A Dirge for Sabis by C J Cherryh & Leslie Fish

Author:C J Cherryh & Leslie Fish [Cherryh, C J & Fish, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 0743498755
Publisher: Baen Publishing Enterprises
Published: 2005-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Part III: CANDLELIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

Wotheng Woshka's-son, Baron of Ashkell, woke to unwelcome sunlight and a twinging hangover. He pulled the sheepskin blanket up over his head, rolled against his wife Gynallea's soft buttocks, and crept back toward sleep.

Gynallea gave him a kick, and grunted: "'S morning."

"Don' care." Wotheng burrowed deeper into the goose-feather pillows.

"It's morning. Get up." Gynallea back-kicked him again. "Work to do."

"No work yet," Wotheng insisted, pulling a pillow over his head. "Yawth hasn't knocked yet."

"Yawth came earlier, knocked, and said something about newcomers. We should go see."

Wotheng counterfeited a creditable snore.

Gynallea sighed, took a deep breath, tightened her belly muscles, and let loose a trumpeting fart.

Under the blankets, Wotheng got the worst of it. He choked, wheezed, and erupted out of the blankets, roaring, "Gods jam your arse with a pine tree, woman! Aaagh, that was cruel."

"That was last night's beer." Gynallea crawled out of the tumbled blankets like a venerable sow from the best wallowing hole. "Tell me no sad tales of hangover, lovey; I drank as much as you."

"Well, who asked you to sit up so late?" Wotheng grumbled as he lugged himself out of bed, idly scratching his bare hide.

"You did, remember?" Gynallea plodded to the nearest carved chair, where her undershift lay. "You wanted my good wit with numbers when those poor North Hill farmers came whining about why they'd have to delay their taxes."

"Ah, right . . ." Wotheng studied his wife's broad buttocks as she tugged the shift over her head. Fart upon headache or no, he hadn't much to complain about; a good clever wife with such a fine, buxom shape was better than most men could claim. And no doubt, the headache would improve after a mug of Gynallea's bitter bark tea . . . plus half a dozen fried sausages and some hotcakes and a handful of coddled eggs, and some bread with jelly, and . . . "Ah, what were those farmers whining about, anyway? Do you remember?"

"Oh, yes." Gynallea batted her tangled brown locks with a pig-bristle brush. "'Twas that Folweel again."

"Oh. Gods, not again." Wotheng knuckled the last of sleep out of his eyes. "What did he do, set a curse of fire on the poor fools' cowsheds?"

"Sheepsheds. We agreed to take part of the taxes in rough-roasted mutton, remember?"

"Gods. Ah, p'raps your cooks can turn it into sausage fit for siege food." Wotheng hunted the bedposts for his clothes. The underbreeches and small shift smelled suspiciously overused. He tossed them in the corner reserved for ripe laundry, went to the clothespress, and hunted for fresh smallclothes. "Vona blast that pesky wizard. We have to do something about him before we all turn poor, but what, hey?"

Gynallea shrugged into a clean enough outer skirt and glanced about for her stockings. "Sneak into his holding and poison his food stores? Set his thatch mysteriously afire? Dig a deep pit and lure him into it? I don't know, lovey. My kindred raised no wizards."

"Nor did mine." Wotheng sat down to pull on his stockings and overbreeches.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.