The Drawing of the Dark by Tim Powers

Author:Tim Powers [Powers, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-79395-9
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-05-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

“Insensibly drunk! I expected it, of course. And on my beer, which I daresay you neglected to pay for, eh?” Duffy opened his eyes and blinked up at Werner. He tried to speak, but produced only a grating moan; which was just as well, since he’d intended to voice only reflexive abuse. The Irishman loathed waking up on the floor, for one couldn’t, in that situation, pull the covers up and postpone arising. One had immediately to get up and begin dealing with things.

Getting to his feet proved a little easier than he’d expected. “Shut up, Werner,” he said quitely. “Don’t mess about in things that don’t concern you. And tell one of the girls to bring me a big breakfast.” Werner just stared at him, anger growing in his face like a spark on a fur cloak. “Did you even hear,” Duffy went on, “about the siege gun somebody tried to blow this place up with last night? If it hadn’t been for those Vikings in the stable, you and the rest of the city’s dogs would right now be scavenging through a rubble pile on this spot.” Werner looked only bewildered now. “Your beer,” Duffy added contemptuously, shambling to his table and collapsing into a chair.

Like a man beaten by bandits who sits up in the ditch later and feels for broken teeth or ribs, the Irishman gingerly prodded his memories. I’m Brian Duffy, he thought with cautious satisfaction, and I’m in love with Epiphany Vogel and employed by Aurelianus. It’s the day after Easter, 1529. I’m Brian Duffy, and no one else.

His breakfast and Lothario Mothertongue arrived simultaneously. Duffy concentrated on the former.

“Brian,” Mothertongue said, tossing his cloak across a bench and rubbing his chilly hands together, “the time draws nigh. I am gathering my knights about me once more. And,” he smiled graciously, “there is a place for you at my new round table. I heard of your courageous behavior last night.” He turned a speculative eye on the Irishman. “Tell me, do you feel anything, any long-lost echoes, when I say the name … Tristan?”

Duffy, his mouth full, shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Mothertongue went on, his voice tight with an intensity of emotion. “Tristan! Tristan!” He leaned forward and shouted in the Irishman’s face, “Can you hear me, Tristan?”

Duffy seized a bowl of milk from the table and flung it into Mothertongue’s face. “Snap out of it, Lothario,” he said.

Mothertongue got to his feet, outraged and dripping. “I was wrong,” he hissed. “There’s no place in Camelot for you. I don’t know who you may once have been, but your soul is now polluted and corrupt, a swamp wherein crawl mind-adders.”

Duffy wanted to be angry, but was laughing too hard. “By God,” he gasped finally, “it was looking like a gloomy day till you showed up, Lothario! Mind-adders, hey? Ho ho.” Mothertongue turned and stalked out of the room.

Shrub came dashing in as Duffy was polishing off the last of his black bread. “Mr.

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