Haplo kept silent, his face was dark, expression impenetrable.
“It was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Grundle demanded, irritated. “Wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure. It was what I wanted,” Haplo answered.
“It’s wonderful!” Alake came over to him, her smile dazzling. “All of us, sailing to new lives!”
Two muscular humans ran over, lifted the dwarf-maid to their shoulders, and bore her off in triumph. Alake began to dance. A procession started, the humans chanting, elves singing, dwarven deep bass rivaling the booming of the drum.
Sailing to new lives.
Sailing to death.
Haplo turned on his heel, walked into the darkness, leaving the bright firelight and revelry behind.
23
Alfred had not been forced to spend all this time a prisoner in the library. The Sartan Council met not once but on numerous occasions; the members were apparently having difficulty arriving at a decision concerning Alfred’s transgression. Alfred was permitted to leave the library, return to the house. He would be confined to his room until the Council had reached a decision concerning him.
The Council members were forbidden to discuss the proceedings, but Alfred was certain that Orla was the one coming to his defense. The thought warmed him, until he noticed that the wall between husband and wife had grown even higher, thicker. Orla was grave and reserved. Her husband cold with anger. They rarely spoke to each other. Alfred’s resolve to leave strengthened. He wanted only to make his apologies to the Council, then he would be gone.
“There is no need to lock me inside my room,” Alfred told Ramu, who served as his guard. “I give you my word as a Sartan that I will not attempt to escape. I ask only one favor of you. Could you see to it that the dog is allowed fresh air and exercise?”
“I suppose we must comply,” Samah said ungraciously to his son, when Alfred’s request was reported.
“Why not dispose of the animal?” Ramu asked indifferently.
“Because I have plans for it,” Samah replied. “I believe I will ask your mother to perform the task of walking the creature.” He and his son exchanged significant glances.
Orla refused her husband’s request. “Ramu can walk the animal. I want nothing to do with it.”
“Ramu has his own life now,” her husband reminded her sternly. “He has his family, his own responsibilities. This Alfred and his dog are our responsibility. One for which you have only yourself to thank.” Orla heard the rebuke in his voice, was conscious of her guilt for having failed in that responsibility once already. And she had failed her husband again, tying up the Council with strings of arguments.
“Very well, Samah,” she agreed coldly.
She went early to Alfred’s room the next morning, prepared to undertake the onerous task. She was cool, aloof, reminded herself that no matter what she had said in his defense to the Council, she was angry with this man, disappointed in him. Orla rapped sharply on his door.
“Come in,” was the meek reply.
Alfred didn’t ask who it was, didn’t suppose, perhaps, he had the right to know.
Orla entered the room.
Alfred, standing by the window, flushed crimson when he saw her. He took a tentative step toward her. Orla raised a warding hand.
“I’ve come for the dog. I suppose the animal will accompany me?” she said, regarding it dubiously.
“I ... I think so,” said Alfred. “G-good dog. Go with Orla.” He waved his hand and, much to his astonishment, the animal went. “I want to thank—” Orla turned and walked out of the room, careful to shut the door behind her. She led the dog to the garden. Sitting down on a bench, she looked expectantly at the animal. “Well, play,” she said irritably, “or whatever it is you do.” The dog made a desultory turn or two about the garden, then returned and, laying its head on Orla’s knee, gave a sigh and fixed its liquid eyes on her face.
Orla was rather nonplussed at this liberty, and was uncomfortable with the dog so near. She wanted very much to be rid of it and barely resisted an impulse to leap to her feet and run off. But she wasn’t certain how the dog might react, seemed to vaguely recall, from what little she knew about the animals, that sudden movement might startle them into vicious behavior. Gingerly, reaching down her hand, she patted its nose.
“There ...” she said, as she might have spoken to an annoying child, “go away. There’s a good dog.”
Orla had intended to ease the dog’s head off her lap, but the sensation of running her hand over the fur was pleasant. She felt the animal’s life-force warm beneath her fingers, a sharp contrast to the cold marble bench on which she rested. And when she stroked its head, the dog wagged its tail, the soft brown eyes seemed to brighten.
Orla felt sorry for it, suddenly.
“You’re lonely,” she said, bringing both hands to smooth the silky ears. “You miss your Patryn master, I suppose. Even though you have Alfred, he’s not really yours, is he? No,” Orla added with a sigh, “he’s not really yours.
“He’s not mine, either. So why am I worried about him? He’s nothing to me, can be nothing to me.” Orla sat quietly, stroking the dog—a patient, silent, and attentive listener, one who drew from her more than she’d intended to reveal.
“I’m afraid for him,” she whispered, and her hand on the dog’s head trembled.
“Why, why did he have to be so foolish? Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? Why did he have to be like the others? No,” she pleaded softly, “not like the others. Let him not be like the others!”
Taking the dog’s head in her hand, cupping it beneath the chin, she looked into the intelligent eyes that seemed to understand. “You must warn him. Tell him to forget what he read, tell him it wasn’t worth it—”
“I believe you are actually growing to like that animal,” Samah said accusingly.
Orla jumped, hurriedly withdrew her hand. The dog growled. Rising with dignity, she shoved the animal aside, tried to wipe its drool from her dress.
“I feel sorry for it,” she said.
“You feel sorry for its master,” said Samah.
“Yes, I do,” Orla replied, resenting his tone. “Is that wrong, Samah?” The Councillor regarded his wife grimly, then suddenly relaxed. Wearily, he shook his head. “No, Wife. It is commendable. I am the one who is the wrong. I’ve . . . overreacted.”
Orla was still inclined to be offended, held herself aloof. Her husband bowed coldly to her, turned to leave. Orla saw the lines of tiredness on his face, saw his shoulders slump with fatigue. Guilt assailed her. Alfred had been in the wrong, there was no excusing him. Samah had countless problems on his mind, burdens to bear. Their people were in danger, very real danger, from the dragon-snakes, and now this . . .
“Husband,” she said remorsefully, “I am sorry. Forgive me for adding to your burdens, instead of helping to lift and carry them.”
She glided forward, reached out, laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing, feeling his life-force warm beneath her fingers, as she’d felt the dog’s. And she yearned for him to turn to her, to take her in his arms, to hold her fast. She wanted him to grant her some of his strength, draw some of his strength from her.
“Husband!” she whispered, and her grasp tightened. Samah stepped away from her. He took hold of her hands in his, folded them one on top of the other, and lightly, dryly, kissed the tips of her fingers.
“There is nothing to forgive, Wife. You were right to speak in this man’s defense. The strain is telling on both of us.”
He released her hands.
Orla held them out to him a moment longer, but Samah pretended not to see. Slowly, she lowered her hands to her sides. Finding the dog there, pressing against her knee, she absently scratched it behind its ear.
“The strain. Yes, I suppose it is.” She drew a deep breath, to hide a sigh.
“You left home early this morning. Has there been more news of the mensch?”