8
HERE THERE WAS no real morning or evening, day or dark; the dwellers seemed to live according to whim. Holger woke slowly and luxuriously, to find himself alone again. At exactly the right moment the door opened and a goblin entered with a breakfast tray. They must have used witchcraft to learn his personal tastes: no Continental nonsense, but a good American assemblage of ham and eggs, toast, buckwheat cakes, coffee, and orange juice. By the time he was up and dressed, Hugi came in, looking worried “Where were you?” asked Holger.
“Ah, I slept in the garden. It seemed the richt thing to do when ye were, uh, busy.” The dwarf sat down on a footstool, an incongruous brown blot in this gold and scarlet and purple. He tugged at his beard. “I dinna like the air here. Summat ill is afoot.”
“You’re prejudiced,” said Holger. Mostly he was thinking of a date he’d made to go hawking with Meriven.
“Och, they can put on a bra show and bedazzle ye wi’ every manner o’ fine wines and loose lasses,” grumbled Hugi, “but there’s aye been scant friendship atwixt men and Faerie, least of all noo when Chaos gathers for war. As for me, I ken wha’ I ken. And this is what I spied as I lay in yon garden. Great flashes o’ lightning from the topmost tower, a demon figure departing in smoke, and the stench o’ warlockry so rank it nigh curdled ma banes. Later, from the west, another flying figure came in haste, landed on the tower and went inside. Methinks Duke Alfric ha’ summoned a weirdie to his aid. “
“Why, of course,” said Holger. “He told me he would.”
“Have yer fun,” muttered Hugi. “Be gay in the teeth o’ the wolf. But when yer dead body lies oot for ravens to tear, say no I didna warn ye.”
A stubborn objectivity forced Holger to consider the dwarf’s words as he went downstairs. Indeed this might be a gimmick to keep him out of commission until too late… Too late for what? Surely, if they intended evil, they could stab or poison him. He’d stood off one of their champions—who had probably only attacked him because he bore the arms of the mysterious paladin of the hearts and lions—but he couldn’t beat a dozen. Could he? He dropped hand on the Faerie sword. It was a comforting thing to have.
Meriven hadn’t set a definite hour, here where time hardly existed. Holger dawdled through the main reception hall. After a while he thought he might look up the Duke and ask if there was any news about his problem. On inquiry from a sullen kobold slave, Holger learned that the master’s rooms were in the north wing, second floor. He mounted a flight of stairs three at a bound, whistling cheerily.
He came out on the landing just as Alfric and a woman stepped from a door. He had barely a glimpse of her, she slipped swiftly back inside again, but he was stunned. This world seemed full of extraordinary lookers. She was human, taller and more full-bodied than the Faerie ladies, long midnight hair coiled under a golden coronet, her white satin dress sweeping the floor. Her face was ivory pale, curve-nosed, with arrogance lying on the red lips and in the dark brilliant eyes. Hm! The Duke was a lucky fellow.
Alfric’s scowl smoothed itself out. “Good morrow, Sir ’Olger. How fare you?” As he bowed, his hands moved in curious passes.
“Excellent well, my lord.” Holger bowed back. “I trust you too—”
“Ah, there you are, my naughty one. Wouldst run away from me?” Meriven took the Dane’s arm. Now where the devil had she appeared from? “Come, the horses are ready, we’ve some falconry to do.” She bore him off almost before he could draw breath.
They had a good time, loosing their hawks at cranes, wild peacocks, and less familiar prey. Meriven chattered gaily the while, and he had to laugh with her. That anecdote about the hunting of the basilisk… well, hardly fit for mixed company, but it was funny. Holger would have enjoyed himself more had his memory not been nagging him again. That woman with the Duke—blast and damn, he knew her!