Dahut by Poul Anderson

Author:Poul Anderson [ANDERSON, POUL and KAREN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9435-4
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2011-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

2

Wind woke anew, with a low gray wrack driven off the sea. His squadmates gave Budic questioning looks when they went off patrol and he told them he wanted to take a long walk. They said nothing, though. He had been moody these past months, especially of late, often absent-minded or staring off at something invisible. Quite likely, they thought, he had been worse shocked by Gratillonius’s brush with death than his adored centurion was.

Having changed legionary gear for warm civilian clothes, he left by Northbridge and struck off on Redonian Way, north to Eppillus’s grave—where he saluted, as was the custom of his outfit—and then east until beyond sight of Ys. The road was his alone. To the left he glimpsed wild white-maned immensity, to the right sallow pastureland strewn with boulders, here and there a wind-gnarled tree or a lichenous menhir. A few seafowl skimmed about on the blast.

One ancient monument identified a nearby shelter, used in grazing season by shepherds and their flocks when weather got too rough. It was not stone but merely three sod walls open to the south, where the hills partially broke the winds, and a low roof of turfs laid over branches. Inside, he was out of the worst cold but not of the hollow roaring and whistling. Repeatedly, he stepped from the gloom and squinted west up the highway.

She came at last, roughly clad, like an Osismiic woman. Besides a cowl, she had drawn a scarf across her face. That was understandable on a day such as this. Passersby and guards in the city would have paid her no heed—she’d be a countryman’s wife, or perhaps a servant on an outlying manor, come to town on some errand—unless they noticed slim form and trim ankles under the wool.

Budic loped to meet her. “My lady!” he cried. “You, dressed thus? And you didn’t ride, you walked the whole way. ’Tis not right!”

Dahut pulled aside the scarf and smote him with a smile. “Should I have fared on horseback, among banners and trumpets?” she teased. “I told you I wished a private talk.” The gaiety left her. The bright head drooped downward, out of its hood. “Aye, here’s a wretched meeting place. You were sweet to come as I asked.”

“M-m-my lady did ask, so naturally I—But let’s within. I carried along food and a, a wineskin. I should have remembered a beaker for you. I’m sorry. But if you will deign?”

She picked her way fastidiously over dried droppings to a bench. It was small as well as rude; when they sat down, they were crowded together. She refreshed herself with a deftness that bespoke experience. “Ah, that helps. You are so kind, Budic, so thoughtful.”

“Why do we m-meet today?”

She passed fingers across the fist on his knee—how moth-lightly! “Why, that should be clear. Thrice we’ve chanced on each other in the streets, and you’ve had the charity to walk a way at my side, listen to me, be with me.”

“We said naught that was of any moment.

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