But did you not know that before?"
Pell Grant's arms extended farther around Sir John Slitgizzard, as if to protect him from going, and he seemed to lean back into her bosom, but whether from fear or because it was pleasant, who could say? The man's expression never changed.
Through all of this Amatus had sat silently, watching little pellets of cold sleet bounce in the street out where the light from the taboret spilled onto the cobbles, and sensing that whatever might be beginning, something was going to end tonight. The warm reds and ambers of the open hearth where the protons baked, the flickering of the fat candles, the soft hiss of the sleet outside and the rumbling of the big sleeping dog beneath his bench all seemed terribly precious to him, as if they would never be the same again, and part of him seemed to clutch madly at the last-departed notes from Golias's palanquin. The fragrance of the place—a compound of oak and tallow smoke, spilled Gravamen, steam from the piecemeal being boiled into simile, fierce margravine sauce, wet boots, and wet dogs—seemed to have an element he could not name, soon to be gone forever.
He took another swallow of Gravamen and noted that it gave him no more courage than he had had before, and finally said, "It seems we have an adventure to undertake. I have misgivings, I freely admit, and I would not have anyone come along who does not want to be there with all his heart . . . or hers," he added hastily (because Calliope, having again forgotten that she was supposed to be "Cal," was glaring at him), "so if we may delay by one bare hour, we can agree that any who are not here at the end of that hour need not come along, and that we will take no notice of comings and goings until that time."
One of Golias's low, dark brows shot far up onto his forehead at that point. No one ever really knew what Golias thought, for he generally seemed to be on all sides of all questions all the time, but the alchemist smiled a small, tight smile of utter satisfaction and grim purpose. "An eminently sensible plan. Let us then have our hour to sing, to eat, and to consider . . . and then we will go, assuming any of us are here."
The hour that followed seemed to fly by, and it must be said that Golias had never played the palanquin so well before, nor had so many of the old songs thundered forth so lustily.
Pell Grant went first, her fingers reluctantly slipping away from Sir John's broad shoulders, his hand clasping her little one before she went out the door of the Gray Weasel and down Byway to some other place.
Only a little later, Duke Wassant stood, bowed, smiled sadly, and said, "Sirs—I could avail myself of the sop to honor you've thrown out, but I do not spare myself my awareness of what I am doing. I am at your service whenever it is a matter of importance to the Kingdom, and in any point touching my real interests or yours. But it occurs to me that I have been along on many scrapes before this, and I detect in myself the first early traces of growing old, fat, and fond of comfort. I shall perhaps be sad in the morning that I decided to admit this, and a little wistful not to have been along when and if you return full of stories, but the fact is that a warm bed, and knowing that I shall rise from it to eat a good breakfast and have a day to use as I wish tomorrow, outweighs the thrill I feel. So I am away, and you may think it cowardice if you wish, but I trust you as my friends to understand it is merely a matter of not feeling a need for unnecessary danger."
"It is understood absolutely," Amatus said, rising and extending his hand. His own voice was unexpectedly deep and solid and from the corner of his eye he saw that eyebrow shoot up on Golias's face again, perhaps even accompanied by a trace of a nod.
Something in his manner must have touched Duke Wassant, as well, for instead of taking the hand and shaking it as might have been expected, with a low flourish he bowed and kissed
Pell Grant's arms extended farther around Sir John Slitgizzard, as if to protect him from going, and he seemed to lean back into her bosom, but whether from fear or because it was pleasant, who could say? The man's expression never changed.
Through all of this Amatus had sat silently, watching little pellets of cold sleet bounce in the street out where the light from the taboret spilled onto the cobbles, and sensing that whatever might be beginning, something was going to end tonight. The warm reds and ambers of the open hearth where the protons baked, the flickering of the fat candles, the soft hiss of the sleet outside and the rumbling of the big sleeping dog beneath his bench all seemed terribly precious to him, as if they would never be the same again, and part of him seemed to clutch madly at the last-departed notes from Golias's palanquin. The fragrance of the place—a compound of oak and tallow smoke, spilled Gravamen, steam from the piecemeal being boiled into simile, fierce margravine sauce, wet boots, and wet dogs—seemed to have an element he could not name, soon to be gone forever.
He took another swallow of Gravamen and noted that it gave him no more courage than he had had before, and finally said, "It seems we have an adventure to undertake. I have misgivings, I freely admit, and I would not have anyone come along who does not want to be there with all his heart . . . or hers," he added hastily (because Calliope, having again forgotten that she was supposed to be "Cal," was glaring at him), "so if we may delay by one bare hour, we can agree that any who are not here at the end of that hour need not come along, and that we will take no notice of comings and goings until that time."
One of Golias's low, dark brows shot far up onto his forehead at that point. No one ever really knew what Golias thought, for he generally seemed to be on all sides of all questions all the time, but the alchemist smiled a small, tight smile of utter satisfaction and grim purpose. "An eminently sensible plan. Let us then have our hour to sing, to eat, and to consider . . . and then we will go, assuming any of us are here."
The hour that followed seemed to fly by, and it must be said that Golias had never played the palanquin so well before, nor had so many of the old songs thundered forth so lustily.
Pell Grant went first, her fingers reluctantly slipping away from Sir John's broad shoulders, his hand clasping her little one before she went out the door of the Gray Weasel and down Byway to some other place.
Only a little later, Duke Wassant stood, bowed, smiled sadly, and said, "Sirs—I could avail myself of the sop to honor you've thrown out, but I do not spare myself my awareness of what I am doing. I am at your service whenever it is a matter of importance to the Kingdom, and in any point touching my real interests or yours. But it occurs to me that I have been along on many scrapes before this, and I detect in myself the first early traces of growing old, fat, and fond of comfort. I shall perhaps be sad in the morning that I decided to admit this, and a little wistful not to have been along when and if you return full of stories, but the fact is that a warm bed, and knowing that I shall rise from it to eat a good breakfast and have a day to use as I wish tomorrow, outweighs the thrill I feel. So I am away, and you may think it cowardice if you wish, but I trust you as my friends to understand it is merely a matter of not feeling a need for unnecessary danger."
"It is understood absolutely," Amatus said, rising and extending his hand. His own voice was unexpectedly deep and solid and from the corner of his eye he saw that eyebrow shoot up on Golias's face again, perhaps even accompanied by a trace of a nod.
Something in his manner must have touched Duke Wassant, as well, for instead of taking the hand and shaking it as might have been expected, with a low flourish he bowed and kissed
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