by patrols.
As it was, Seg and I were just two people to chase them out of all the patrolling guards.
Ironic.
Yet for me, and I thought for Seg, also, this was just what the doctor ordered, as they used to say.
There exist on Kregen as well as Earth bone-dry pundits who scorn tales of adventure. If these people lack the breadth of imagination to encompass an understanding of the pressures on, condition of, illumination of and triumphs and failures of the human spirit then that is their loss, not ours. The unwillingness to accept defeat tamely does not brand a person as a monster — it may, of course. But then, that is what adventure tends to do, sort the sheep from the goats, the ponshos from the leems, make people face themselves, shorn of pretensions, and — perhaps, if they are lucky — grasp at a little of what the human spirit exists at all for...
Seg and I were off, and we were off on adventure-bent, and Spikatur was only half the answer and hardly any of the reason.
Chapter five
The Hissing of the Star Lords’ Chair
How terrible to live in a world without color!
Or, rather, given the universal prodigality of Nature’s palette, a world in which you could not see and appreciate color. To live in a monochrome world...
The sheeting lights, rippling and undulating across the sky, the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio, jade and ruby, illuminating everything in fires of crimson and emerald — nothing. You’d see nothing of this in a world without color...
You’d see a pale ghost rising in the sky as the first of Kregen’s seven Moons, The Maiden with the Many Smiles, lifted over the horizon. Her pinkish radiance flooded down, adding to the lighting of the world. Soon she was joined by her sister, She of the Veils, whose more mellow golden and rose light mingled and softened the pinkness. The surface of Kregen wallowed in color and light.
And, high through the air, the two vollers bore on.
“We just keep pace,” observed Seg.
“The suns will soon be gone—”
“Aye. But we have moons for the whole of tonight.”
Not for a single mur this night would real darkness fall. On some nights when not a moon shines in Kregen’s sky folk say that it is a Night of Notor Zan. And when all seven moons form their intricate dances into a single configuration of brightness, a line of radiance, folk say that it is the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom.
No moon would be at the full tonight, and so Our Lady Monafeyom’s Scarf would not be seen.
But there would be ample light for us to track and follow the fleeing airboat.
Like a flitting black bat she darted ahead, fleeting, wispy, a phantom under the Moons of Kregen.
Seg and I took watch and watch, turn and turn about.
We flew North.
The land of Hamal passed away below.
In the small hours the wine ran out.
Seg said, “Soup?”
“I’m with you, Seg.”
The Hamalese guards had provided themselves with rations, not being entirely stupid, and in the Kregan way taking care that they were victualed against a long spell of duty. Seg brought out the crockery pot of soup, and undid its linen cover. He shook the pot and sniffed.
“Vosk and Taylyne—”
“Excellent.”
Now we were used to drinking this soup hot, whereas many Hamalese drank it cold. We were flying up north toward the equator, and although fairly high in the air, and at night, we were not too cold. All the same, Vosk and Taylyne soup is, in our opinion, best drunk hot.
Taylynes are pea-sized vegetables, scarlet and orange, and they blend with Vosk, which is one of the most succulent meats of all Kregen, to form a truly splendid soup.
Seg found the slate slab and the box of combustibles and then fished around in his pouch and brought out his tinder box.
Fire may be produced by many different methods, on Kregen as on Earth, and the tinder box Seg happened to have was one of those little devices the Kregans call januls. He struck flint and steel with unthinking skill, and the
As it was, Seg and I were just two people to chase them out of all the patrolling guards.
Ironic.
Yet for me, and I thought for Seg, also, this was just what the doctor ordered, as they used to say.
There exist on Kregen as well as Earth bone-dry pundits who scorn tales of adventure. If these people lack the breadth of imagination to encompass an understanding of the pressures on, condition of, illumination of and triumphs and failures of the human spirit then that is their loss, not ours. The unwillingness to accept defeat tamely does not brand a person as a monster — it may, of course. But then, that is what adventure tends to do, sort the sheep from the goats, the ponshos from the leems, make people face themselves, shorn of pretensions, and — perhaps, if they are lucky — grasp at a little of what the human spirit exists at all for...
Seg and I were off, and we were off on adventure-bent, and Spikatur was only half the answer and hardly any of the reason.
Chapter five
The Hissing of the Star Lords’ Chair
How terrible to live in a world without color!
Or, rather, given the universal prodigality of Nature’s palette, a world in which you could not see and appreciate color. To live in a monochrome world...
The sheeting lights, rippling and undulating across the sky, the streaming mingled radiance of the Suns of Scorpio, jade and ruby, illuminating everything in fires of crimson and emerald — nothing. You’d see nothing of this in a world without color...
You’d see a pale ghost rising in the sky as the first of Kregen’s seven Moons, The Maiden with the Many Smiles, lifted over the horizon. Her pinkish radiance flooded down, adding to the lighting of the world. Soon she was joined by her sister, She of the Veils, whose more mellow golden and rose light mingled and softened the pinkness. The surface of Kregen wallowed in color and light.
And, high through the air, the two vollers bore on.
“We just keep pace,” observed Seg.
“The suns will soon be gone—”
“Aye. But we have moons for the whole of tonight.”
Not for a single mur this night would real darkness fall. On some nights when not a moon shines in Kregen’s sky folk say that it is a Night of Notor Zan. And when all seven moons form their intricate dances into a single configuration of brightness, a line of radiance, folk say that it is the Scarf of Our Lady Monafeyom.
No moon would be at the full tonight, and so Our Lady Monafeyom’s Scarf would not be seen.
But there would be ample light for us to track and follow the fleeing airboat.
Like a flitting black bat she darted ahead, fleeting, wispy, a phantom under the Moons of Kregen.
Seg and I took watch and watch, turn and turn about.
We flew North.
The land of Hamal passed away below.
In the small hours the wine ran out.
Seg said, “Soup?”
“I’m with you, Seg.”
The Hamalese guards had provided themselves with rations, not being entirely stupid, and in the Kregan way taking care that they were victualed against a long spell of duty. Seg brought out the crockery pot of soup, and undid its linen cover. He shook the pot and sniffed.
“Vosk and Taylyne—”
“Excellent.”
Now we were used to drinking this soup hot, whereas many Hamalese drank it cold. We were flying up north toward the equator, and although fairly high in the air, and at night, we were not too cold. All the same, Vosk and Taylyne soup is, in our opinion, best drunk hot.
Taylynes are pea-sized vegetables, scarlet and orange, and they blend with Vosk, which is one of the most succulent meats of all Kregen, to form a truly splendid soup.
Seg found the slate slab and the box of combustibles and then fished around in his pouch and brought out his tinder box.
Fire may be produced by many different methods, on Kregen as on Earth, and the tinder box Seg happened to have was one of those little devices the Kregans call januls. He struck flint and steel with unthinking skill, and the
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