Jack Vance - Dying Earth 2 by The Eyes of The Overworld

Author:The Eyes of The Overworld
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-06-21T23:44:46+00:00

The Pilgrims

1: At the Inn FOR THE BETTER PART of a day Cugel had traveled a dreary waste where nothing grew but salt-grass; then, only a few minutes before sunset, he arrived at the bank of a broad slow river, beside which ran a road. A half-mile to his right stood a tall structure of timber and dark brown stucco, evidently an inn. The sight gave Cugel vast satisfaction, for he had eaten nothing the whole of the day, and had spent the previous night in a tree. Ten minutes later he pushed open the heavy iron-bound door, and entered the inn.

He stood in a vestibule. To either side where diamond-paned casements, burnt lavender with age, where the setting sun scattered a thousand refractions. From the common room came the cheerful hum of voices, the clank of pottery and glass, the smell of ancient wood, waxed tile, leather and simmering cauldrons. Cugel stepped forward to find a score of men gathered about the fire, drinking wine and exchanging the large talk of travelers.

The landlord stood behind a counter: a stocky man hardly as tall as Cugel’s shoulder, with a high-domed bald head and a black beard hanging a foot below his chin. His eyes were protuberant and heavy-lidded; his expression was as placid and calm as the flow of the river. At Cugel’s request for accommodation he dubiously pulled at his nose. “Already I am over-extended, with pilgrims upon the route to Erze Damath. Those you see upon the benches are not even half of all I must lodge this night.

I will put down a pallet in the hall, if such will content you; I can do no more.”

Cugel gave a sigh of fretful dissatisfaction. “This fails to meet my expectations. I strongly desire a private chamber with a couch of good quality, a window overlooking the river, a heavy carpet to muffle the songs and slogans of the pot-room.”

“I fear that you will be disappointed,” said the landlord without emotion. “The single chamber of this description is already occupied, by that man with the yellow beard sitting yonder: a certain Lodermuleh, also traveling to Erze Damath.”

“Perhaps, on the plea of emergency, you might persuade him to vacate the chamber and occupy the pallet in my stead,” suggested Cugel.

“I doubt if he is capable of such abnegation,” the innkeeper replied. “But why not put the inquiry yourself? I, frankly, do not wish to broach the matter.”

Cugel, surveying Lodermulch’s strongly-marked features, his muscular arms and the somewhat disdainful manner in which he listened to the talk of the pilgrims, was inclined to join the innkeeper in his assessment of Lodermulch’s character, and made no move to press the request. “It seems that I must occupy the pallet. Now, as to my supper: I require a fowl, suitably stuffed, trussed, roasted and garnished, accompanied by whatever side-dishes your kitchen affords.”

“My kitchen is overtaxed and you must eat lentils with the pilgrims,” said the landlord. “A single fowl is on hand, and this again has been reserved to the order of Loder-mulch, for his evening repast.

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