out during the fighting also, but at that time no one had heard him. But now the men turned at the woeful complaints of him upon the ground. \ Who is it? Who is it?\ \ Its Jimmie Rogers. Jimmie Rogers.\ When their eyes first encountered him there was a sudden halt, as if they feared to go near. He was thrashing about in the grass, twisting his shuddering body into many strange postures. He was screaming loudly. This instant s hesitation seemed to fill him with a tremendous, fantastic contempt, and he damned them in shrieked sentences. The youth s friend had a geographical illusion
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CHAPTER FIVE Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous greenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which drove up, one after the other, straight into the still air. 18 This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it) was so bright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches of brown common towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed to darken abruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their dispersal. At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible. Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white flag at its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small vertical black shapes upon the
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black ground. As the green smoke arose, their faces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then slowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, droning noise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and the ghost of a beam of light seemed to flicker out from it. Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from one to another, sprang from the scattered group of men. It was as if some invisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame. It was as if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire. Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them staggering and falling, and their supporters turning to run. I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death
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leaping from man to man in that little distant crowd. All I felt was that it was something very strange. An almost noiseless and blinding flash of light, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the unseen shaft of heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry furze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and wooden buildings suddenly set alight. It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied to stir. I heard the crackle of fire in the sand pits and the sudden squeal of a horse that was as suddenly
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stilled. Then it was as if an invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather between me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the sand pits the dark ground smoked and crackled. Something fell with a crash far away to the left where the road from Woking station opens out on the common. Forth-with the hissing and humming ceased, and the black, dome-like object sank slowly out of sight into the pit. All this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood motionless, dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light. Had that death swept through a full circle, it must inevitably have slain me in my surprise. But it passed and spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark and unfamiliar. The undulating common seemed now dark
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almost to blackness, except where its roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky of the early night. It was dark, and suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were mustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost greenish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell came out sharp and black against the western afterglow. The Martians and their appliances were altogether invisible, save for that thin mast upon which their restless mirror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated trees here and there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards Woking station were sending up spires of flame into the stillness of the evening air. Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment. The little group of black specks with the flag of white had
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been swept out of existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it seemed to me, had scarcely been broken. CHAPTER FIVE It came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless, unprotected, and alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from without, came–fear. With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the heather. 19 The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me. Such an extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently as a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare to look back. I remember I
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felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this mysterious death–as swift as the passage of light–would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder and strike me down. CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SIX THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD 20 It is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay men so swiftly and so silently. Many think that in some way they are able to generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute non-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror of unknown composition, much as the
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parabolic mirror of a lighthouse projects a beam of light. But no one has absolutely proved these details. However it is done, it is certain that a beam of heat is the essence of the matter. Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light. Whatever is combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it falls upon water, incontinently that explodes into steam. That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the pit, charred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the common from Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze. The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and Ottershaw about the same time. In Woking the shops had closed when the tragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people
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and so forth, attracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at last upon the common. You may imagine the young people brushed up after the labours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would make any novelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a trivial flirtation. You may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road in the gloaming. . . . As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the cylinder had opened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a bicycle to the post office with a special wire to an evening paper. As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they found little knots of people
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talking excitedly and peering at the spinning mirror over the sand pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt, soon infected by the excitement of the occasion. By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may have been a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place, besides those who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer. There were three policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter them from approaching the cylinder. There was some booing from those more thoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always an occasion for noise and horse-play. Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a collision, had telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as the Martians emerged, for
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the help of a company of soldiers to protect these strange creatures from violence. After that they returned to lead that ill-fated advance. The description of their death, as it was seen by the crowd, tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the flashes of flame. But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine. Only the fact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower part of the Heat-Ray saved them. Had the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a few yards higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the flashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were, lit the bushes as it hurried towards them through the twilight. Then, with a whistling note that rose
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above the droning of the pit, the beam swung close over their heads, lighting the tops of the beech trees that line the road, and splitting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the window frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of the gable of the house nearest the corner. CHAPTER SIX In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some moments. Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and single leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire. Then came a crying from the common. There were shrieks and 21 shouts, and suddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion with his hands clasped over his
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head, screaming. \ They re coming!\ a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone was turning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way to Woking again. They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep. Where the road grows narrow and black between the high banks the crowd jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd did not escape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy, were crushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and the darkness. CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER SEVEN HOW I REACHED HOME 22 For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of blundering against trees and stumbling through
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the heather. All about me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads. At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and lay still. I must have remained there some time. I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not clearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar
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had burst away from its fastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things before me–the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as if something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There was no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was immediately the self of every day again–a decent, ordinary citizen. The silent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things indeed happened? I could not credit it. I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their strength. I dare
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say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch, and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran a little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to speak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless mumble and went on over the bridge. Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying south– clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row of gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so familiar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I told myself, could not be.
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Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my experience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was very strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream. But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the swift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I stopped at the group of people. \ What news from the common?\ said I. There were two men and
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a woman at the gate. \ Eh?\ said one of the men, turning. \ What news from the common?\ I said. CHAPTER SEVEN \ Ain t yer just BEEN there?\ asked the men. \ People seem fair silly about the common,\ said the woman over the gate. \ What s it all abart?\ \ Haven t you heard of the men from Mars?\ said I; \ the creatures from Mars?\ \ Quite enough,\ said the woman over the gate. \ Thenks\ ; and all three of them laughed. I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what I had seen. They laughed again at my broken
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sentences. \ You ll hear more yet,\ I said, and went on to my home. 23 I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which was a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the table while I told my story. \ There is one thing,\ I said, to allay the fears I had aroused; \ they are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . . . But the horror of
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them!\ \ Don t, dear!\ said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on mine. \ Poor Ogilvy!\ I said. \ To think he may be lying dead there!\ My wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly. \ They may come here,\ she said again and again. I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her. \ They can scarcely move,\ I said. I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the earth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On the surface of
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the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is on the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His own body would be a cope of lead to him. That, indeed, was the general opinion. Both THE TIMES and the DAILY TELEGRAPH, for instance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as I did, two obvious modifying influences. The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars. The invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their bodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such mechanical
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intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch. But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning was dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure. CHAPTER SEVEN 24 \ They have done a foolish thing,\ said I, fingering my wineglass. \ They are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they expected to find no living things–certainly no intelligent living things.\ \ A shell in the pit\ said I, \ if the worst comes to the worst will kill
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them all.\ The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive powers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with extraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife s sweet anxious face peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its silver and glass table furniture–for in those days even philosophical writers had many little luxuries–the crimson- purple wine in my glass, are photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy s rashness, and denouncing the shortsighted timidity of the Martians. So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in want of animal food. \ We will peck them to death tomorrow, my
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dear.\ I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat for very many strange and terrible days. CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER EIGHT FRIDAY NIGHT The most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and wonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing of the commonplace habits of our social order with the first beginnings of the series of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle with a radius of five miles round the Woking sand pits, I doubt if you would have had one human being outside it, unless it were some relation of Stent or of the three
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or four cyclists or 25 London people lying dead on the common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by the new-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder, of course, and talked about it in their leisure, but it certainly did not make the sensation that an ultimatum to Germany would have done. In London that night poor Henderson s telegram describing the gradual unscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his evening paper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving no reply–the man was killed–decided not to print a special edition. Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of people were inert. I have already described the behaviour of the men and women to whom I spoke. All over the district people
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were dining and supping; working men were gardening after the labours of the day, children were being put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes love- making, students sat over their books. Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and dominant topic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger, or even an eye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of excitement, a shouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most part the daily routine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had done for countless years–as though no planet Mars existed in the sky. Even at Woking station and Horsell and Chobham that was the case. In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and going on, others were shunting on the
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sidings, passengers were alighting and waiting, and everything was proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy from the town, trenching on Smith s monopoly, was selling papers with the afternoon s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp whistle of the engines from the junction, mingled with their shouts of \ Men from Mars!\ Excited men came into the station about nine o clock with incredible tidings, and caused no more disturbance than drunkards might have done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the darkness outside the carriage windows, and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark dance up from the direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of smoke driving across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious than a heath fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the common that any
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disturbance was perceptible. There were half a dozen villas burning on the Woking border. There were lights in all the houses on the common side of the three villages, and the people there kept awake till dawn. A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but the crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges. One or two adventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the darkness and crawled quite near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and again a light-ray, like the beam of a warship s searchlight swept the common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow. Save for such, that big area of common was silent and desolate, and the charred bodies lay about on it all night under the stars, and all the next day. A noise of hammering from the
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pit was heard by many people. So you have the state of things on Friday night. In the centre, sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart, was this cylinder. But the poison was scarcely working yet. Around it was a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a few dark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there. Here and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a fringe of excitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation had not crept as yet. In the rest of the world the stream of life still flowed as it had CHAPTER EIGHT flowed for immemorial years. The fever of war that would presently clog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain,
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had still to develop. 26 All night long the Martians were hammering and stirring, sleepless, indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making ready, and ever and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up to the starlit sky. About eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and deployed along the edge of the common to form a cordon. Later a second company marched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common. Several officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the common earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to be missing. The colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge and was busy questioning the crowd at midnight. The military authorities were certainly alive to the seriousness of the business.
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About eleven, the next morning s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars, two Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan regiment started from Aldershot. A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road, Woking, saw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the northwest. It had a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness like summer lightning. This was the second cylinder. CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER NINE THE FIGHTING BEGINS Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating barometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in sleeping, and I rose early. I went into
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my garden before breakfast and stood listening, but towards the common there was nothing stirring but a lark. 27 The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went round to the side gate to ask the latest news. He told me that during the night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and that guns were expected. Then–a familiar, reassuring note–I heard a train running towards Woking. \ They aren t to be killed,\ said the milkman, \ if that can possibly be avoided.\ I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then strolled in to breakfast. It was a most unexceptional morning. My neighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture or to
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destroy the Martians during the day. \ It s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,\ he said. \ It would be curious to know how they live on another planet; we might learn a thing or two.\ He came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries, for his gardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic. At the same time he told me of the burning of the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links. \ They say,\ said he, \ that there s another of those blessed things fallen there–number two. But one s enough, surely. This lot ll cost the insurance people a pretty penny before everything s settled.\ He laughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he said this. The woods, he
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said, were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to me. \ They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the thick soil of pine needles and turf,\ he said, and then grew serious over \ poor Ogilvy.\ After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down towards the common. Under the railway bridge I found a group of soldiers– sappers, I think, men in small round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and showing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf. They told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, looking along the road towards the bridge, I saw one of the Cardigan men standing sentinel there. I talked with these soldiers for a time; I told them of my sight of the Martians on the previous
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evening. None of them had seen the Martians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they plied me with questions. They said that they did not know who had authorised the movements of the troops; their idea was that a dispute had arisen at the Horse Guards. The ordinary sapper is a great deal better educated than the common soldier, and they discussed the peculiar conditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I described the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue among themselves. \ Crawl up under cover and rush em, say I,\ said one. \ Get aht!,\ said another. \ What s cover against this ere eat? Sticks to cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near as the ground ll
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let us, and then drive a trench.\ \ Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you ought to ha been born a rabbit Snippy.\ \ Ain t they got any necks, then?\ said a third, abruptly–a little, contemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe. I repeated my description. \ Octopuses,\ said he, \ that s what I calls em. Talk about fishers of men–fighters of fish it is this time!\ \ It ain t no murder killing beasts like that,\ said the first speaker. 28 \ Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish em?\ said the little dark man. \ You carn tell what they
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might do.\ \ Where s your shells?\ said the first speaker. \ There ain t no time. Do it in a rush, that s my tip, and do it at once.\ So they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went on to the railway station to get as many morning papers as I could. But I will not weary the reader with a description of that long morning and of the longer afternoon. I did not succeed in getting a glimpse of the common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the hands of the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn t know anything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy. I found people in the town quite secure again in the presence of the
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military, and I heard for the first time from Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son was among the dead on the common. The soldiers had made the people on the outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses. I got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have said, the day was extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I took a cold bath in the afternoon. About half past four I went up to the railway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers had contained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent, Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I didn t know. The Martians did not show an inch of themselves. They seemed busy in their pit, and there was a sound of hammering
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and an almost continuous streamer of smoke. Apparently they were busy getting ready for a struggle. \ Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without success,\ was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper told me it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a long pole. The Martians took as much notice of such advances as we should of the lowing of a cow. I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this preparation, greatly excited me. My imagination became belligerent, and defeated the invaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of battle and heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at that time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs. About three o clock there
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began the thud of a gun at measured intervals from Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned that the smouldering pine wood into which the second cylinder had fallen was being shelled, in the hope of destroying that object before it opened. It was only about five, however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against the first body of Martians. About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering upon us, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and immediately after a gust of firing. Close on the heels of that came a violent rattling crash, quite close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst into smoky red
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flame, and the tower of the little church beside it slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished, and the roof line of the college itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been at work upon it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it, flew, and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a heap of broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my study window. I and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the crest of Maybury Hill must be within range of the Martians Heat-Ray now that the college was cleared out of the way. CHAPTER NINE At that I gripped my wife s arm, and without ceremony ran her out into the
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road. Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I would go upstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for. \ We can t possibly stay here,\ I said; and as I spoke the firing reopened for a moment upon the common. \ But where are we to go?\ said my wife in terror. I thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at Leatherhead. \ Leatherhead!\ I shouted above the sudden noise. She looked away from me downhill. The people were coming out of their houses, astonished. \ How are we to get to Leatherhead?\ she said. 29 Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway bridge; three galloped through the
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designate that hum of infinite potentiality which silence contains – which silence is – and which writing destroys. Other modes of critical analysis tell us how language can and does, in this or that particular context, function as a tool of power, a mechanism of oppression. The concept of meanability advances the far advances the far more radical notion that language is oppression. That language, that is to say, owes its very existence to a foundational act of suppression – namely, the suppression of non-language. Speech is always the silencing of silence. Writing is always the erasure of the blank …” As Ivan Lego went on in this vein, a disturbance was occurring at the theatre’s rear. Somebody outside was, rather tastelessly, trying to get in, creating ripples of restlessness in the area of the double exit doors. The crowd there was being made to shuffle
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disapprovingly sideways so that one of the closed doors could creak heavily in on them. An expanding wedge of sunlight spilled in through the widening breach. Standing in it was the backlit figure of Robert Browning, gripping the half-open gripping the half-open door by its horizontal metal bar, neither properly inside the theatre nor properly out of it, blinking into the relative gloom like a dazed animal. Within a second or two his eyes found the illuminated and fluently discoursing figure of Ivan Lego. Browning grimaced as if tasting something foul. Waves of audience unrest were fanning rapidly out from him. People were twisting around in their seats to see why other people were twisting around in theirs. A perturbed security guard hastened up the stairs to restore order. He pushed his way to Browning’s side, and drew him into some sober-looking negotiations. These ended with
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Browning’s coming all the way inside the theatre, so that the security guard (shaking his head as if now he had seen it all) could quietly all) could quietly push the door shut behind him. Through all of this Browning’s eyes stayed fixed on Ivan Lego, bound to him by an unseen tether of hate. The security guard moved away – but not too far away. He remained in position near the stairhead, eyeing Robert Browning with professional unease. Down on the stage, the interview proceeded. Salient was wanting Lego to say something, to say a lot, about the difference, the pressing and vital difference, between a regular empty page, any old empty page, and the kind 81 of empty page to be encountered, by its buyer, in a copy of Empty Pages. And Lego, in And Lego, in reply, was talking
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like one of his books again – one of his other books, his old books, his books with words in them, with many, many words. “On one hand, a page that has deliberately and strategically been left blank. On the other, the page that is blank merely because it has not yet been written on. The difference, I hope it is by now clear, is radical. The former is the opposite of, the negation of, the latter – while also containing the latter, containing it as a possibility in the sense that it contains all possibilities. To clarify: only when we have looked, directly, on the page that has been politically left blank can we properly be said to have encountered mean- ability in its pure form. So, pure form. So, yes. Empty Pages is, as you suggest, an implementation, a putting-into-practice, of the notion of
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meanability. The book rejects, more rigorously than any book before it, the tyranny of the written word. It shuns the possibility of particular or definitive meaning in order to embrace instead the meaning of possibility. It declines to privilege any word, any language, any thought, any genre, any character, over any other. It entertains all possible themes, characters, plots, modes, styles, situations, political stances, and disallows none. Naive critics will allege that the book says nothing. I reply, pre-emptively, that it says everything. Virginity, yes. Certainly. But sterility, no.” “You fraud!” cried a stricken voice from the theatre’s rear. Ivan Lego looked up with a mildly quizzical frown. The audience too looked around. And there, around. And there, near the back wall, at the centre of a widening space in the crowd, stood Robert Browning, with one quivering index finger pointing right down the length of
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the hall at Lego. Security personnel hurried towards him from all points. The guard who had let him in was back at his side already, gripping his elbow and making a firm but non-violent attempt to steer him back out. Browning ignored him. “How can you all just sit there?” he yelled. Sections of the crowd were hissing to drown him out. “Rise up! Walk out! Lynch him! Do something, for Christ’s sake!” Four guards were on him now, one on each limb, bearing him out supine like a stretchered corpse. “He’s taking you for a ride!” he shouted, fully horizontal shouted, fully horizontal now, lying eerily still, putting up no physical fight. “Are you all insane?” Ivan Lego, with moderate interest, watched him go. “Don’t swallow it!” Browning cried finally from beyond the open door. “Don’t let him – ” But then the door was
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slammed, and whatever he said afterwards went unheard. A hiatus in the official proceedings followed. The crowd stretched and whispered, shaking off its long silence like a dog shaking off water. Lego and Salient were on their feet, conferring with a woman who wore a complex set 82 of headphones 82 of headphones with an angled mike arm that veered down to the corner of her mouth. Perhaps it was she who had been saying things into Salient’s ear. Off to their left, a crouching stagehand was working with ten or twelve variously sized sheets of ply- or balsa wood. The insides of these wafer-thin panels were untreated, raw. Their outer surfaces, on the other hand, had been painted a rich red-brown and inlaid with an ultra-realistic false grain, so as to resemble hearty slabs of high-quality timber. The stagehand, with uncanny speed, was slotting them
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together to form the hollow simulacrum of a long and stately mahogany desk. When he was done, he picked the whole thing up with one hand and conveyed it to a pre-determined position a pre-determined position behind Lego and Salient, where another stagehand had just lined up a trio of empty chairs. Already making his way towards one of these was a small man of about seventy, wearing long baggy shorts and a Hawaiian shirt whose armpits were darkened by twin South Americas of sweat. His skin bore an all-over tan no less mahogany-coloured than the exteriors of the imitation desk. He had a grey moustache as limp and wispy as floating seaweed, and wore a red beret identical in every respect to Quentin Salient’s. Although he looked like the kind of man whose proudest cultural attainment is an ability to raise his lower lip over
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his nose when posing for photographs, he was in fact Vladimir Vonk, Conceptual Sculptor in Residence, installer of The Door installer of The Door and other equally distinguished works. Quentin Salient, catching sight of Vonk’s headgear, abruptly detached himself from Ivan Lego and hurried over to intercept the aging sculptor before he could take his seat. A heated-looking discussion ensued, with each man doing a lot of gesticulating at the other’s beret. The woman in the complex headphones moved calmly towards them to mediate. Shuffling past this contretemps with a vagrant-like lack of urgency, possibly en route to one of the other chairs, was an unkempt woman of around fifty. She blinked a lot, and had a long and brambly cataract of unrestrained grey hair. This was Rosemary Robinson-Robinson, a Visiting Fellow at the University’s Centre for Radical Thought, where she was known to
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be compiling a be compiling a 20-volume critical edition of the diaries of a semi-literate and long-dead English charwoman so obscure, so neglected, that it had taken the work of Robinson-Robinson to uncover the very fact of her having existed. Married to another academic also called Robinson, she had been obliged to take her present surname to demonstrate that she hadn’t taken his. She wore pale-blue nylon slacks of a vintage and quality seldom worn in public except by effigies of Guy Fawkes. There appeared to be, on the back of them, a fair amount of recently deposited soil and leaf matter. No brassiere figured beneath her T-shirt, which was tight, frayed, V-necked and maroon. On the whole she seemed to have dressed under a misapprehension that she would be painting her house all day, or working with or working with some notoriously tenacious
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brand of putty. And she was looking about herself with an air of concussed puzzlement, as though wondering where she was and how she’d 83 come to be here. Her incessantly blinking eyes spent more net time shut than open. Her lips worked in silent monologue. Swaggering towards the third chair was a much younger and altogether more compact personage, dressed entirely in black. A dark bowler hat was perched, with ironic intent, at a perilous angle on the back of her head; her fist was raised in solidarity towards some friend or acquaintance in the crowd. She was, in short, Pamela Scratch. She carried a messy armload of paperwork, possibly containing the text of a speech; and a long and a long cardboard cylinder of the kind used for storing rolled-up maps and posters. She took her seat at the fake desk and stowed the
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cylinder carefully beneath it, while smiling a secret smile. Behind her, Vladimir Vonk appeared to have been issued with a galling ultimatum about his beret. He ripped it off his head and flung it bitterly to the floor. An alert stagehand scooped it up in the manner of a ballboy and whisked it off the set. Vonk collapsed sulkily into the chair next to Pamela’s. His scalp proved to be not merely bald, but also startlingly less tanned than the rest of him, capped by this beret-shaped and slightly off-centre disc of abhorrently white skin over which he was now trying, without much success, without much success, to arrange the glistening anchovies of his few remaining hairs. Salient too resumed his seat, looking less than fully appeased by his victory. The word SILENCE reappeared on the monitor, and flashed in- temperately. And then Quentin Salient was
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able to relower himself into the soothing bath of the autocue. The time had come, he read from it, for the second por- tion of the programme. The portion where a panel of distinguished analysts from the University of —— would discuss, and assess the implications of, Lego’s book. After alleging that these analysts needed no introduction, Salient introduced them: Vladimir Vonk, conceptual installationist; Rose- mary Robinson-Robinson, the Visiting Fellow who had never gone away; and Pamela Scratch, present in her capacity in her capacity as spokesperson for the student group SNARBY. Perhaps Pamela Scratch, Salient proposed, could get the ball rolling. She had, he understood, been issued with an advance copy of Lego’s book. How, on behalf of SNARBY, did she respond to it? Pamela Scratch nodded her thanks, tamped square her notes, and faced the nearest camera. “Eight years ago this month,” she solemnly
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told it, “an unemployed labourer named Neville Claude Aggot fell victim to one of the most egregious miscarriages of justice in the legal history of this state. Today, at the age of thirty, he languishes in a maximum security facility for the differently sane. There he remains confined to a cramped cell which for as many as twelve hours a day admits no natural light. His natural light. His sentence is effectively indeterminate, his file stamped ‘never to be released.’ SNARBY – Secure Neville Aggot’s Release By Yuletide – is a non-profit organisation devoted to raising public awareness of Neville’s plight. But SNARBY’s 84 campaign is still very much in its infancy, and its funding situation remains parlous.” She turned officiously to Salient. “Quentin, when this goes to air, could this maybe be the point where you put our phone number up on the bottom of
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the screen?” She had moxie, you had to give her that. But maybe moxie was something all lunatics had automatically, as part of the basic lunatic package. In any case, her inquiry seemed to have caught Quentin Salient badly off guard. He was hunkered chubbily forward in his chair. in his chair. He appeared to be halfway through retrieving something from underneath it. Looking up into the silence in a startled way, he urged Pamela to continue with aggrieved motions of his hand. “Despite this chronic lack of resources,” Pamela accordingly went on, having smoothly refaced the camera, “SNARBY has single-handedly, in the matter of a few short weeks, placed this University at the very vanguard of the Aggot liberation movement. This despite a conspiracy of silence from the mainstream media on the Aggot case that verges on an outright scandal. Which brings me to this
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book. Empty Pages. Well, the title pretty much says it all, doesn’t it? 300-odd pages, each one of them totally silent on totally silent on the plight of Neville Claude Aggot. Which I consider symbolic, Quentin, sadly symbolic, of the docile silence that the whole of our so-called intelligentsia has seen fit to maintain on this issue.” Here she broke off to throw a withering look at Ivan Lego’s chair. But Ivan Lego proved to be no longer sitting in it. He had temporarily left the set to confer with someone over in the theatre’s front corner, near one of the exit doors. Quentin Salient, for his part, had by now found what he’d been seeking under his chair. It was a croissant! He was still holding this up to his mouth, having just taken a covert munch of it. His jaw was frozen in mid-
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chew. Once more he made strenuous manual made strenuous manual signals for Pamela to proceed. “Well this,” she declared, her voice tightening with rage, “is exactly the kind of apathy I’m talking about. So. Okay. Let’s break some of the silence, shall we? Let’s dare to say a few things that have never been said about this case.” She was pawing through her chaotic notes, extemporising angrily till she found the right document. “Let’s dare to ask some of the questions that never got asked.” Still shuffling papers. “The questions that Aggot’s inept lawyers never saw fit to raise at his trial. For example: how is it possible for a man to be both unemployed and a labourer? Which one was he? A or B? A simple enough question, you might think. But one that’s yet to receive a to receive a
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satisfactory answer. Right,” she decisively said, having found what she was looking for. “Let’s start with Neville’s arrest, shall we? Let’s start with the poisoned tree of his arrest. Which occurs with rather unseemly haste, to say the least. With suspicious promptness, in fact. Some thirty-six hours after the Baker slayings, to be exact. In a massive and well-orchestrated pre-dawn raid on Neville’s suburban home. Hardly, one might think, a measure consistent with Aggot’s legal right to be presumed innocent. Arresting a man at dawn, 85 in fact before dawn, and conducting a massive search of his home and his wall cavities – hardly something you’d do to a man you presumed to be in- nocent! And what about this search? What do you suppose the police suppose the police allegedly recovered, during this initial search of Aggot’s home? A search that Aggot isn’t allowed to
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be present at, by the way. Or any of his legal rep- resentatives, for that matter. Not that he’s even got any legal representatives at this stage. Not that that basic and fundamental human right has yet been accorded to him. So. Given all that, should it really surprise us that this ‘search’ of Aggot’s house should turn up exactly what the police are looking for? A veritable treasure trove of damning evidence that implicates him in the crime? For example: under a towel in Aggot’s basement, searchers will claim to have located the following items: a bloodstained hunting knife; a ring sub- sequently identified as the property of one of the alleged murder victims, namely 20-year-old ‘Kirsty’ victims, namely 20-year-old ‘Kirsty’ Baker; a bracelet, also identified as belonging to Kirsty Baker; and – yes, we’re not quite finished yet! – and a blood-soaked ski-mask. All
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this, I repeat, is found, allegedly, under one towel in Neville Aggot’s basement. One towel. A single towel. A conveniently large towel, one might think. At SNARBY, we like to refer to it as the ‘magic towel.’ It sort of calls to mind,” she improvised, making a deferential little half-turn to her left, “some of the conceptual work of Vladimir Vonk. Like The Door,” she improvised further, deftly weaving the adjacent sculptor into the fabric of her polemic, “like The Door, we seem to be confronted here with a sort of deliberate affront to our common sense …” “Balls,” Vladimir Vonk muttered Vladimir Vonk muttered in reply, in his lard-thick foreign accent. Pamela took this in her stride. Like a veteran newsreader skating over a technical hitch, she looked unflappably back to the camera and said: “‘Kirsty’ Baker. This, we might remember, is the victim the
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sexist main- stream media will seize on. The victim they’ll keep referring to as a ‘happy- go-lucky teenager.’ Thus ensuring that any slim chance Aggot might still have of getting a fair trial – well, thus ensuring that that goes flying fully out the window, along with all his other rights. But how can a teenager be twenty years old? Another one of those unresolved questions that this case is rife with. And how can any female in this day and age be happy-go-lucky? Maybe it was all this jewellery she this jewellery she owned. Maybe it was the fact that she still lived with her parents at the age of twenty. An age by which most women in the third world are veterans of the sweat-shop floor – if they’re not already dead, lying forgotten in unmarked graves, unmourned by the Western media. Uncomfortable questions,
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these. But again, questions that have never been properly asked. Questions that our complicit mass media prefers to pass over in silence …” Ivan Lego was still over near the frontal exit, supervising the efforts of a lady administrator from the department of socioliterology who was pushing a large wheeled trolley in through the door. Under Lego’s whispering guidance she positioned this contraption near the bottom of the side stairs. On its lower 86 deck sat 86 deck sat four large cardboard cartons, taped shut. On its upper deck was an electronic cash register that bore the stuck-on logos of several leading credit- card companies. Taped to the register was a sign saying: Empty Pages – $29.95 per copy – Please retain receipt to ensure continued enrolment. “But let’s return,” Pamela Scratch was saying, “to the issue of the magic towel. Let’s ask ourselves what the
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official story, the police story, requires us to believe. It requires us to believe, first of all, that Neville Claude Aggot, having just murdered a well-to-do family of four, and finding himself with a bloodstained murder weapon on his hands, a weapon that he desperately needs to get rid of, can come up with no better hiding place better hiding place for it than under a towel. Under a towel located in his own house, I might add. A towel lying out in plain view in his own basement. Plausible? I leave that question to the viewer. And incidentally, what are we supposed to think this towel was doing down there in the first place? A towel in a basement? What is there in a basement to get dry from? Who even has a basement? SNARBY has now been able to establish, thanks to a few
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rudimentary enquiries that Neville’s shamefully incompetent lawyers never saw fit to make, that the home’s bath and shower facilities were both located on the ground floor. So it seems a moot question, to say the least, why Aggot would wish to keep his towels a whole floor a whole floor below that. Or are we seriously being asked to believe that he was in the habit of padding down the stairs to his basement, nude and drip- ping wet, prior to towelling off?” Parts of the audience were starting to shift and murmur with impatience now, as if wondering when someone in authority was going to cut Pamela off. The novelty of the lights and cameras was starting to wear thin; people were beginning to understand that they were trapped here, locked in, duped into supplying the applause track to an hour of boredom they couldn’t
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switch off. Ivan Lego had somehow, without having visibly crossed the set, transferred himself to the stage’s other side, where he was quietly overseeing the wheeling-in of the wheeling-in of a second mobile checkout facility. Quentin Salient was vigilantly plucking flakes of yellow pastry off the front of his shirt. “Similar questions arise,” Pamela now alleged, “in relation to the blood- soaked ski-mask. What – to ask the fundamental question – what was a man like Neville Claude Aggot doing with a ski-mask? Are we seriously being asked to believe he was a practicing ski-er? This man brought up in a grim series of juvenile institutions? This man whose father was not, to put it mildly, the kind of pop who strapped the family’s skis to the roofrack and drove them off to the snowfields for the weekend? So I ask again: what was
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Neville Aggot doing Neville Aggot doing with a ski mask? An item which even expert ski-ers view as something of a luxury. An optional extra. So I’m told. Here, in other words, is yet another key piece of evidence that seems to have just materialised out of nowhere. But let’s pause here. And let’s imagine, just for a moment, that the police version of events is correct. Let’s imagine that Neville Aggot really did own this mask. Let’s imagine that he really did, at 87 some obscure point prior to the murders, experience this mysterious com- pulsion to buy a mask and go ski-ing. For the first and only time on record, mind you. And out of the sight of all witnesses, naturally. And despite the notable handicap of owning no equipment besides a mask. equipment besides a mask. Accept this scenario, and the
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issue of the multiple bloodstains on the mask becomes crucial. Because as a novice ski-er, isn’t it at least distinctly possible, if not in fact highly likely, that Neville Aggot would have suffered precisely the kind of accident that would cause his mask to become soaked with several dif- ferent types of blood? Including, primarily, his own? The police can’t have it both ways on this question. SNARBY hereby repeats its call for this crucial piece of evidence to be liberated from the clutches of the so-called impartial experts, and re-examined in an open and accountable forum.” The audience writhed and whispered. “But SNARBY is well aware,” Pamela went on, with a grave change of expression, “that there will “that there will still be, even now, viewers who remain convinced of Neville Claude Aggot’s guilt. Viewers who just can’t bring themselves to accept the likelihood of
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massive police fraud and evidence-tampering, abetted by the lies of a compliant mass media. To these people, I say this: your donations are every bit as crucial to SNARBY as the donations of those who consider Neville innocent. Because SNARBY’s activities do not begin and end with the belief that Neville Aggot is necessarily an ‘innocent’ man, in the narrow legal sense of that term. Indeed, even within SNARBY’s own ranks there are a range of opinions on this question. People are always surprised when I tell them this. But the fact is, SNARBY has never categorically ruled out the possibility that Neville Aggot maybe did have maybe did have a hand in these crimes. Maybe he was somehow involved. Maybe, having been systematically deprived of the rudimentary education that you and I take for granted, maybe he really did think a towel was a pretty
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good hiding place for a murder weapon. These questions may never be definitively answered. But in the end, the fight to secure Neville Aggot’s release goes well beyond such literal-minded definitions of ‘guilt’ and ‘innocence.’ Instead, it raises the far more fundamental issue of social justice. And from that standpoint, Neville Claude Aggot has been paying his debt to society since the day he was born. In fact he has paid it already, many times over. Surely to God the time has come for us to start repaying our debt to him. “So, “So, to those viewers who remain convinced that Neville maybe was in some way involved in this affair, I ask you to leave aside the narrow issue of legal ‘guilt.’ Instead, I urge you to ponder the following questions. Has Neville Claude Aggot committed genocidal atrocities, or condoned child starvation on a massive
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scale? Has he ordered air and ground forces to engage in covert bombings of civilian targets? Has he wiped out whole peoples in the name of religion? Has he manipulated the democratic process in foreign lands to prop up corrupt and murderous regimes? Obviously, the answer to all these questions is no. Of these crimes, Neville Claude Aggot is 88 quite clearly not guilty. And yet men who are guilty of such crimes, men such crimes, men who commit them every day, are allowed to go on serving in high public office, while Neville Claude Aggot rots in Butterfly Lodge. And when all is said and done, what do we really achieve by keeping a man like Aggot behind bars? Is it going to bring the Bakers back? Is it really likely to ‘reform’ Neville, to ‘improve’ him? If a petty thief comes out of prison
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an expert forger, if an expert forger comes out a hardened safecracker, then what’s a multiple murderer going to come out as?” On this dark note, Pamela spread her hands wide and let her argument rest. Silence. Ivan Lego, sensing that he was once more required on set, strode coolly back to his chair. Quentin his chair. Quentin Salient put his TV face on again, all tight and interested. “Mmm,” he intoned, swinging round to face Lego. “Ivan Lego?” Lego lifted both eyebrows in genuine surprise. “You won’t be leaving that in, surely?” Pamela Scratch scoffed loudly into her mike. Quentin Salient permitted his TV face to slacken. “I hear you, Ivan,” he ruefully exhaled. “But they might find it a bit confusing if she gets introduced and then never says anything.” “You’re not,” Pamela Scratch incredulously cried, “contemplating this cover-up!” “So cut her introduction as
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well,” shrugged Ivan Lego. Pamela scoffed again. Vladimir Vonk said: “While we’re at it, beret-boy, might we excise might we excise her hideous and ill-informed slur on my Door?” Salient grimaced like a man on a headache ad. “Think of the alternative,” said Ivan Lego to Pamela Scratch. “Do you really want to be seen proposing, on prime-time TV, that the media is engaged in a conspiracy of silence about a case that you then proceed to talk about for ten solid minutes?” “I note that she gets to keep her hat,” commented Vladimir Vonk bitterly. “It’s a paradox,” Pamela Scratch told Ivan Lego. “I thought you revelled in them.” Salient rubbed hard at his anguished temples. Rosemary Robinson- Robinson stared, blinking, Robinson stared, blinking, at a mysterious but fixed point in the middle dis- tance. “At the point where paradox shades
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into bullshit,” said Ivan Lego, “I stop revelling.” “She sports it with perfect impunity, this ridiculous hat of a Victorian gentleman!” Salient: “You realise we’re looking to fill fifty minutes here …” “Maybe you could just lose my ‘conspiracy of silence’ comment, and put everything else to air,” Pamela Scratch proposed. “I could live with that.” 89 “Oh for the sake of God!” cried Vladimir Vonk. “Could we stop molly- grubbing this spoiled little girl and maybe get onto my portion of this cir- cus?” By By this stage Salient was beyond caring. With an exaggerated and rather peevish sweep of his palm, as if whatever happened from now on was destined to be a matter of laughable inconsequence anyway, he gave Vonk the floor. Vonk, after some brief but strenuous gyrations in search of the right camera, embarked on a long and impassioned speech about
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the way that Lego’s book, as far as he could see, challenged only one assumption – namely, the assumption that a book should have words in it – whereas he, Vladimir Vonk, had personally supervised the construction of sculptures that challenged two, three, even four assumptions at once – that is to say, double, triple, or even quadruple the number of assumptions challenged by Lego in his book. “And yet book. “And yet where,” Vonk demanded, “are the trumped-up media fun- fairs in honour of my work? Where is the troupe of television sycophants licking my boots? Where” – he spanked the rickety desk with one of his tanned hands, causing its flimsy components to wobble dangerously – “are the hordes of installation-loving young girls for whom I sculpted away my youth?” Beside him, with no warning of any kind, and with no connection whatever to
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the point at hand, Rosemary Robinson-Robinson began to speak. “Let me say this,” she said, aiming a fusillade of blinks at a nearby patch of carpet. “Let me say this and no more. As a comment on the logic of late capitalism. This morning, on my way here, to this, I got lost. God got lost. God forbid the University bean-counters should put up a sign or something. Or a map. Anyhow, I was lost, I was hot, I needed a place to sit down. None of these things are actually against the law yet, as far as I know. None of these things are actually illegal. So anyway, my eyes fell on this bench. This shady- looking bench under a tree.” Beside her, Vladimir Vonk involuntarily stiffened. Suddenly this strange narrative had his full attention. “And first things first,” the dishevelled scholar was saying. “The
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thing stinks. It pongs. Smelled like it was made out of rotting fish or something.” Vonk’s eyes widened in horror. “I mean, welcome to life in the land of the land of the land of the campus bureaucrat. Millions of dollars in their coffers, and this is the state of their public benches! So anyway, I sat on it – ” Vonk issued a strangled howl. Quentin Salient, who had been attending to some fresh transmission in his earpiece, looked up in alarm. “ – and the whole bloody thing just collapsed. Straight away. Just fell apart like a, like a … Straight to the bloody ground, and me with it. I mean, what sort of bureaucratic bean-counter – ” “You insane hag!” Vladimir Vonk cried. “That was my Elemental Bench!” 90 “I mean, if this is the bean-counters’ bottom line –
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benches you can’t even sit on – ” “Are you totally blind? It had ropes all around it!” “Mr Vonk,” interjected Quentin Salient, holding up a plump palm, still inclining to the transmission in his right ear. “ – if this is, you know, if this is life in the land of the balanced budget …” Pamela Scratch was reaching opportunistically under the desk, bringing out the mysterious cardboard cylinder. “It was supposed to rot naturally into the earth!” Vladimir Vonk whimpered sullenly, more or less more or less to himself. Pamela withdrew the cylinder’s contents: a long rolled-up poster. “Mr Vonk,” Quentin Salient said again, “perhaps we could – “ But now he was obliged to break off and consider the actions of Pamela Scratch, who had risen from her chair in order to unroll her giant poster towards the audience. Silently, as if the
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picture on it very much spoke for itself, she unfurled the thing, and held it there for the crowd’s consideration. It was a blown-up black-and-white photograph of Neville Claude Aggot, as high as Pamela’s whole body and several times as wide. “Miss Scratch,” Salient objected, “Jesus – If we could just – Hey Ivan, no, Christ, not Ivan, no, Christ, not yet!” This to Ivan Lego, who was up on his feet and striding resolutely towards one of the front exits. He was leaving prematurely! He was transgressively departing from his own book launch! Impassively he disappeared out the door, with the woman in the complex headset in flustered pursuit. In the confusion, Pamela Scratch stepped up onto her chair, the better to display her vast poster. It was the controversial press photograph of Neville Aggot at age fifteen, crouching on his charcoaled front lawn after
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the fire-related death of his mother. Certain background details – the blackened houseframe, the smouldering caravan – had been airbrushed out. But no retouching work, or not nearly enough of it, had been done on the look in the boy’s eyes – boy’s eyes – that look of utter neutrality, so terribly inappropriate to the circumstances. A look that implied he was wondering if the photographer might be flammable too. Even so, Pamela Scratch seemed to feel that the image counted un- equivocally in SNARBY’s favour. She held it aloft with serene confidence, as if it furnished eloquent and clinching proof of the absurdity of Aggot’s continued incarceration. And then she raised a boot to step up onto the desk. Perhaps she had been planning to do this all along. Or perhaps she considered the audience’s reaction to the picture to be unsatisfactory, and ascribed this
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lukewarm response to the image’s lack of elevation. Either way, her plucky right boot ventured up from behind the great poster and began to grope began to grope blindly around for the desk’s surface, as if she had wholly failed to notice what that surface was made out of, or as if she had noticed but decided that the justness of her cause would enable her to stand on it anyway. 91 People were crying out in alarm already. Then her boot came down: and with an intricate and tindery crackle, a sound like a distant bushfire or a bitten chip, the whole frail structure im- ploded. The giant face of the young Neville Aggot pitched horribly forward and down, pulling Pamela Scratch rapidly after it. In a spray of atomised veneer she descended, landing with a gruesome and amplified thump and
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amplified thump near the suddenly visible legs of Vonk and Robinson-Robinson. And from that point the proceedings degenerated into farce. 92 8 “What about Barbra Streisand? Or Cher?” Streisand? Or Cher?” “What about one of those pricks that’s always mowing the greens when you’re trying to play golf?” “How about my cousin? The cunt maintains that vinyl sounds better than a CD! Reckons it’s got more ‘warmth’…” So here they were. Through eyes as narrowed as they could be without actually being shut, Fenton followed the deliberations. It was 2.36 am. His eyeballs were smouldering coals. The light they let into his brain felt like jagged glass. It hurt his head to look at things. At the Maoists, doing what they were doing. At Gus, who kept turning his way to deliver this series of suggestive winks. At the jemmied window. At the whole width of
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the illegally entered bar, idiotically entered bar, idiotically ablaze with fluorescent light. “Col, what’s the name of that fat lady in our film workshop that never shuts up?” “What, that mature-age one? The one who re-reads the complete books of Jane Austen once a year?” “Yeah, her. Let’s do her.” Here – to say it again – they were. Had anyone in the history of crime ever done this before? Broken into a premises and then just sat down in it with all the lights on and compiled a death list? What was the point? Couldn’t they be doing it at someone’s house? Admittedly Gus’s original vision had involved an assumption that they would be able to get the beer taps going. But when doing so had proved so had proved to require some measure more complicated than just pulling down on
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their duty of keeping this house secure.\\ \\ A very diplomatic suggestion.\\ Thomas inclined his head. Abruptly Falaise said, \\ I…thank you for your help, Lord Denzil, but I Denzil, but I do not…require it any longer.\\ Denzil stared down at her a long moment. \\ As you wish, Madame.\\ He turned away and left the anteroom. Aviler bowed sardonically and followed him. Thomas followed Falaise into the room and closed the door behind him. It was a perfect setting for her, with light sarsenet hangings and mirror-glass set in the paneling. There was no maid in evidence. He wondered briefly if Falaise had sent her female attendants away, or if she had even been offered any. Was Denzil on his way here just now because he heard I was, or because he knew Falaise was alone? And was that why Aviler was trailing after him?
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He leaned on the back of a tapestry-covered armchair to take the weight off his leg and Chapter Eleven said, Chapter Eleven said, \\ My lady, I think there are some things we need to discuss.\\ \\ Yes.\\ Falaise sat down on the daybed and looked up at him anxiously. \\ About Denzil.\\ 134 Kade had vanished somewhere along the way, though Thomas suspected she was nearby and within earshot. He wasn t worried about that. She already suspected most of what Falaise was about to tell him. \\ How much do you know about the Duke of Alsene s plans?\\ \\ Nothing, not really. He…\\ Falaise looked away nervously. \\ Denzil suggested that if my husband were to have to leave the throne, I might consider marrying him.\\ Landlaw again. The oldest traditions held that by being that by being the
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King s wife, Falaise took on part of the mystique of the crown, if not its authority. If Roland died without leaving children, and one of the possible heirs married Falaise, it would go far to strengthen his claim in the minds of a great many people. There were a considerable number of families with enough royal blood to pursue the throne, and many technically closer to it than Denzil s. But none of them had tried to suborn Falaise… It implies he s fairly sure she s soon to become a widow. \\ That s treason.\\ Her expression was earnest. \\ I know.\\ Thomas closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. \\ What did you tell him?\\ \\ I didn t answer him.\\ She made a helpless made a helpless gesture. \\ I tried to put him off. I was afraid if
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I said no he would tell Roland lies about me, but if I said yes, even if I didn t mean it, he might go through with what he planned. I didn t know who to go to.\\ Yes, you did. You Just couldn t get me to listen to you. Thomas noticed she had refrained from pointing that error out to him, but it would have been against Falaise s lifelong training to tell a man he had made a mistake. No, she would try to delicately manage him, which would make it all the more difficult to get the truth out of her. Yet that tactic had worked well with Denzil. She must have made a good job of stringing him along, if she had kept she had kept it up for several days without the young Duke losing his patience. Thomas could easily
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imagine Falaise swooning, gracefully weeping, and doing everything a woman about to give in did except actually give in. He looked up. \\ And he didn t give you any hint of how he was going to accomplish this?\\ \\ No. If he had, would that make things any better?\\ \\ Probably not.\\ Falaise was knotting the ribbons on the sleeve of her coat. \\ It is very bad, isn t it?\\ \\ Yes. If we ever get the evidence against him to bring a formal charge of treason, then he can take you to the gallows with him. You could bring the charge yourself, but I doubt Roland would take your word over Denzil s. There over Denzil s. There are plenty of others who know Denzil and probably would take your word before his, but their opinions won t count.\\ Thomas shook his head
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wearily. \\ We ll just have to make sure it won t come to that.\\ \\ How?\\ It was just one more reason for Denzil to die a hero s death at the earliest opportunity. It might not stop Grandier now, but it would clear up a number of miscellaneous side issues and relieve the feelings of several people, among them Kade, Ravenna, Falaise, and himself. But it didn t make it any easier. They were not under Roland s nervous eye anymore, but with the knights and High Minister Aviler as biased witnesses, it was still a difficult problem. \\ The less you know now, the better,\\ the better,\\ he told her. Chapter Eleven 135 \\ Wait.\\ She hesitated. \\ I wanted to tell you that my patronage is yours, whatever happens. I know that Roland is against you, but if the Duke of Alsene
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is gone he would be so much easier to deal with and if things get back to the way they were… When Ravenna isn t here anymore, when I m patron of the Queen s Guard, I want you to stay as Captain.\\ Her eyes lifted to meet his for the first time. \\ My patronage, and my very sincere…regard.\\ Oh, fine, Thomas thought in annoyance. In the language of the court, her meaning was clear. Regard equaled favor, and favor meant access to her bed to her bed in return for his support. He looked at her a long moment, keeping his expression neutral. \\ I ll remember that, my lady.\\ * * * Listening in the anteroom, Kade knocked her head ungently against the wall and thought, And that is the tale of my life. She slipped out, unnoticed. * * * When Thomas
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went out into the anteroom, Lucas was telling Gideon, \\ –and when he heard about it he went absolutely mad and you re lucky if you re not–\\ They both looked up when he shut the door. Thomas said to Gideon, \\ When this is over we re going to have a talk, but until then we won t refer to it. Now stay here and make sure no one walks off one walks off with her.\\ The young lieutenant winced. \\ Yes, Sir.\\ Thomas went out, Martin and Lucas following him. A servant wearing a steward s chain approached them, somewhat warily. \\ Lord Aviler would like to see you, Captain.\\ Lucas raised an eyebrow and casually adjusted one of the pistols in his sash, but Thomas shook his head. He followed the man through a small gallery hung with family portraits and to a
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door at the far end, the others trailing along. As Aviler s man knocked on the door, Lucas dropped into one of the armchairs and Martin leaned on the wall. The servant eyed them nervously, but didn t voice any objections. Inside was a study warmed by a fire in a pink marble hearth and lit by gray late-afternoon light gray late-afternoon light from two windows in the far wall. The floor was covered with bright eastern carpets probably brought back from the trading voyages Aviler the Elder had made his fortune on. Through chance or careful planning, they managed not to clash with the striped red silk covering the walls. The High Minister was standing with his back to the fire as Thomas stepped in. He motioned for the steward to withdraw, then said, \\ Lord Denzil s preparing to leave. I thought you might
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be interested.\\ Thomas limped to one of the windows. The snow had stopped and the view gave onto the street below where they had fought that morning. The wrecked coaches were still there, though the city troop must have brought in the bodies. The carriage doors below were just opening. Night would fall in an hour in an hour or so; it was a nearly suicidal time to be venturing out. Aviler said, \\ For a house under siege, there s a great number of people coming and going. I know what you re planning.\\ Thomas watched Denzil emerge on horseback with his men grouped behind him. They began to pick their way down the snow-choked street before he turned back to the High Minister. \\ Do you?\\ \\ You re going to take the good Duke of Alsene down. If I hadn t been there,
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your lieutenant would have killed Chapter Eleven him in my dining room.\\ Aviler crossed to a long draw table piled with books and papers and sat on one corner, watching him. \\ I don t mind what t mind what you do to each other, and he did put the Queen in unpardonable danger by keeping her from leaving the city.\\ He leaned forward. \\ But don t do it here.\\ 136 Thomas watched him thoughtfully. \\ I don t have that choice anymore, it seems. And he s done more than put the Queen in danger.\\ \\ I can hardly believe anything you tell me at this point.\\ Thomas started for the door. \\ Then I won t tell you. But if you think he s going to join Roland, you re laughably wrong. Send someone to follow him and you ll find he s
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taking the street back to the palace. Then ask yourself why.\\ He went out. Lucas looked out. Lucas looked up as he shut the door behind him and said, \\ Well?\\ Thomas told him, \\ We re getting the Queen out of here tomorrow, whatever it takes.\\ * * * The court had ridden into Bel Garde in the late afternoon, and now in the gateyard Ravenna sat her horse amid the turmoil of servants, courtiers, Albons, Cisternans, and her own men, watching as Renier ordered guard placements. The late Dr. Braun s apprentices already stood before the closed outer gates, working with books, incense burners, and other odd tools to temporarily ward those fragile barriers of metal and wood against the fay. They had been attacked again passing through the city gates, and several parties had been scattered or killed, but the fay had not
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followed them out. Satisfied with the arrangements with the arrangements being made here, Ravenna let her guards urge her further into the fortress. Once through the inner gate and the portcullis, Bel Garde s celebrated interior court with its fountains and miniature gardens was visible, though smothered now under a heavy blanket of snow. The stonework on the newer bastion looming over them was as ornate as gilded filigree, with curves, curls, and the faces of classical luck sprites worked into the carving. A gem of a fortress, someone had called this place. Yes, Ravenna thought, but because a sword is jeweled does not mean the blade is no longer deadly. \\ Find Lieutenant Gideon and tell him to bring Falaise to me at once,\\ she told the nearest guard. As he rode off she looked down to see Elaine trotting beside her horse
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and tugging urgently and tugging urgently on her riding skirt. \\ My lady, if you don t come out of this wind you ll get your sickness again.\\ Ravenna leaned down to remonstrate with her and found herself coughing helplessly into her sleeve. Acknowledging physical weakness was not something she did gracefully. Once she could speak again, she cursed Elaine, the guards who came to help her down, and, rather unjustly, her horse, who stood rock steady with well-trained patience throughout the whole episode. They led her through a wide door into a large, beautifully appointed entry hall. It was too cold to remove her cloak, but Ravenna had to admit the relief from the wind was welcome. She gestured Elaine away impatiently and paced, knotting her fingers together, noting the servants who worked to build up the fire were her fire were her
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own and not those of the fortress. \\ I want this place searched top to bottom.\\ \\ Yes, my lady.\\ The guard she had sent after Falaise came through the door, letting in a blast of cold air. His eyes were worried and Ravenna tensed. \\ My lady,\\ he said, \\ Lieutenant Gideon and the other men who rode escort to Chapter Eleven the Queen aren t anywhere to be found.\\ Ravenna stopped, staring at the carved paneling in front of her. \\ And Falaise?\\ \\ Not with the Albons or His Majesty s party.\\ Ravenna nodded to herself. \\ Denzil.\\ * * * Later, Thomas sat in front of in front of the fireplace in the parlor of the suite they had commandeered for a 137 headquarters. Gideon and most of the others were guarding Falaise, and Lucas had led an expeditionary force consisting of
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himself, Martin, and the two Cisternans down into the kitchens after food. Berham and Phaistus were sitting at a table across the room making bullets, the older man holding the leather-wrapped bullet mold and the younger carefully pouring hot lead from the small crucible. The most badly wounded guard had died a short while ago. With men Thomas had led and fought beside for years dying and in constant danger, it was foolish to grieve over the death of someone he had in actuality never really known, but he found his thoughts turning to Galen Dubell. He had never He had never been so completely taken in by anyone, Thomas decided, and that was what disturbed him the most. He had first come to court younger than Roland was now, and had made his way through all the traps and pitfalls alone. Never allowing himself to
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trust anyone, he had escaped machinations that had ruined others and had learned how to deceive with the best of them. Perhaps he had believed Grandier because the old sorcerer had never asked for anything. Thomas wondered how Dubell had felt when he had realized the trusted friend or servant that Grandier must have pretended to be had been watching, learning, gathering information for an impersonation that would kill its victim. If the old man had even been allowed to realize that, if he hadn t died in complete ignorance of what was happening to was happening to him. Kade wandered into the room with the air of someone waiting for a public coach and settled into the other chair, and he was glad of the distraction. Thomas had not asked her why she hadn t left the city. They had all assumed she had the
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means to do so, though they had never had any proof of it. It had occurred to him that he was taking her for granted, like taking gunpowder for granted when one carried pistols much of the time. And now she was staring at him. He said, \\ Yes?\\ She said, \\ What do you think Roland will do when he finds out about Denzil and Falaise?\\ He had the feeling this wasn t really what was on her mind, but he mind, but he wasn t willing to pursue that suspicion. He said, \\ I don t know.\\ At the moment he was too tired to care about a possible outburst from Roland, though he supposed later he would have to manage it. Interesting to think how it was possible to grow out of the need for power, and to desire freedom from the constant
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wrangling of those who still wanted it. \\ Roland, Denzil, and Falaise make an interesting triangle. It s a pity I can t confuse the issue any further by pursuing Falaise.\\ The young Queen was beautiful, but so were most of the other women at court. She was also the kind of woman for whom men would continually ruin themselves, and he was past that stage. Did Denzil want Falaise, or was that the only way he knew to approach knew to approach her? Falaise had evidently not wanted him. Thomas doubted she wanted anybody. Her offer to him had held no warmth. She offered her body because she thought it was part of the process of sealing an agreement. Chapter Eleven Was I like that? Thomas wondered. Was that what I thought when Ravenna first approached me, all those years ago? Kade interrupted his thoughts.
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\\ Why not?\\ 138 He had time to notice that he had spoken to her in the offhand way he might speak to a friend, without any regard for propriety or anything else. He also suspected he had just opened the way for her to ruthlessly question him about whatever subject occurred to her, but it was too it was too late to stop at this point. \\ If I were going to raise a child, I d have started before now.\\ Kade greeted this with another long moment of enigmatic silence, then she said, \\ Oh.\\ She looked into the fire for a little while, then chuckled to herself. He glanced at her suspiciously. \\ What?\\ \\ Nothing.\\ Another pause, then she asked, \\ How did Denzil get such a hold on Roland? That he can threaten the Queen, of all people, with her too
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afraid to ask for help?\\ Thomas watched the fire for a moment, remembering. \\ Right before your father died, Roland tried to kill himself by cutting his wrists, but he bungled it. Denzil found him, bandaged him up, concocted a story to explain it. He to explain it. He also kept him from attempting it again.\\ Kade bit her lip, thinking, then shook her head. \\ But that almost seems like Denzil must care for him, and I may be odd, but I can t imagine that.\\ \\ You can care for someone and hate them at the same time. And Denzil was nothing without Roland s support then. He needed a live prince to attach himself to.\\ He glanced over at her. \\ Don t look like that. Roland didn t have to fall into Denzil s clutches. Look at you. You haven t got
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a Denzil hanging about somewhere in Fayre, have you?\\ \\ Of course not.\\ She shuddered theatrically. \\ And I was not looking guilty, I was looking thoughtful.\\ Thomas hadn t Thomas hadn t said the word \\ guilty,\\ but he didn t intend to point that out. If she could fall into such an obvious trap then she must be considerably distracted. A log rolled to the edge of the hearth, and he stood, somewhat awkwardly, supporting himself on the arm of the chair, to push it back in with the poker. Kade winced. \\ I m sorry about that.\\ He dropped back into the chair. \\ About saving my life? There s a cheery sentiment.\\ She refused to be diverted. \\ What if it never heals?\\ She was just as well aware as he was about what it would do to his speed in a
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fight. \\ Well, I m getting old for a duelist. It probably won t probably won t make any difference in the long run.\\ \\ Don t say that; I have enough to worry about.\\ Kade slumped further down in her chair. \\ How are we going to get rid of Denzil?\\ Thomas wondered how she could sit like that without breaking her back. He answered, \\ I m going to kill him, if I ever get the chance. But I d like to do it without dooming Falaise, myself, or anyone else.\\ Chapter Eleven \\ I could do it. Roland hates me anyway, and he can t come after me where I live.\\ He snorted. \\ I m hardly likely to ask you to do a thing like that.\\ \\ It s nothing I haven t I haven t done before.\\
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139 The somewhat airy way she said this caused him to doubt that she was as indifferent as she pretended, but he answered, \\ I don t care if you go about murdering people every afternoon. You d make me look a fool or a worse scoundrel than Denzil, and I d think of some horrific way to retaliate.\\ She shrugged and rubbed the arm of the chair distractedly. \\ It shouldn t matter, even if I am related to him. I wished my father dead.\\ Thomas frowned. \\ What makes you say that?\\ Her eyes on the fire, Kade said slowly, \\ I wished it, very hard, with everything I had, which I was beginning to realize might be quite might be quite a bit. And he died.\\ \\ He didn t just fall over dead.\\ \\ Yes, he did.\\ She looked stubborn. \\ No,
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he did not. Were you there?\\ \\ No, of course not, but I know what happened because I caused it.\\ \\ I don t know why I bother to listen to you argue in circles.\\ Kade made an exasperated gesture. \\ Because you can t come up with anything better than No, he did not. How do you know? My magic was wild then, I didn t know what I was doing, I could have caused any amount of harm.\\ He was silent for a long moment. He said finally, \\ Does it matter, as long matter, as long as he s dead?\\ \\ No, I suppose not.\\ She sank further in her chair and stared at the fire. Thomas glanced back at the two servants. Berham was deep into a story of one of the last battles of the Bisran War, and Phaistus was so
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engrossed in it he was getting hot lead all over the table. He turned back to the fire. \\ Fulstan was poisoned.\\ Her expression went blank. It was hard to tell if she was astonished or not. He said, \\ Ravenna did it. I got the poison for her. It was foxglove, as I recall.\\ Kade stood up and walked around the room in a circle. After a few moments she wandered back to the fire and sat down again as if she as if she had just arrived. Thomas added, \\ Believe it or not, Ravenna never quite realized what Fulstan was doing to you or to Roland. She s very single-minded. He knew he should be wary of her, but she couldn t touch him under court- or landlaw, and I suppose he thought his position was safe. After your little outburst in the
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cathedral, she began to wonder why you d become such a terror. I discovered some of the details for her so she sent you out of the city to the convent. You d been gone a week when Roland botched his attempt to bleed to death, and when she heard about that she made the decision.\\ He shrugged. It all seemed a very long time ago. \\ There wasn t any Chapter Eleven dancing in Chapter Eleven dancing in the streets, but most of the mourning was insincere.\\ 140 She was silent for a long time, and Thomas listened to the fire crackle and Bertram s voice in the background. Finally Kade said quietly, \\ I never thought anybody wanted to kill him but me. Even Roland thought it was something he did, like not riding well enough or playing games badly.\\ Thomas leaned forward and
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added another log to the fire. \\ Well, it was time you knew.\\ * * * It was much later and most of the house was asleep when Kade made her way up to the highest attic and eased up the sash of a window there, mindful of the nails in it. It was it. It was cold, bitterly cold, with a patina of frost glittering over every surface and clouds hiding the stars. It was very dark and the moon was in its waning; in the Old Faith, it was the dark time, the death of white magic. The reigning time of the Host. The gray-black rooftops spread around her like an angular un-moving sea. She could just see the palace from here as an odd collection of shapes, some recognizable as towers, another as the dome of the Summer Residence. The faint glow of
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witch-light flickered over the walls. She climbed out onto the slate-shingled roof of the gable just below and sat in front of the window, to keep anything from trying to enter the house behind her back. She shivered and hugged her knees, though she had augmented her clothing with a man with a man s shirt Berham had found for her and Thomas s battered buff coat. I did not kill my father. Her emotions were as tangled as a jumbled collection of beaded necklaces. She wished she could untangle the strands and run them through her fingers one by one. Disappointment, that she could understand. It was not an odd emotion for someone who had believed a lie was the truth, particularly as it was a lie she had told herself. Confusion, anger, remembered fear, all these were explicable, if hopelessly intertwined. It was the
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strange sensation of release, the sense of freedom that she couldn t understand, that made her face hot and her hands numb with the strength of it. As if something tightly coiled inside her chest had relaxed a trifle. It seemed to make other things possible as well. It as well. It seemed to imply that it might be possible to forget, eventually. Time to stop dreaming like a child, she told herself with an irritated toss of her head. Time to think and plan. She closed her eyes and whispered, \\ Boliver, come here now; I need to talk to you.\\ A gust of wind carried the words away. Nothing happened. I hate it when he makes me do this. \\ As Queen of Air and Darkness, and on my sovereignty of Knockma, I call Boliver Fay.\\ For a long breathless moment there was no
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answer, then out of the cloud-covered sky a star fell. It plunged toward her and landed lightly at her feet, then resolved with a flash of light into Boliver, who said, \\ It s not bloody easy getting here, easy getting here, you know.\\ He was about Kade s height, wizened and red bearded, and his vivid blue eyes were worried. He wore a high peaked hat and a somewhat tattered velvet doublet. \\ No, I don t know. That s why I called you. How is Knockma?\\ \\ Not so good. There are members of the Host drawn up on the border to Fayre, though not a sign of them on the mortal side, so far. They didn t like you much to begin with, and now with you taking the human part in this war–\\ \\ Is everyone all right?\\ Kade had worried about
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her household. Some of them were human, and none terribly good at defending themselves. Chapter Eleven 141 Boliver was 141 Boliver was offended. \\ You know I wouldn t let anything happen to them. But why are you doin this? Have you gone witless? You didn t make up with your brother by chance?\\ \\ No, of course not.\\ Kade doubted she ever would. Roland wouldn t welcome such an overture, and she wasn t certain she wanted to make it anymore. There was too much history between them, and they might only remind one another of things better forgotten. The news that he had tried to take his own life had been an unpleasant surprise, and her thoughts shied away from it. She looked out over the dark dead city again. \\ I ve got a reason for it.\\ \\ A reason, she says.
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Oh, joy.\\ Oh, joy.\\ Boliver rolled his eyes. She rubbed her forehead. \\ I ll hold Knockma for us, don t worry.\\ \\ I m not worried.\\ He let his knees knock and his teeth chatter convincingly. \\ I m petrified. I ve no wish to vanish down Evadne s gullet. Or watch me bosom companions do likewise.\\ \\ Neither do I.\\ She shifted impatiently. \\ I need your help.\\ He snorted. \\ As if I had a choice.\\ \\ Well you don t, so be quiet and listen. I need you to fly over the palace and tell me what you can see.\\ \\ Fly over the palace? What have I done to deserve it? With all those boglie-woglies everywhere?\\ \\ Yes. I \\ Yes. I d do it if I could, but I can t, and that s all there is
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to it!\\ Boliver was her oldest friend in Fayre, and she didn t want to risk him, but there was no other way to learn what she needed to know. If there was one thing Kade regretted, it was her lack of the fay ability to shape-change and to fly. \\ Yes, yes. I know. You ve got your head set on defeating the Unseelie Court and their minions one-handed, I suppose, and there s no dissuading you. Well, wish me luck.\\ She stood as he vanished into starlight and streaked away toward the shadowy bulk of the palace towers. \\ Luck,\\ she whispered. Chapter Twelve Chapter Twelve 142 THOMAS 142 THOMAS WOKE BEFORE dawn, the wound in his leg stiff and sore. Despite the fire, the room was frosty and he sat on the bed and struggled into his doublet. He stood and limped around
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until he could walk without obviously hobbling, then tried to do a fencer s full extension. He got halfway down and needed the help of the bedpost to get back up. Phaistus was sleeping in front of the doorway, rolled up in a rug and snoring. He hadn t stirred when Thomas was bumping around the room and didn t wake when he stepped over him and opened the door. The anteroom was lit only by two candles on the mantel, their soft light making the blue wallpaper dissolve into shadow and hiding the disarray of the disarray of the fine furnishings. Kade was sitting on the floor with the contents of an ebony trinket cabinet spread out around her. It was probably the silver-gilt curiosities and mother-of-pearl boxes that had attracted her attention, but it was the seashells, the baby s skull, and the ostrich
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egg that had undoubtedly kept it. She looked up at him. \\ Are you going back to the palace today?\\ It was too early for this. He dropped into an armchair. \\ Wouldn t that be an extraordinarily foolish thing to do?\\ \\ I don t know. I don t think about things that way.\\ She held up a seashell with her bandaged hand, passed the other hand in front of it, and the shell disappeared. \\ I suppose it would depend on why you were why you were going. And who went with you.\\ She pulled the shell out of her right ear. \\ Do you want to find the keystone?\\ Thomas watched her for a moment. She was giving the shell the sort of concentration usually reserved for a deep philosophical problem. He was certain Denzil had returned to the palace yesterday, and he
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meant to discover why. He had thought the keystone was a lost cause. \\ Would that do any good?\\ \\ The wards themselves are still there, drifting over the older parts of the palace, and the other wardstones are still in place. If we replace the keystone, it will pull the wards back down into their original courses, and the Host will have to leave or be trapped inside.\\ Thomas knew Grandier must have taken must have taken the stone, probably soon after he had arrived at the palace, but that still didn t leave them a clue of where to look for it. \\ He could have hidden the keystone anywhere inside the palace. Or more likely, he handed it to Dontane, that night at court when he was there, to hide somewhere in the city. It would be like looking for one certain rock
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in a quarry.\\ \\ But it s a very special sort of rock. If I could get to one of the plain wardstones, and take a chip from it,\\ Kade said slowly, \\ I might be able to use it in a spell, to find the keystone.\\ Thomas frowned. \\ How?\\ \\ Years and years ago when all the stones were placed in the warding in the warding spell, they became one. Even when the keystone has been removed, and the matrix isn t there anymore, the stones remember. It s like using a lock of hair to find a person.\\ She stared at the shell in her hand, vexed. \\ I should have thought of this before we left the palace yesterday.\\ \\ There aren t warding stones in the Old Courts. It would have been just as dangerous to go into the other part
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of the palace then as it is now,\\ he said. And you had other things to think about. \\ If you came with me, you could do this spell while we were in the palace, and discover if the keystone is still there?\\ Chapter Twelve 143 Kade considered Kade considered this a moment, her eyes moving through the collection of curiosities on the floor. \\ No. Am I a fool for being honest?\\ \\ No. Am I a fool for expecting you to be honest?\\ Even as he said it he realized it was true. He had been prepared to believe her answer, even if it had served her purpose. Kade didn t look up at him, staring instead at the shell lying on her bandaged palm. \\ So, whatever are we going to do?\\ She closed her hand, and opened it again. The shell had
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vanished. \\ Don t play coy; it ill becomes you.\\ She pulled the shell out of her ear again and for the first time looked at him directly. \\ All directly. \\ All right, will you say I can come with you or do we have to have a loud fight about it and attract the attention and speculation of the entire house?\\ Thomas sighed and looked at the ceiling. \\ I don t know, I could do with a loud fight. Gets the blood moving.\\ He had seriously considered asking her to come already. She could escape any danger far more readily than he could and with her help his chances of accomplishing something increased to the point of the almost possible. Kade made the shell vanish again, stood to lean on his chair arm, and apparently found it in his ear. This time he
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saw it come out of her sleeve. \\ Get away from me,\\ he told her cordially. Kade smiled. \\ Kade smiled. \\ I m going with you, am I not?\\ He said, \\ Yes. We ll both be fools together.\\ * * * Falaise did not complain when told she had another long ride ahead of her. She seemed just as anxious to go as they were to send her on her way. The Queen s presence had assured them the loan of some of Aviler s horses, and the servants readied them in the large roofed court that held the house s stables. The large chamber was warmed somewhat by the presence of the animals and was probably one of the more comfortable areas of the house. This did not entirely account for the number of city guardsmen who had ostensibly shown up to see
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them off, probably on Aviler s orders. Thomas Aviler s orders. Thomas was sending all the guards who had survived the flight from the palace, even the most badly wounded. Aviler would probably interpret this as the basest form of distrust, but at the moment the last thing Thomas cared about was the High Minister s opinion of him. He drew Lucas aside while Gideon was helping Falaise to mount and said, \\ I m not going with you. I m going back to the palace.\\ He hadn t thought this would be well received and he wasn t mistaken. Lucas stared at him incredulously. \\ Why?\\ They keep asking me that, Thomas thought. Do I seem bored, that I have to invent these things to keep myself busy? \\ Why do you think? That s where Denzil went. He must realize
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He must realize that we ll get the Queen out of here, and with her gone he s not likely to come back.\\ \\ What if he isn t there?\\ Chapter Twelve 144 \\ If he is, it s the best chance I m likely to have at him. If he s not, I can at least have a look at what s happening there before I go on to Bel Garde.\\ He didn t know if Aviler had sent someone to follow Denzil or not; probably not, and he didn t want to give his own plan away by asking. It seemed unlikely that Aviler was in the plot with Denzil, but it had seemed unlikely that Galen Dubell was anything other than what he than what he had appeared. Lucas said, \\ Send someone else, Thomas. Or I ll go.\\ \\ No, it s
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safe, because you arenPt. It was a trick and I am caught in it. Fight them, Bobby; fight them for me, my amigo. And Bobby did. He struggled for them both. The Mexican could not die on him, could not leave him alone. He decided to transfer the wetsuit to him. He untied himself to do it, got the jacket off — 207 — and 207 — and went over twice in the effort, once taking Gomez with him, losing the jacket to pull the Mex- ican back. Now they shared the cold quiver of ex- posure. It was a strange environment, a religious ex- perience. Bobby had his first conversation with God in a long time. Here he made a covenant be- fore God. Should Gomez die, so should he. In BobbyPs mind he allowed no other truth. God would not kill him. They both
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had children; he bartered. God would not kill fathers. Stand together. He spoke before God, for the two for the two of them, keeping his young childPs face before him while he bargained. He re- minded God how she waited for him, needed him. For Gomez, it was the same. It all flowed to- gether, he figured, to GodPs table L reasons to live. Through it all Gomez faded. Pale, cold, moan- ing, unresponsive, his incoherence fed into drift- ing delirium. Bobby knew if they could stay alive the Gulf would carry them home across the shipping lanes. Then he thought maybe it wouldnPt be exposure. Maybe they would both die quickly in the night, becoming part of the froth in some freighterPs bow. Or they could hope the seas turned torrential again. TheyPd again. TheyPd die either way and find God.
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Work on it the next time around. HePd heard the the- ory, somewhere once, drunk in a bar maybe. He could stay awake and watch for shipping, but he didnPt. He couldnPt. Instead he dreamt five minutes from eternity, almost like he was chas- — 208 — ing Gomez. TherePd been a lot written about how to avoid delirium, but when it becomes an au- thentic, you donPt. It was a very unifying experi- ence. Simplicity. Priorities no longer stepped into place as ordered. With nowhere else to go that night he slid into the past, him and his daughter, drifting, just for a minute. — 209 for a minute. — 209 — International Salvage Brownsville, Texas Friday Noon Sunny had got them well into Texas before they stopped for the night. He let Rachel sleep in a little on Friday. She couldnPt get herself angry
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about it. about it. She knew hePd made the right decision. She slept a good part of the morning in the back of the cab, not coming around until he stopped and woke her for a late lunch. Chicken fried steak, a Texas specialty. ThatPs when she started to notice the stormPs agenda in Texas as well as Louisiana. Damage and debris had rambled everywhere across the wide-ranging Texas scrubland. There were tum- bled buildings, flooded roadways, unhappy faces, ditched cars, and fallen power lines. South Texas had paid every bit as high a price, maybe more. The final couple of hundred miles passed as if they werenPt there. Long-distance driving was like that L after the first the first few hundred miles things turned automatic. She thought through some of her Brownsville priorities, then tossed the agenda and decided it would
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show its own order. Everything else had happened that way. — 210 — The farther south they got, the more definitive the changes. The landscape, architecture, and even the traffic were different. The cars were an- cient, gas-guzzling beasts, fenders and hoods de- tached at random. The driver highballing with his head out the window for vision. Sombreros and dark skins, culture and influ- ence seeping up from the approaching border. The housing played between redneck trailer parks and Mexican peasant adobe. ShePd heard of it heard of it be- fore, but now began to realize that to understand Tex-Mex you had to be there. They rolled past International Salvage, as Sunny took several minutes to ease his way through the kamikaze waves of southbound traf- fic and onto the shoulder. It took another couple of minutes to get turned around and headed back. She was
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glad shePd had the foresight to let her agenda detail its own timetable. If you happened to pass it, visit. It made her feel as if she was get- ting a flow to things. It was a couple of miles before she saw the high metal fencing looming up on the left, and a large left, and a large neon sign, International Salvage, proudly standing atop the buildings. Barbed wire topped the gates. A rough-cut but uniformed security guard ac- companied them as they wound their way towards the buildings. She watched the repair work un- derway on the place. It was a big operation, this marine salvage business. There was a lot of ac- tivity besides the storm repairs. Men, equipment, and acres of indistinguishable chunks of steel — 211 — mingled in sound, mud and sweat. It was busi- ness as usual, looking very
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legitimate. It intimi- dated her a little. She questioned her propriety for a second. The guard ordered Sunny to park in front of the in front of the longest and best looking of the bank of build- ings. Another guard, this one in a suit, came to accompany them. Someone called him Enrico while he was insisting that Sunny stay in the car, and the guard stay with Sunny. She got a singular kind of feeling from the man, and it wasnPt a hospitable one. She hadnPt been in the state long, but had seen enough to know if youPre in Texas youPre a cowboy, a uni- form, or a peon, not a suit. Suits L shiny, expen- sive ones L belonged in New Orleans and San Diego, maybe, but not at International Salvage. It seemed out of place on the fringe of existence
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down fringe of existence down here with the burritos and the rednecks. The whole place extended uneasiness, an un- certain itchy feeling. Cops would have a word for it, she thought to herself. YouPre welcome but donPt come, and if you do, donPt stay long. Enrico left her with the secretaries and disap- peared down a corridor. Ten minutes passed. She tried to admire the 1950Ps coifs on the secretaries as they eyed her. Just when she started thinking about looking by herself, Enrico returned, smiled his cold, distant smile, and led her back the way hePd come. A man stood up to greet her. MMarkovitz, Hertzel Markovitz.N He held out his hand. She shook it. She shook it. With a practiced motion he offered her — 212 — a seat. MCan I get you something, Ms, uh?..N MForster. Rachel Forster.N She said it
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as if she expected him to never forget it. MNo. Nothing for me, thanks.N She took him in as she spoke. MI ap- preciate your making the time to see me.N He was well dressed, a little pimpish, but polished. She could deal with it. She got a look from him that let her know she should appreciate the time he was taking for her. MWhy, itPs no problem. I understand youPve been calling our office, wanting information on a ship we had under tow.N under tow.N He paused only long enough for Rachel to catch the word MhadN before continuing. MIPm very sorry to tell you we lost that ship in the gale, lost it Wednesday night. All hands.N Hertzel shook his head as if he meant it. MTragic. We lost two good men on that ship.N Rachel sat motionless, uncertain or unwilling to believe
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it. She hadnPt wanted that news, and watched doors closing all around her. Still, she had expected it from the storm that came close to blowing her windows out in New Orleans. MHow do you know?N MThe tug lived. The coastguard search is still underway, but nothing by this time means noth- ing period. noth- ing period. Nothing. If I understand correctly from your messages, you were hoping to locate your brother. Lloyds?N He stood up from the desk, as though he was at an awards ceremony. MHe was a Lloyds man? Not one of our crew?N He worked a thoughtful caring into his expression. MAre you sure you wouldnPt like a drink?N MNo survivors?N — 213 — He walked to the liquor cabinet. MYou donPt mind if I have one, do you?N His back was to her now. Rachel noticed the smile as he turned
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from her. Even with his back to her she picked it up, the picked it up, the hint that kept her moving. MWould you know where I might locate a Howard Morgan?N She stood up from the chair while she spoke, turning to face his back. MI understand he was the last person to see my brother alive.N She walked be- hind her chair, towards Hertzel, dispensing to En- rico the distinct impression she didnPt need permission. MHe works for you, doesnPt he?N She picked up on HertzelPs momentary hesitation. MHe did.N Hertzel sipped his drink as he turned around, starting at her presence in his face. MBut I frankly couldnPt tell you where to look for him. to look for him. You need to understand the character of the men who work in the marine salvage environ- ment. A strange breed.
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They like the danger, the excitement, and the uncertainty. No roots. Row- dies. A lot of them. On the job, theyPre just what we need. Off it, they are a world to themselves. We donPt… We canPt keep track of them.N Rachel judged another door closing along with the conversation. She pushed it a bit. MHas he worked for you before?N Rachel saw the pressure on HertzelPs face, noted it, and pushed more. MPayroll records? How do you get him if you want him for a job?M MJust a minute.N His irritation His irritation showed signif- icance. He turned to his intercom. MMs Mendez?N MYes, Mister Markovitz?N — 214 — MCould you see if we have an address for a Howard Morgan on file?N Hertzel set his drink and moved towards the door, his eyes specifying the invitation to her. MIf we have anything on him,
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Ms Forster, my secretary can give it to you on the way out.N He had busy man written all over his face. MI apologize, but I have a meeting in a few minutes. WePve had a lot of damage here from the storm.N Rachel followed his lead with little prompting. MThank you, Mister MThank you, Mister Markovitz.N She stayed at her naive best. MI appreciate your help.N MAnytime. If there is anything else, donPt hes- itate to call. I think the police have probably in- vestigated this issue. New Orleans has a skilled police force. I trust youPve spoken to them. Lloyds as well. TheyPre both very thorough.N He held out his hand. MIf Mister Morgan should be in touch with us, IPll let you know immediately. Are you staying in Brownsville?N MYes, but I donPt know for how long.N She walked through the door, knowing
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it wasnPt over. MThe Matador.N Hertzel smiled graciously. MI recommend it. Good luck to you, Ms Forster.N He gave her He gave her a look she could see the Grand Canyon through. MI hope you find your brother. Please see Ms Forster out, Enrico.N He looked at Rachel in a familiar, share-a-secret way. MWe have dogs here.N She gave him a hard look, her words trailing behind him as she turned away. MIPm certain you do.N — 215 — Bobby awoke into the warm sun and soft breeze of a Friday afternoon, uncertain how long hePd been unconscious. He knew Gomez was gone, sometime in the dead of the night. He felt outrage at the man leaving him L more a statement of BobbyPs way of dealing with separation than any real separation than any real attitude towards Gomez. He toyed with
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the idea that he too was gone, just as hePd bargained. He didnPt want to remember Gomez going, but he knew he did it. He knew hePd reached across in that foul night, spoken to the dead man, cut him loose and slid him free of the raft. After all, a sailor belonged to the sea. He cried too, whimpered as the body disap- peared quietly into the dark of the Gulf night. And he remembered how silent he stayed before throwing himself into the water, searching des- perately to get him back. He couldnPt find him and screamed revenge L for Gomez, for The Lady, for everyone and for no one, and for one, and for him. HePd started remembering other bits and pieces from the night before, or at least what he thought was the night before. He was so pre-occupied with his remem-
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brances of the past two days that he didnPt notice the signs until long after theyPd started to appear L birds, bits of wood followed by more prominent chunks of refuse. They were signals of land. That meant people. When he finally did, it made him glad the oceans were sewers. He thanked the pol- luters for giving him hope. It proved the whole world hadnPt gone down with The Lady. He spent the afternoon spread-eagled in the — 216 — bottom of bottom of the raft, drifting, getting hot, cupping leftover rainwater from the rubber flooring into his hands and onto his face. He watched the drops as they fell between his fingers, thinking it all magical, life itself. He didnPt paddle, or get excited, inspired, or agitated. Not any more. He waited with his thoughts, watching the horizon grow as the after- noon passed.
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HePd never felt better. It all made sense to him. He didnPt have to do anything, just be there. Life would direct him. He knew now he walked with a spirit and always had. The fact he was alive at that very moment proved it, doubt- less. He stared into the stared into the sun. It prodded him back into a drifting uncertain state, not quite the delir- ium of before, more a chosen move. He was com- fortable at the moment, and he had time until he got a reason to exit. He stayed that way late into the afternoon, until he heard voices different from the ones inside his head. When he finally peered over the edge of the raft he saw himself so close to a peopled beach he figured it was delirium. He was so close he could, if he wanted to,
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step out of the raft and pull it ashore as though hePd spent the afternoon float- ing in the sun. He let the raft drift up really close before he tested the reality. He rolled over He rolled over the side, lying immersed, his fingers twisted around the line that ran the perimeter of the raft. He felt his knees banging the bottom and started to get a grip on the fact it was real. He stood up out of the water — 217 — weak-legged, stiff, and with an agenda. He shook off his dHjG vu feeling HowiePs dune buggy was about to fly over the top of the sand rim behind him. Stiff and awkward, he pulled the raft up onto the beach. He left it and walked the twenty feet to the side of a dune, out of the sun. He got no
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more than casual glances from the sun and surf Mexicans. No one was close enough was close enough to see the cuts, blisters, and oil smears covering his body. Everything was too normal, too ordinary, not like the movies at all. He watched them with his eyes half-closed, another day at the beach. He was glad hePd come. It was the right way to spend a day off. Forget the office. His lips cracked more as they curled into a smile, an odd chuckle sliding through his throat. He closed his eyes. Rest a bit, he thought, deal with his future in a minute K had to find JesIs, he would help him, always had. For now hePd drift around God, meet Gomez, Robert Forster, maybe somebody whose name he didnPt remember from a ship off Halifax. He let the momentum direct the journey,
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momentum direct the journey, riding it back to The Lady. He stepped onto her decks from the silent calm she had given them. He owed her a good bye, a memorial. He watched her die by the stern as she disappeared into the measureless fathoms. Walking her decks, he felt her sigh L her release. Safe, he rode her down until she settled on the bottom. She was gone. At peace, never to be touched again. — 218 — He awoke on a crude cot in a thatched beach hut. It may have been minutes but could just as easily have been forever. Dreams were like that. In fact, it was late Friday afternoon. Friday afternoon. An old man walked in as Bobby instinctively felt for the money belt hePd had around his waist. MNo worry amigo, I take nada.N The old man brought
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him some water in a ladle. M Yo no tiento a Dios.N MHow did I get here?N MI carry you.N He pointed through the side of the hut. MNot far.N MWhere am I?N MCerca de Tampico.N Bobby was surprised. Maybe there was a God. HePd figured, if he made it, he would have come ashore further south, closer to Veracruz, but had no problem with his miscalculations. He had a friend, a good friend from long ago. The man who was watching over Tanya for him, JesIs Rivera. He pulled two hundred dollar bills from dollar bills from his wallet and asked the old man to go find him. The old man shook his head at the money. MEsto aqui, amigo.N And with those words Bobby watched as the big, rough cut Mexican took all the sunlight out of the door. MI know you missed me
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amigo but what kind of way is this to come see me?N Bobby managed a weak smile, MHowPd you find me?N MThe old man found me.N JesIs laughed his big coarse laugh as he threw some clothes on the foot of the cot. MYou love me so much, all you say — 219 — in your sickness K JesIs Rivera. Posada Rosa.N He mimicked a high-pitched voice. high-pitched voice. MPosada Rosa. JesIs Rivera.N He laughed while he spoke, MYou want to kiss me amigo? You love me so much?N MI need you JesIs.N MI am thinking si, amigo.N Bobby cleaned himself up quickly, donned new clothes, left the two hundred dollars on the cot and limped into the old Ford flatbed. MWhere we go, amigo?N His mind worked time/distance relationships K Tampico, Matamoros, Brownsville. It was six, maybe eight hours by road. It was also no
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more than three hours along the same coast road to Ciudad Victoria K to Tanya. He wasnPt sure when he made the decision, he just knew he wasnPt leav- ing Mexico without her K her K not going anywhere without her any more. MCiudad Victoria.N JesIs said nothing. He knew who was there. HePd been watching over her since Bobby brought her down from Canada. MTherePs more to it, JesIs.N MIPm sure there is, amigo. But first Ciudad Victoria.N He looked over at Bobby. MThe little senorita will be happy one today.N MShePs okay?N MSi, but she miss you big Bobby.N Bobby found time to smile before he settled into his thoughts as they careened down the beach. He figured it was payback time. DidnPt spend much time thinking it over. It was auto- matic, like watching a shipmate die in Halifax and —
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220 — — 220 — taking it out on a fat manPs suit. His pain didnPt get a lot of attention. He was running on compulsion, commitment and revenge. HowiePs face stayed on the big screen in his mind. Payback time. — 221 — Brownsville Police Station Brownsville, Brownsville Police Station Brownsville, Texas Friday Afternoon The trip from International Salvage into Brownsville took an hour. Frustration from the news of the sinking and anger from the conde- scending stonewall Rachel had been given by Markovitz left her options shortened and her de- termination heightened. There was of course no forwarding address kept with the secretary. Rachel knew Markovitz could locate him any time for the right reasons. The man reeked of deceit, all polish and duplicity. She wanted to think he lied about the Lady Inca, too, but brought herself to accept it. There
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was just too much pleasure on his face when he said it. when he said it. The loss of the crew left her nothing but Mor- gan. She thought again of giving it up. Then she pictured Markovitz sitting in his office chuckling while he counted his money. The vision chased the thought from her mind. She wouldnPt give up until she found Morgan. Besides, she didnPt like it much when people rendered her ineffectual. She wasnPt the entertainment, never had been. — 222 — That alone got her energy cranking. MYou okay, Ms?N MYes.N Privately she admired his sensitivity. It reminded her of Jimmy and how well he could read her. MIPm okay. Thanks, Sunny.N MItPs a strange place for a lady like you lady like you to be visiting.N His eyes caught hers through the rear- view mirror. MI donPt
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know who you saw inside, but the fellas hanginP round me were some kind of mean.N He flicked his eyes back onto the road. MLots of guns.N He paused. MI ainPt trying to pry into your business, but thatPs a serious place.N MSunny.N She paused to collect her thoughts. MI appreciate your bringing me down here.N She knew he was right and wanted to let him off easy. MMaybe when we get to Brownsville I can give you something for your trouble and you can get your- self back to New Orleans. YouPve done a lot for me, and I thank you. I couldnPt have made it here without you. At least At least not when I needed to.N MOh no, maPam.N Sunny kept his eyes on the road. MIPm not saying I want out of it.N His tone stayed very intentionally casual. MWhatever it is.N
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He reached under his seat. MJust wondering if you got a gun?N He lifted a snub nosed thirty-eight. MCause I do. Jimmy told me to be serious and pay attention.N He still sounded matter-of-fact, watch- ing the scenery as if it was a Sunday drive home from church. MYouPre welcome to borrow it.N MMy brother disappeared. IPm trying to find him.N She watched his reaction as she talked. MI guess it could be dangerous. No need to be in- volved. No reason for you, Sunny.N — 223 — — 223 — MMy beautiful lady, you donPt quite under- stand. This is duty, duty to Jimmy. Some day when we have time I will tell you all about why I owe him my life and a lot more.N He smirked at her. MI got some reasons. Maybe I should hang onto the gun, become your official body
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guard?N MCan you use it?N He smirked. MThe gun?N MThe gun?N MI know how to use a gun, Ms Rachel.N He looked at her in the rear view mirror, MLike I said, maybe when we have time IPll tell you why I owe Jimmy.N MKeep the gun, Sunny.N Rachel reached into her Rachel reached into her purse, held up a small handgun where he could see it. MIPve got my own. A single woman regulation, unofficial of course.N Finished with the employment negotiations, Rachel got into the reality. She was more than a little afraid, but shePd known fear before. She was tough and serious; it was in her background. She could even get a kick out of the excitement. Once, long ago, she actually enjoyed the rush, at a time when hoods and vice hovered around her at their convenience. In Brownsville proper, now, Sunny
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made a stop to locate the police station. Rachel had stayed locked in her locked in her thoughts since the conversa- tion. MWePre here.N Sunny had a knack for sneak- ing up on police stations, she thought. A good sign. Rachel got out of the cab, walking past a wired-looking degenerate and his fat buddy as she — 224 — entered. She made a point of ignoring the obvi- ous leer. Brownsville didnPt qualify as big by any real city standards. There was only one police station and no maze of halls and cubicles and no way to get lost like in the stations in New Orleans or San Diego. She identified herself to a sergeant L a cowboy cop, hat and all, full of macho manners for a lady manners for a lady in need of assistance. She milked it to
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the maximum. The sergeant corralled a young patrolman named Alvarez and ordered him to look after her. She got cooperation. He told her Morgan was no stranger to the police department. He suggested it was a coincidence as he showed her the fresh deposition, telling her the ink was barely dry. She figured she must have passed Morgan on the way in. She finished read- ing and told him it smelled funny. MProbably,N he replied, almost deadpan. This is Brownsville. I know Howie Morgan. Know him well. Most everybody does. HePs trouble.N MWhyPd you let him leave?N MNo reason to keep him.N keep him.N The officer wasnPt surprised about the deposition, routine in a miss- ing persons investigation, and told her that. MTherePs no murder investigation going on here. No grounds for it. You need a body for that to start cooking.N She knew that he
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wasnPt playing games with her. MMorganPs supposedly the last person to see him. ThatPs not against the law.N MSomebody in New Orleans wants to wrap this up,N he said confidentially. MDonPt get me wrong. — 225 — MorganPs a scum, crazy, capable of anything, but therePs pressure from somewhere. ItPs just not getting the right kind of attention from New Or- leans.N He looked away. He looked away. MAt least not the way I see it.N He looked back at her. MParticularly, with Morgan involved.N MDo you know where I can find him?N MI wouldnPt recommend you take that on Ms Forster. HePs not a nice person.N He said to leave it to the police and told her she shouldnPt go look- ing for him on her own. MThis deposition wraps it up, doesnPt it?N He didnPt answer her for a minute, and she kept waiting.
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MWithout a body, or a witness, or an interested police department, yes… maPam.N MDo you know where he lives?N It didnPt take much to read the determination on her face. He told her Howie had a trailer over on South Padre on South Padre Island and offered to drive her by the place. MThanks, but IPve got transportation. I need directions.N MIPm off duty in ten minutes, and we take the cruisers home.N He spoke half jokingly. MEver ride in a police cruiser?N He got more serious. MThe deal is, I show you where and we check it out together.N She thought it through quickly and realized the police ride gave her legitimacy. Outside at the cab she worked past the jilted look on SunnyPs face as she gave him the orders. She told Sunny to check them in at the Matador and get himself —
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226 — some sleep. some sleep. ShePd be back in a few hours. Sunny didnPt let it go until shePd given him HowiePs name, general location and an under- standing of what she meant by Ma few hoursN. Silently pleased that hePd insisted, she told him what she knew. Rachel and the young cop headed out of Brownsville to Port Isabel and across the cause- way to South Padre. On the way, he talked about punks L Texas- style punks, Gulf punks, Mexican punks, and red- neck punks. Howie Morgan qualified as some of all of them. Alvarez knew Morgan well. Every- body on the force did. He was something of a bor- der town a bor- der town legend. MHowie Morgan is the kind of guy whose name can collect in the back of a copPs mind for a lot of
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good reasons.N He looked across at her with caution in his eyes. MA crazy, but worse, not stupid crazy. Smart, psychotic crazy. Shrewd and mean.N By the time the conversation ended they were driving the causeway from the mainland to South Padre. It wasnPt a big island, he told her. It was actually two islands, but only the south was in- habited. A few miles long, and thin, it was noth- ing more than a couple of sand bars gone domestic. The small talk The small talk continued while Alvarez picked his way around the aftermath of the storm. The whole border area had been hit hard, and the island particularly. Although it served as a community, South Padre never had any real sta- tus beyond a random, semi-permanent shift of dune. The less stable parts were created and — 227 — moved at the whim
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“You are a friend of Jahsha” 128 “That’s one way of putting it.” “I am looking for Zarah.” “That… well, she’s not…” Fennric stumbled over his words. “She is here,” “She is here,” the dragon stated. After Fennric did not say anything in response, Symurall added, “Something is wrong.” “You’re a damned sensible dragon,” Fennric said. “A whole helluva lot is wrong right now.” The door opened again. A figure stood unsteadily in the bright light from below. “Miss, you should be resting,” Fennric insisted. “The captain should be here right quick with someone to doctor you.” Zarah stepped slowly onto the deck. She was wrapped in a colorful robe that was much too big for her. One of her arms was in a sling; her hair was matted and Symurall could smell sea water and blood on her person. Her face didn’t look quite
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right, he thought, with one eye open, the other lost in the blackness of a bruise. “You are injured,” said Symurall. injured,” said Symurall. “What happened?” “I need…” Zarah spoke softly, barely audible. “I need your help.” “Why would we hurt Zarah?” Dorna demanded. The opposing crowds were growing angrier; now some of the dwarves had armed themselves. They were outnumbered as more humans arrived. “I don’t know,” said Danelle. “I don’t understand dwarves, and I don’t care to.” “It’s a lovely riot you’ve put together,” Jahsha called to Danelle. “You play your part well.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Danelle replied. “I’m sick of these liars,” the captain seethed. “Zarah isn’t dead.” “What?” asked Dorna. “A sailor found her in the river.” Jahsha spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “A few more minutes, and she’d have floated past the harbor and
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out to sea. That’s why I came up I came up here, to get Dorna. Zarah’s on my ship. Badly hurt, but alive.” A wind from above distracted everyone. An enormous blue-green dragon alighted gently. “Cowards!” Jennur yelled. “Again, you call your pets!” “I am no one’s pet,” Symurall declared. “They did not summon me.” He slowly opened a fist, gently placing Zarah beside Jahsha. Silence dropped at the sight of the battered woman. 129 “It almost worked,” Zarah said, speaking slowly and steadily. “I didn’t die so easily, did I, Jennur?” Zarah spewed curses at him, vile words she pulled from a dark corner of her anger. “You sent your puhtahks to do the dirty work. Nice trick, putting dwarven scraps with my scraps with my bloody clothes. I heard Lorka and Jessup talking about it, as they stood over me,
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thinking I was already dead. Do you know what they did to me, you pious piece of shit?” Anger grew among the dwarves. Danelle looked nervous. “We need to sort this out,” she said. “I’ll place Jennur under arrest. Zarah needs –” “She needs justice!” shouted Jahsha. “Don’t pretend, Danelle. You’re part of this.” The magister looked indignant and started to say something; the captain talked over her. “Lies won’t do you much good. You wanted a pretense to get rid of the dwarves. Kaylen is gone and you thought I‘d be gone, too, didn’t you? As for Jennur… no one thinks you’ll hold him accountable.” She fired; the bolt thunked into a tent stake near the stake near the bishop’s head. Jennur jumped behind his followers. Jahsha reloaded. “You killed an innocent girl tonight,” Zarah declared. “But I’m still here! Kaylen taught me to never
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give up. I’ll be damned if you won’t pay for what you did.” Shaking, she felt Dorna’s hand on her arm. “No,” Dorna said. “We don’t want to be like them.” “Do something!” Jennur screamed. The armed men around him seemed uncertain, and looked from Danelle to the bishop and back again. A few began readying their weapons. Almost everyone jumped when the dragon suddenly glittered, small arcs of electricity coursing over his body. Eyes glowing, Symurall said, “I have killed thousands of humans. That is part of my past. Perhaps the time has come to explore old habits.” The air around him crackled, and charges crackled, and charges ran down the frill on his back. An acrid smell filled the air. “You cannot harm me. You will not hurt the people I protect.” “Leave,” ordered Dorna, standing below Symurall’s chin, her grey braids dancing wildly
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in the currents. “We won’t hear more of your lies. Go down to the city, and stay there.” Behind her, the other dwarves stood silent, weapons out. Jahsha was beside them, crossbow in hand, aiming at Danelle. The magister and bishop hesitated, and then scurried away with their supporters. Zarah collapsed. Jahsha caught her. 130 Grehn walked across the market, heading to his post. Someone called his name. To one side, To one side, Prime Minister Kudric stood, apparently alone, smiling. Grehn wondered which of the people nearby belonged to Kudric’s secret body guard. “Hello, Minister,” said Grehn. “Greetings, Warden.” Kudric wore a big smile. “Do you have time to talk?” “I’m on the way to my station.” “That’s fine,” said the minister. “I’m willing to talk on the way.” The two men entered the downward tunnel. Four people separated from the crowds and followed them
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at a distance. “I know you were fond of Oric’s daughter,” said Kudric. “It is regrettable she made the choices she did. You knew my son, did you not?” “A fine young man,” Grehn said, sincerely. “He didn’t deserve to die. Those responsible should pay for the crime.” “Justice requires the presence of the guilty. Can you speculate on where speculate on where Alanora might be?” “If I knew where she was. I’d tell you. The security of Caerelon outweighs old friendships.” “A commendable attitude. I was hoping you might be able to give me insights into her thinking.” Grehn stopped, and looked at the Prime Minister. “She’s not the young girl I once knew. Her excursions to the outside girl have changed her into something different. I don’t know her anymore.” “It was worth asking,” the Prime Minister said. “Oh, I hear that a rebel
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caused some trouble last night.” Grehn smiled grimly. “He won’t be giving anyone trouble from now on. I showed him the error of his ways.” “As I understand it, several rebellious farmers have – how shall I say? – disappeared while in custody.” “Is that a custody.” “Is that a problem?” “No! I’m curious, though. Is it too bold to ask where you dispose of them?” “Compost heap.” Grehn chuckled. “I run them through the mulcher. They make excellent fertilizer. They end their lives being useful to the city.” Kudric reach out, clasped the warden’s hand, and smiled broadly. “Good work. We need more like men you. I’ll mention your loyalty to Lord Oric when I see him.” 131 Grehn watched the prime minister walk away; the four man escort followed the plump figure toward the light of the market. After a few moments, the warden
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continued toward his post, considering uncomfortable thoughts. Kaylen bumped his Kaylen bumped his head, and cursed the shortness of dwarves that lead to low ceilings. He’d spent most of the last hour crouched, moving from one tunnel to the next, following his guide, completely lost. When they finally entered a room where he could stand, stretching was one of the best sensations he’d ever felt. “Thanks,” he said to the young man who had led him through the maze. “You don’t have far to go,” his escort said. “Down the corridor, take the first left. Go on until you find a wall plate like the ones I’ve shown you. That should be Oric’s office. Be very careful, the door has a vent plate above. You can hear anyone inside; we’ve used it to spy on Oric. They might hear you, too.” “The combination is
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up-up-down-left?” Kaylen asked. “Yes. up-up-down-left?” Kaylen asked. “Yes. I’ll wait here until you get back.” Kaylen followed the directions, finding the secret door. Sitting uncomfortably on his haunches, he listened to the conversation in the room beyond. “…were seen late last night. They don’t appear to be aware of the Watchers yet.” The voice was soft and nasal. Kaylen’s ears picked up. “Only two?” This speaker had a deep voice. “The Watchers report a woman and a short man, maybe a dwarf. The woman has long dark hair, pulled back in a single braid. They explored the south tower last night.” “So my daughter has returned,” said the deep-voiced man. Oric, Kaylen concluded. He guessed that the other man was Kudric. “It didn’t take her long. She’s accompanied by only one dwarf? Are they certain?” “Yes.” “I didn’t expect “I didn’t expect this.” “I
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don’t understand.” Oric’s voice held great annoyance. “You found her footprints among the bodies in the Dwarven Quarter. She knows what happened to Caerelon’s dwarves. She must have used that knowledge to recruit dwarves to her cause. An army, perhaps.” “It’s only one dwarf, not an army.” 132 “One dwarf that we see,” insisted Oric. “Thousands could be digging through the mountain as we speak! Hidden, plotting, gathering strength. How would you react if you were a dwarf, and knew that hundreds of your kin lay dead inside this mountain?” “Should I bring her in?” “Yes, and the dwarf, alive if at all possible. Interrogate them. Find out what we face.” “I can’t torture your can’t torture your daughter!” “We need information.” Oric’s voice was stressed. “Alanora is dead. The person in her body is something else. I care not what you do with her now.”
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His voice cracked. “It’s my fault, you know. I indulged her wanderings, hoping she’d outgrow them. The foolishness of a loving father led us to the precipice.” He chuckled. “We are not lost yet.” “Caerelon will never fall,” Oric said emphatically. “I’ve ensured that. When the time comes, everything is in place. Oh, you may want to bring the chemist Isadora in for questioning. She tried to deceive me. Fortunately, I found someone to replace her.” “I don’t understand.” Kudric sounded anxious. “I will handle our ultimate defense, Prime Minister. You have other duties. Find Alanora and her allies.” A door opened and closed; a and closed; a lock clicked. The room was silent. Kaylen used the combination he’d memorized; the panel slid into the floor. He stepped into the room, and the secret door became a seamless part of the wall again. Hanging tapestries depicted
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a wide forest scene, complete with deer and hunters; an odd decorating choice, Kaylen thought, for a man like Oric who hated the outside world. Searching the ornate desk and its neat stacks of paper, he found nothing. A chest against the wall held large sheets of rolled-up paper, none of which looked like the design of a ventilation system. Frustrated, under pressure, he examined the room again. One of the tapestries was very slightly askew from the others. Looking behind it, he discovered papers hanging on its back side: Schematics, drawn in white drawn in white ink on a dark blue background, with recent-looking marks in yellow and red. He detached the sheets, folded them quickly, and moved to where the secret door was. He couldn’t find any pressure points. “It’s never easy,” he grumbled under his breath. He considered the alternatives, and formed a
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new plan. Carefully, he went to the main door, and listened; nothing. A mechanical switch released the lock; he opened the door a crack and looked out. The mezzanine appeared deserted. Slipping outside, closing the door behind, he wished for some way to relock it. Finding a shadow to hide in was easy; figuring out where he was took a bit more time. When Kaylen struck out, it was clockwise, moving slowly. Counting doors, he came to the 133 one he 133 one he sought as a landmark. For a moment, he was tempted to go inside, and thought better of it. He looked for a stairwell nearby, and found it – because voices were coming closer from that direction. Quickly, he slipped through the door he’d been reluctant to open, closing it as quietly as possible. A large canopy bed stood in one corner; the
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far side of the room contained an open closet. A robe lay jumbled on the floor in a corner. Shelves held books – and toys. Kaylen had somehow never thought of Alanora playing – or sleeping in a bed with fringe and a pretty quilt. A worn obwa toy sat on the messy bed; it was blue, and he suspected it would suspected it would make a noise if he squeezed it. Looking in the closet, he found dresses, most looking as if they’d never been worn. He realized how little he knew about the woman he loved, and that he’d never actually said those words to her. The door latch clicked. He stashed the schematics in the first place he thought of, and moved to the center of the room. “Hold!” shouted the man, who wore a black tabard. Over his shoulder, the Watcher yelled,
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“I found…” The sentence was never finished as Kaylen tackled him. Driving forward, he slammed the man into a thick stone column. Stepping free of the collapsing body, two pairs of arms grabbed him. A fist hit him in the gut, then another. As he fell, the last thing he saw was he saw was a boot approaching his face. “We’re being watched,” said Alanora as she drank water, washing down her breakfast of arken. “And you’re being so polite,” said Norgrim. “By eating slowly, you’re giving them plenty of time to catch us.” “No,” she said. “I don’t want them to know I’ve seen them. And I’m not going to point them out to you either.” She capped her canteen, attached it to her pack, and lifted it onto her shoulders. “If they wanted to catch us, they would have come for us last night.
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At worst, they’re still waiting for orders from Kudric to move. They don’t take a piss without permission.” “How do you know anyone is out there?” “I have my ways.” She my ways.” She pointed, but not at a hidden enemy. “We should investigate the big building. Might be interesting.” “Interesting,” Norgrim said, adjusting his load. “That’s your codeword for ‘trouble’.” 134 “Such a pessimist. Come on.” She headed across the courtyard, Norgrim a few steps behind. They walked through the opening where a door should have been, and entered the dark interior. Shafts of light angled down from rectangular openings in the roof. “I’ll bet the smaller ones should have stained glass in them,” Norgrim mused, looking up. “Tell me you have plans for this place, so I can find craftsmen to finish it!” “I’m telling you to find a private place to sit for
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a bit.” Going into a dark into a dark corner, she emerged moments later without her pack and wearing her bow, quiver, sword, and two daggers. She mounted the stone stairway and disappeared into the gloom above, heading to the third floor. An open window on the north side looked over tall rocks, some of which were quite close. Alanora secured her gear one last time, stood on the window frame, and jumped. Small rocks rolled away when she landed, but they fell in a direction that didn’t worry her. Carefully, she worked her way around the periphery of the castle, until she was above a man wearing a black tabard. The Watcher was in a small natural nest in the rocks. Holding a dagger in her teeth, she gauged the distance, dropped down, and slit the man’s throat before he throat
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before he knew she was there. “Impressive.” Alanora spun on her heel, white sword in one hand, bloody dagger in the other. Grehn casually leaned against a nearby rock, smiling. “Pretty blade. Where’d you get it?” She relaxed. “A gift.” She searched the corpse for anything useful. “Did you meet Kaylen?” she asked. “He’s stealing the schematics,” said Grehn. “I like him.” “What are you doing here?” “Kudric asked me the wrong questions this morning,” he said. “I decided to skip the joys of torture. Oh – no need to look for the other two Watchers. One had an unfortunate fall, and the other suffered heart failure due to dagger insertion.” “Thanks,” she said. “Let’s go get Norgrim.” “I’m curious,” he said. “Your teachers and I taught you many things. I don’t remember a course remember a course in cutting throats and rock jumping. Where did
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you learn to do all this?” “Trial and error. Someday, I’ll show you my scars.” “If we live through this, we need to find a quiet place so you can tell me stories.” They found Norgrim where she’d left him. He was reading. Alanora took a quick peek at the pages, and couldn’t make sense of the pictographs. “Good book?” she asked. 135 “Excellent,” Norgrim replied. He stuffed it in his pack, and noticed Grehn standing nearby. “So – instead of killing one, you brought him back?” “This is Grehn,” she said. “I think he’s guessed who you are.” “Pleased to meet you, Grehn,” said the dwarf. “If you’re out here, you’re out here, I suppose Kaylen is still in there.” “The schematics were in your father’s office,” the warden said. “Getting them should be easy.” “You didn’t send him through the secret entrance, did you?”
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She sounded anxious and annoyed. “He couldn’t walk through the front door.” “Leave your pack, Norgrim,” she said resignedly. “Take what you can carry easily. I want to move fast.” She began rifling through her own stuff. “What’s wrong?” Grehn asked. “Kaylen is in trouble. That secret door only opens from the outside. Once he’s in Oric’s office, he’ll have to leave through the front door, into the family area.” Grehn cursed. “Yup. I have the same opinion,” she said, pocketing several small items. “I told Kaylen how to find the tunnels near my room. If we’re lucky, If we’re lucky, he got away. If not, we rescue him.” Norgrim opened his mouth, and she said, “Don’t. If I hear one word about how love makes a mess of things, I’ll cut your tongue out. Dorna will thank me.” “A month ago, you didn’t know Kaylen
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existed,” said Norgrim, ignoring her threat. “Now you’re willing to die for him?” She gave him a look that nearly froze his soul. In all their time together, Norgrim had never feared Alanora, until that moment. “Dying isn’t my plan,” she said, the look fading quickly, her voice icy calm. “You’re a dear friend, Norgrim, but sometimes, you’re a pain in the ass.” She stood up. “Grehn, are you ready?” “As always.” The two humans walked away. Norgrim watched for a moment, then quickly followed. “I was wrong,” “I was wrong,” Norgrim said as he caught up with them. “I once told Kaylen that I never doubted you. This isn’t the time to start.” “Why did you bring that satchel?” she asked. “I said pack light.” “I don’t go anywhere without my tools,” he stated. “My gut says we’ll need ‘em.” Alanora led them to the
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steepled building; a stairway at the back took them to a wide balcony. She opened the secret door, and drew her sword, holding it to the chest of the man crouched on the other side. Kudric’s eyes were wide white circles on his dirty plump face. Dust coated his fine maroon robe. “Don’t kill me!” he squeaked. 136 “Why not?” Alanora asked, prodding him with prodding him with the weapon. “Your father is mad!” “Tell me something I don’t know.” “Spit him and be done with it,” Norgrim said. “We’re wasting time.” “He might be a useful coward,” said Grehn. “He’s tortured a lot of people for information. I say we return the favor.” “No! Don’t!” The squeaking reached a higher pitch. “Oric wants to poison everyone! I tried to stop him. No! I really did! He did it anyway! He’ll set the poison off when
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your army arrives.” Alanora laughed. “What army? The three of us?” “You don’t have thousands of dwarves tunneling into the mountain?” he asked, incredulous. “Oh, for the love of beer,” said Norgrim. “Why in hell would we do that?” Something made an unexpected noise behind them. Alanora turned, and saw a large black bird, perched black bird, perched at the edge of the balcony, looking at them quizzically. Its eyes were an odd color of green, something she’d never seen before. Kudric jumped to his feet, shoving her aside, running to the stairway. On the first step, his feet tangled in his robe; wide eyed, he wobbled and fell. His pudgy form bounced wildly down the stairs; he flailed and howled and yelped as his body hit each step; the noise ended abruptly when his head hit the floor at the bottom with a sickening crunch.
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A pool of dark liquid slowly grew around his splayed form. “Is he dead?” Norgrim asked. “Isn’t it rather obvious?” Alanora said. Grehn ran down the stairs, touched Kudric’s neck, and came back. “Definitely dead,” he announced. “I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to looking forward to hurting him.” Alanora disappeared into the tunnel. The two men followed. Jahsha paced nervously outside Dorna’s tent. The surrounding courtyard was unusually quiet, the loudest sounds coming from dwarves packing up their tents and equipment. That, and the snoring of a dragon. Dorna emerged from the tent, rubbing her hands on a towel. “She’s asleep. Kalinda is watching her.” “How is she?” Jahsha asked. 137 “It could have been worse,” said Dorna. “Human anatomy is a bit of mystery, but I can cope. Her right arm was broken and she had a dislocated left shoulder. I’ve set the bones
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and put everything back where I think it belongs. Lots it belongs. Lots of bruises, cuts, minor problems. I won’t go into details about her other injuries.” She put down the towel. “She’ll heal. Physically. Other healing is going to take a long time, I’m afraid.” “Thank you,” said Jahsha. She watched the activity around them. “I can retreat to my ship; the dockyard will defend itself, and Danelle needs us. I’m worried about Zarah, and you.” “We have Symurall,” the dwarf replied. “I haven’t spent much time with dragons, not until recently.” She looked at the sleeping sea dragon. “I wish they were all like this one.” “I’m starting to like a few dragons myself,” said Jahsha. “Zarah… she’s like a sister to Kaylen. His reaction to all this won’t be good.” She paused and cursed loudly. Dorna sighed. “We’ll cross that river
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when we reach when we reach it.” Below, in the city proper, Danelle stood near her house, looking up at the flickering lights atop the bluff. She’d just finished speaking to Captain Nogg, sending him away with a new story to spread. It was a twisted tale, a reversal of the original plot, now claiming that dragons and dwarves had staged a false attack on Zarah, using it to discredit the Magister. It was a tenuous explanation, to be certain; even reliable Nogg seemed distinctly uncomfortable with it. Still, it was the best she could do on short notice; people’s fears, she hoped, would blind them to faulty details. She intently disliked being forced to perform damage control – it implied incompetence. For the thousandth time, Danelle damned herself for listening to Jennur. His plan had His plan had sounded so simple: Murder the
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beloved and expendable Zarah, provide evidence to implicate the dwarves, and drive people away from Kaylen’s allies into her sphere of control. It might have worked – if Jennur’s acolytes had done their job right. She damned male stupidity for the girl’s rape and survival; couldn’t they at least have had the sense to ensure their victim was dead before throwing her in the river? She shook her head in disbelief and frustration. She heard footsteps, and looked up to see the mad cleric approaching. “I have no words for you,” Danelle said. “Then you will listen,” said Jennur. She shot him an angry look, and started to say something, but he continued talking. “I’ve heard the rationalization you invented. In support, I began spreading the began spreading the opinion that Zarah is corrupted by our enemies. That is the truth, and has been for weeks
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– she and other human traitors have sided with those who 138 would enslave us.” He looked remarkably smug for a man who had been cowering only an hour before. “We will succeed, Magister. Our goal is righteous.” Danelle laughed. “Righteous or not, that dragon will destroy us.” “I have faith,” stated Jennur firmly. “Faith in what?” He didn’t answer immediately; she saw a chaotic variety of emotions wander quickly across his face. “I feel… impending enlightenment,” Jennur said. “Whatever the dwarves are hiding, therein lies our salvation.” “How do you know that?” “I know what I know. what I know. It comes to me in dreams, in snatches of long lost conversation floating in the air.” He noticed Danelle’s alarmed look, and chuckled. “Spiritual people are often considered foolish, my dear Magister. It has always been so.” He walked away, leaving Danelle alone with her
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new-found fears. Kaylen awoke in a bad place. The first thing he noticed was the pain in his neck and back. The air smelled of mold and human waste. As he opened his eyes and sat up, he heard and felt the wet movement of the dirty straw. The dim light made it nearly impossible to see, and it was several moments before he could discern anything other than a blur. Focusing on the brightest patch of light, it soon light, it soon resolved into a small grated window, set in a metal-shod wooden door. Kaylen tried to stand; his head swam wildly, and he sat down again, leaning against the exit. “Why are we waiting?” said a muddy voice he didn’t know, from beyond the door. “They’re looking for the Prime Minister,” said a hazy voice. “I hear this one needs a special interrogation. He
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40 was most insistent that I find you and my mother. Had he not invoked Shengrim’s Pact, I would have nipped him for his impertinence.” “Be glad you didn’t,” Symurall said. “Now fly swiftly to your mother! Go!” Arrokka dipped her head in deference, and flew away into the fading light. The two elder dragons hovered for a moment. “Go,” Narrahnjarra told Symurall. “Save your foolish dwarven friend. I will continue to Tramora. Join me later.” Symurall changed course, and increased his speed dramatically. The dwarf pointed and shouted. A dozen kehklik fliers dove from the night sky toward the deck of the beached ferry. Farmers
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and merchants, laborers
and merchants, laborers and clerks fired crossbows with great imprecision and remarkable luck; half the kehklik fell – while others swooped across the deck, decapitating two men and knocking others wildly aside. Some people panicked and ran; one fell from the deck to lie motionless on the sand below; another crawled into a corner, and began gibbering loudly. As the kehklik crossed the deck, Kaylen swung his blade, slicing the wing from one. It crashed; Norgrim shattered its skull with his staff. “Fire!” Kaylen yelled. A few of the archers found enough sense to use their weapons again, bringing down four more kehklik. The lone survivor flew away. “Damn it,” Kaylen growled. He moved quickly to the terrified man, and put a hand on his shoulder. “What in the hell do you think…” Kaylen
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saw that the
saw that the man’s eyes were solid white, rolled up into his head. “They’re not soldiers,” said Norgrim. “A week ago, he might have been baking bread or sewing clothes. Now he’s lost in a strange land, where monsters are trying to rip off his head. Let him be.” Kaylen sat heavily on a nearby box. “A week ago, I was a sailor whose biggest concern was whether he’d get paid for his cargo, and if it would be enough to pay for beer and wenches.” He smiled a bit. “Alanora said they’d do hit-and-run attacks for a while, looking for our weaknesses.” “I never doubt Alanora,” said Norgrim. “She may lack warmth at times, but she’s more reliable than sunrise.” “Fascinating woman. Under better circumstances, I’d ask her out on a
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and wishful, as if it was his Christmas list. He glanced quietly be- — 155 — tween Hertzel and Enrico. MSome people might even consider adding your name to the list of loose ends.N Hertzel had clarification now. The implication was obvious. MYouPve given us quite a list of loose ends here, Hertzel.N The senator sat down. An eerie and powerful calm settled on him, as if he could crush Hertzel just with the words. MI guess a lot de- pends on how you handle yourself from here on in. How well you take care of some of these loose ends yourself.N Hertzel lifted himself from the couch, his eyes moving more than they should. MRelax, senator. ThisPll
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get sorted out.
get sorted out. I already arranged for this Bobby character to take care of the Mexican.N The senator saw he was looking to get off the list. MOnce hePs back, wePll take care of him.N MAnd Howie? WePre going to have Lloyds and the cops all over everything before this is over.N The senator leaned back, his arms behind his head. MThis Howie character is a loose cannon, Hertzel.N MLike I said, HowiePs on his way back now. I can take care of it. No problem.N MDonPt rush it on Howie.N The senator kept his mind on business. MYou said there were loose ends? The cops. Lloyds.
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We donPt want
We donPt want him dis- appearing too mysteriously, too soon.N The sena- tor let the message linger. MSend him to the farm for a holiday. He wonPt get suspicious. HePs been there before.N The senator smiled, feeling a little more as if hePd gotten everybody in place. MTell — 156 — him we got new whores up there.N He glanced over for EnricoPs silent approval. EstaphanPs man just kept staring. MNo problem, Senator. IPll make sure Howie tidies everything up before I cut him loose to you. Yeah, loose ends. I had two calls waiting for me when I got back here. Some New OrleansP cop.N He pointed to the document on his desk. MAnd
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Lloyds.N The
Lloyds.N The senator picked it up. MThey didnPt have a copy. WePve got HowiePs.N The senator looked at it, kept listening. MI faxed them a copy already.N Hertzel smiled. MIt seems this Robert Forster never made it back.N Nobody joined the humor wave, an intentional omission. MNo loose ends Hertzel.N The senator stayed tunnel-visioned. MNone.N MOkay. Okay. We keep Howie to talk to them.N Hertzel had the theme. MHePs okay when hePs straight. He can pull it off.N MThen hePs gone.N The senator still didnPt look up from the document. MA vacation to the farm. A permanent one.N When he did look up, it was to
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imply the meeting
imply the meeting was about over. MIPve got to get a ten oPclock flight back to Austin. IPll get this sit- uation back to Houston.N He headed for the door- way. MGet me this doctorPs name and whereabouts. Tomorrow morning.N He was on his way out, Hertzel trailing him. MNo loose ends.N They got outside. Hertzel stood at the car door as the senator climbed in. MWhat about the goon, Henry? I donPt want him around. He makes me — 157 — nervous.N MHePs here to keep an eye on things
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you for being nervous.N
you for being nervous.N He enjoyed the discomfort, figured it was time Hertzel got a feel for heat. MBe good to him. HePs got a lot to say about your future.N The door closed as the window lowered. Hertzel followed the beckoning crook of the sena- torPs finger from the open window. Up close, he grabbed Hertzel by the throat like a vice and pulled him against the window frame, cracking his glasses against his forehead. His voice was low and cruel. MWePve got some problems here, Hertzel. People will die to take care of your fuck- ing greed. ItPs very inconvenient, doesnPt look good.N Spit
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Thomas was trying to
Thomas was trying to avoid giving Queen Falaise an opportunity to make him any offers he would be honor-bound to tell her mother-in-law Ravenna about. \ Who is she with at the moment?\ \ Aristofan, he calls himself.\ Gideon grinned. \ His real name is Semuel Porter.\ \ Which one is he?\ \ The pimply one.\ Thomas sighed. \ They re all pimply, Gideon.\ Chapter Three \ The pimply one with the red hair.\ He hesitated. \ Braun s coming this way.\ Thomas glanced around. Dr. Braun, dressed for court in a black velvet scholar s gown, was gesturing erratically at them from the landing below the loggia. \ He seems to have something
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on his mind,\
on his mind,\ Thomas said. Gideon looked down at the young sorcerer with thinly veiled contempt. \ He nearly got Gaspard killed fumbling around with the wards at that wizard-house.\ \ Then perhaps it will offset all the times that Gaspard has nearly gotten himself killed,\ Thomas said, his voice dry. \ Go on back to Falaise. See if you can tactfully encourage her to show up for court.\ 36 \ Sir.\ Gideon saluted and headed for the stairway leading to the upper levels and Thomas went down to meet Dr. Braun. \ I have something I need to discuss with you,\ the sorcerer said hurriedly as Thomas reached him. Dr. Braun was worried, and his normal hangdog
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expression had given
expression had given way to a look of frightened intelligence. Thomas found himself asking seriously, \ What is it?\ \ Captain!\ The voice hailed him from the arched entrance to the Grand Gallery. Hell, it s Denzil, Thomas thought. He told Braun, \ If it can t wait, tell me quickly.\ Braun hesitated, his nervous eyes on the approaching Denzil. \ It can wait,\ he said. \ I ll come to the Grand Gallery later.\ \ Are you certain?\ \ Yes.\ The young man began to sidle uneasily away. \ Very well.\ Braun nodded and all but bolted out of the entrance hall. Thomas went to join Denzil. The Duke of Alsene s
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father had been
father had been a wastrel and little better than a border bandit who managed to lose most of the family properties by the time of his death. Denzil had inherited the Duchy of Alsene at age eight, surrounded by a large family of grasping and impoverished noble relatives. Seven years later when he had come to court and captured Roland s favor, all those properties had been restored, and he had been made generous gifts of land, court offices, and the incomes that came with them. Now he had his own cadre of debauched and worthless young nobles, and he encouraged them to plot and spread rumors and otherwise annoy Ravenna, even though two of his foolish friends had gone too far, and died for it on the Traitor s Block outside the city. Ravenna was continually balked by his influence over Roland,
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as, on reading
as, on reading it, he returned it to the envelope, and was about pocketing it, when Miss Villiers said, putting out her hand: \ I presume we may see it.\ Cole, though with visible reluctance, handed it to her, when she read as follows: \ ST. LAWRENCE HALL, \ MONTREAL, 25th Sept. \ To C. BABBINGTON-COLE, Esq. \ Typhoid fever left; but taken cold, sore throat; looking most anxiously for the return of yourself and Mrs. Cole. Pray don t delay. \ JOHN PEAKE, M.D.\ \ Too bad, too bad; but you may yet find your father quite well,\ said Stone, with assumed feeling. \ In the midst of life we are in death, \ said Miss Stone. \
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I trust your
I trust your father has not been a careless liver, Mr. Charles; as a young man, I remember he was much given to the things of the world.\ \ My father is no smooth-tongued hypocrite, but has a truer sense of religion than many representative men and women in our church of to-day,\ said Cole, warmly; while thinking, but for his mistaken sense of honor, I CHAPTER X. would not now be in this abominable fix. 68 \ You will, I am sure, be anxious to return at once, Mr. Babbington-Cole,\ said Mr. Parks, in measured tones. \ And as the first step towards it, as it grows late, if you will arrange yourselves, I will proceed at once with the
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service.\ \ To-night!\
service.\ \ To-night!\ exclaimed the victim. \ I think it best, Babbington-Cole,\ said Stone, firmly, \ for you are not the only one who has received a telegraphic message this evening; mine summons me away at daybreak for the Isle of Wight, on urgent business; and as you have crossed the pond to marry my niece, what do you gain by postponement?\ \ By delay,\ said Miss Villiers, fixing her stony eyes on him, as she motioned him to stand beside her, \ by delay we may miss seeing your father alive.\ \ True,\ said Cole, \ and I must find him alive to explain all this,\ he added, with feverish haste. And while the service was said in monotone by the clergyman, so intent
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was he in
was he in performing hidden rites of vengeance upon his bride for the pantheon of hideous idols she was making him walk through life in, that he was deaf to the words: \ Wilt thou take this woman to be thy wedded wife?\ And the first caress he received from his bride was a pinch, sharp and telling; he said, excitedly: \ Take it all for granted, Mr. Parks, I am really too ill to take part.\ At the words, \ I pronounce that they be man and wife together,\ etc., muffled footsteps and the noise of panting breath is distinctly heard, and a pale woman, who had evidently come from a distance, with flying feet entered; the clergyman only seeing her, the others having their backs to the entrance; but
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she nears, staying her
she nears, staying her feet to listen as she hears the words which add another couple to the long line of loveless unions, her hurried breathing falls on the ears of those present. All turn round. Miss Villiers eyes her menacingly, while Miss Stone and her brother simultaneously point to the door, as she interrupting Mr. Parks congratulations, says in heart-rending tones of despair: \ Yes, I will go, for I am too late, too late, alas! for my poor young mistress and my oath to protect her.\ And she vanished noiselessly. The fetters securely fastened, Mrs. Babbington-Cole said, wrathfully: \ A lunatic asylum is the only fit home for Sarah Kane.\ Turning to her new-made husband, she says explanatorily, \ an old servant, and a crank. Uncle Timothy, you had better
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see her caged
see her caged up somewhere, or pay her off, and dismiss her.\ \ Yes, I must; we can t have a madwoman going about like this.\ \ Alas! how ungrateful of Sarah,\ sighed Miss Stone. \ I fear the seed we have sown fell on stony ground, Mr. Parks.\ \ I fear so, indeed,\ echoed Mr. Parks, as he departed, his heart gladdened on thinking of the good British gold in his pocket; and from Mr. Stone, mean though he was, it was worth paying a sovereign to become the possessor of a yearly income of two thousand pounds. The poor bridegroom thought not of the parson s fee, which, had he wedded a woman of his own choice, he would have paid with an overflowing heart, he, poor
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the character of
the character of the room; I felt, in fact, that Cecilia rather pleaded with her eyes that I should make no reference to it. And Miss Hollister remarked quite casually as though in comment upon my thoughts:– \ Consistency has buried its thousands and habit its tens of thousands. We should live, Mr. Ames, for the changes and chances of this troubled life. Between an opera-box and a villa at Newport many of my best friends have perished.\ \ I have thought myself that Thoreau had the right idea,\ –I began hopefully; but she raised her finger warningly. \ Mr. Ames, the mention of Henry David Thoreau is wholly distasteful to me. A man who will deliberately choose to whittle lead-pencils for chipmunks and write a book about a moist sand-pile like Cape Cod
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arouses no sympathy in
arouses no sympathy in me. And these well-meaning women who are forever gathering autumn leaves, or who tire you in spring by telling you they have found the first pussy-willow feathering, and who make all Nature odious by their general goo-gooings, bore me to death. There is no such thing possible as the simple life. I give you my word for it that it is only in the most complex existence that the spirit of man can thrive.\ I am only a chimney-doctor; I have never been able to make any headway in discussing things aesthetic, sentimental or spiritual with persons of sound conviction in such matters. A bishop with whom I once roamed the English cathedrals confessed to me his sincere belief that in the days of the inquisition the gridiron would have been my rightful portion. I
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was fearful lest
was fearful lest my hostess should suggest the mediaeval church as a topic, and this I knew would be disastrous. As an abbess she would, I fancied, have ruled with an iron hand. But with startling abruptness she put down her fork, and bending her wonderfully direct gaze upon me, asked a question that caused me to strangle on a bit of asparagus. \ I imagine, Mr. Ames, that you are a member of some of the better clubs in town. If by any chance you belong 22 to the Hare and Tortoise,–the name of which has always pleased me,–do you by any chance happen to enjoy the acquaintance of Mr. Hartley Wiggins?\ Cecilia lifted her head. I saw that she
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had been as
had been as startled as I. It crossed my mind that a denial of any acquaintance with Wiggins might best serve him in the circumstances; but I am not, I hope, without a sense of shame, and I responded promptly:– \ Yes, I know him well. We are old friends. I always see a good deal of him during the winter. His summers are spent usually on his ranch in the west. We dined together two days ago at the Hare and Tortoise, just before he left for the west.\ \ You will pardon me if I say that it is wholly to his credit that he has forsworn the professions and identified himself with the honorable calling of the husbandman.\ \ We met Mr. Wiggins while traveling abroad last summer,\ interposed Cecilia,
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meeting my eyes
meeting my eyes quite frankly. \ Met him! Did you say met him, Cecilia? On the contrary we found him waiting for us at the dock the morning we sailed,\ corrected Miss Hollister, \ and we never lost him a day in three months of rapid travel. I had never met him before, but I cannot deny that he made himself exceedingly agreeable. If, as I suspected, he had deliberately planned to travel on the same steamer with my two nieces, I have only praise for his conduct, for in these days, Mr. Ames, it warms my heart to find young men showing something of the old chivalric ardor in their affairs of the heart.\ \ I m sure Mr. Wiggins made himself very agreeable,\ remarked Cecilia colorlessly. \ For myself,\
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I tried all
I tried all the usual stuff we are told. I kept busy. I hung out with others. I found time for hobbies. I talked it over with friends. I sought new friends. I wrote out my feelings. But it didn’t work, and the advice I received was of little help either: “Just forget it.” “It’s okay.” “You’ll get over it.” “You just need time.” But nothing worked. Nothing helped. No idea made me any better and no advice seemed to make any sense. Because I couldn’t just forget it. I couldn’t get over it. It wasn’t okay. And time wasn’t helping at all. Because every day
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I woke up
I woke up the same. Nothing had changed. I wasn’t any different. And so despite all the crappy advice I found, and all the desperate things I tried, I was never any better than before. I only ever got worse – more sad, more angry, more pathetic. Everything somehow led me back to where I was; to the place inside myself I was so desperate to escape. The pain. The fear. The depression. And I just wished it would stop, then and there; that I could just turn it off and feel sane, that I could at last be rid of it forever and finally feel whole and at ease – just feel normal – though I didn’t even know what that
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meant or felt
meant or felt like. And always I wondered when I lied awake at night, unable to sleep, and dreading the day to come…what could save me? 5 | I Found My Answer in a Photo 6 And one day, during my usual browsing of the internet at work, I came upon a news article. Someone had been murdered. A horrific scene had been left. And the eyes of the killer stared me in the face. It was his mugshot. He looked so normal, though. So regular. So entirely unlike what
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I assumed a
I assumed a killer to look like, though I’m sure he was no different than the hundreds of others I had seen already in my life in papers or the news. But for whatever reason, in that face I found the question which forced me to look within, at my life, at my situation, at my self: “What separated me from him?” What difference lies between the killer and the lawful? Where do we cease to be common? Why does he solve his problems one way, and I another? What I knew of myself was that I was somehow different than those I looked up to and envied. I knew that there existed people who did not view the world as I viewed
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[Picture: Decorative drop
[Picture: Decorative drop capital] On going back to the yacht, we found that she was moored in the North 15 River, or Bure, having been quanted under the two fixed bridges, and the mast was being slowly raised. The big pole masts of these river yachts are very heavy and unwieldy, and I am always glad when the operation of lowering and raising them again is safely over. Sometimes they have lead weights permanently fixed to the heel of the mast (which latter swings in a tabernacle), but generally, lumps of ballast have to be shifted and hooked on, a troublesome \ pinch-finger\ business which I avoid in my own yacht by using a tackle and blocks. Of course the wind was fair, as our course up the Bure lies
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north for a
north for a mile or two, and then due west as far as Acle; and it is well when it is fair, for the next twelve miles are very uninteresting. There is nothing whatever to see, except eel sets and boats. These Noah s-ark-like craft are generally made out of old sea boats, with a hut built on them. They are shoved a little way up a dyke, out of the way of wherries, and the eel net is stretched across the stream, waiting for the eels, in their annual migrations seawards, to swim into it. Those two wooden buoys, one on each side of the river, mark its position. Almost at our first starting, we got aground; hard and fast too, for the shoals are frequent hereabout. We waited for the tide to float us off, and to help it
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we sent a
we sent a rope ashore to a man on the bank. The rope was not quite long enough, and Wynne undertook to bend another to it. The man set all his weight on it, the knot parted, and the man disappeared on the other side of the embankment, where there was, we knew, a deep ditch. Presently he reappeared, dripping wet, and in a towering passion. He refused to assist us any more, so we waited a little longer, and as the tide rose, we were again afloat. Once round the bend by the Two-mile House we sped away at top speed to the westward, with frequent jibes as the river bends. The great boom came over with tremendous force, and made the yacht quiver again, although we eased it all we could by rallying in the sheet. The low, dull
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said Death.
said Death. \ Thou say st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy.\ \ Another mother!\ said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers. \ There, thou hast thine eyes,\ said Death; \ I fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than before; now look down into the deep well close by; I shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life–their whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy.\ And she looked down into the well; and it was a happiness to see how
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the one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywhere. And she saw the other s life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness. \ Both of them are God s will!\ said Death. \ Which of them is Misfortune s flower? and which is that of Happiness?\ asked she. \ That I will not tell thee,\ said Death; \ but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own child! it was thy child s fate thou saw st,–thy own child s future life!\ 15 Then the mother screamed with terror, \ Which of them was my child? Tell
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it me! save
it me! save the innocent! save my child from all that misery! rather take it away! take it into God s kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that I have done!\ \ I do not understand thee!\ said Death. \ Wilt thou have thy child again, or shall I go with it there, where thou dost not know!\ Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our Lord: \ Oh, hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is the best! hear me not! hear me not!\ And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death took her child and went with it into the unknown land. [Illustration: \ THE STORY OF A MOTHER.\ ]
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———— THE FALSE COLLAR. There
———— THE FALSE COLLAR. There was once a fine gentleman, all of whose moveables were a bootjack and a hair-comb: but he had the finest false collars in the world; and it is about one of these collars that we are now to hear a story. It was so old, that it began to think of marriage; and it happened that it came to be washed in company with a garter. \ Nay!\ said the collar, \ I never did see anything so slender and so fine, so soft and so neat. May I not ask your name?\ \ That I shall not tell you!\ said the garter. \ Where do you live?\ asked the collar. But the garter was so bashful,
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being built all
being built all along there, and that supplies for a million men have been assembled. There has been talk of war many times before, and nothing has come of it; but there have never been such preparations as these.\ \ Let us hope it is only the Kaiser rattling his sword again–a little louder than usual. I confess,\ he added more soberly, \ that as an American I haven t much sympathy with Prussian militarism. I have sometimes thought that a war which would put an end to it once for all would be a good thing.\ The woman shot him a glance surprisingly quick and piercing. \ That is also the opinion of many here in Germany,\ she said in a low voice; \ but it is an opinion which cannot
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be uttered.\
be uttered.\ She checked herself quickly as the ugly waiter approached. \ How long will the gentleman remain in Aachen?\ she asked, in another tone. \ I am going on to Brussels this evening. There is a train at six o clock, is there not?\ \ At six o clock, yes, sir. It will be well for the gentleman to have a light dinner before his departure. The train may be delayed–and the journey to Brussels is of seven hours.\ \ Very well,\ agreed Stewart, rising. \ I will be back about five. How does one get to the cathedral?\ \ Turn to your right, sir, as you leave the hotel. The first street is the Franzstrasse. It will lead you straight to the church.\
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Stewart thanked her
Stewart thanked her and set off. The Franzstrasse proved to be a wide thoroughfare, bordered by handsome shops, but many of them were closed and the street itself was almost deserted. It opened upon a narrower street, at the end of which Stewart could see the lofty choir of the minster. CHAPTER III Presently he became aware of a chorus of high-pitched voices, which grew more and more distinct as he 21 advanced. It sounded like a lot of women in violent altercation, and then in a moment he saw what it was, for he came out upon an open square covered with market-stalls, and so crowded that one could scarcely get across it. Plainly the frugal wives of Aachen were laying in supplies against the time when
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