Anne McCaffrey Pern 14 The Girl Who Heard Dragons

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hers, he flung the cloak he had brought with him about her body. She did not
resist as he encircled her with his arms.
"My apologies. I computed the possible energy in your jewel generators and ...
here I am."
"Fair enough." Her body did not yield.
"Is it unfair to outthink a true adventurer?"
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He had meant to tease her further but something in her proud look made him
forbear. Without a veil, her face had character, and the fine features of a
noble background. Nor had her manner lost its innate self-confidence. He liked
her even more as her true self than as a mysterious mist. So he kissed her
lips lightly. After the briefest hesitation, she responded and her body
relaxed in his grip. He did not press his advantage but stepped back.
"Suppose we find another costume for you for the remainder of the evening, if
you'll do us the honor, my lady ...?"
"Dacia Cormel of Aldebaran IV" she said, filling in the blank.
"The soil-mechanics engineer?" His doubled surprise made her laugh. "But you
weren't due to arrive for another week or more." Deagan had never thought to
check anticipated visitors and couldn't express the ruefulness he felt at that
oversight. But it was no wonder she could create such a costume. "Fardles, do
you realize that it was Walteron who danced with you first.?"
"I do now, but he'll never connect that me with his precious specialist. Let's
go. I've clothes outside the gate you locked on me." She bent suddenly,
feeling with both hands about the dark garden sand. "But first, help me find
my other slipper?"
Habit Is an Old Horse
As the Sussex cock summoned morning, the old gray horse woke. He lifted his
muzzle from the ground and, blinking to clear his eyes, gazed about the
twelve-acre field. The donkeys were, as usual, already grazing at the road end
of the pasture. The two hunters were sprawled out flat, taking every advantage
of their summer's rest. The yearlings were behind old Knock; he heard them
stamping.
He shook his head. He must get up. He positioned his front legs, heaved his
hindquarters under him. One more effort and he was standing. As he sauntered
over to the water trough set between this field and the one that contained the
broodmares and new foals, his off-hind leg dragged stiffly. He ignored the
discomfort, knowing the stiffness would ease with exercise.
The yearlings suddenly acquired thirst, too, and frolicked about him as he
made his stately way, ignoring their antics. The brown came a bit too near him
and the old gray horse extended his neck, teeth bared, to put the brown in
mind of his manners.
Knock blew across the surface of the trough, rippling away dust and leaves. He
touched the water, cool on his lips, and then plunged his nose in to suck
deeply. The first water of the day was best and he took his fill.
The younger stock, donkeys included, crowded in to the trough. The old horse
backed carefully away and began to search, head down, sniffing out any sweet
blades of grass that he might have missed in yesterday's grazing.
He had filled his stomach for the first time that morning before he heard any
activity in the farmyard. As was his habit these past seasons, he wandered
toward the house, to breast the fence that separated the fields from the
gardens and the orchards about the neat bungalow. The fence, so neatly painted
that spring, showed grimy patches where he leaned into it, opposite the window
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where she often appeared. The window was black, curtains drawn.
He gazed toward the barnyard now, to the figures carrying the morning feeds to
the whickering horses in the stable row. He neighed softly, hopefully, but no
one turned to wave at him. He looked back at the window: sometimes after he
called, he could see movement - a hand or a white face as the edge of the
curtain was pulled aside. Sometimes the blankness lifted completely and he
could see the outline of her familiar figure. He hadn't seen her in some time;
not since the hard weather eased into a wet spring. He snorted with
disappointment and stamped the ground. He stamped again, tossing his head, and
noticed long grass stems just on the other side of the fence. By a careful
angling of his long head, he could just reach the grass. He contented himself
with nibbling all along the fence by the house yard. She might just still come
out to him with a carrot, or an apple, or even a slice of bread if he stayed
by the fence long enough. The flurry of activity in the horse yard ended as
the three men went back into the house, leaving the stabled horses to finish
their feed.
Philosophically old Knock finished cropping the far side of the fence and then
moved off. If she didn't visit him in the morning, she often came out with the
others in the evening when all the field horses were checked.
He was half-asleep in the sun, the hip of the stiff leg cocked, when shouts
and a scrabble of shod hooves on stone brought his head up and ears pricking
toward the stableyard. A big bay mare was dancing about, eluding the rider who
wished to mount her. The old horse wondered why she bothered: she only delayed
the inevitable. He heaved a sigh.
It had been a long time since he'd felt a rider's weight. She hadn't ridden
him, even gently about the fields, since last summer. No one else had backed
him since that day. He looked again at her window and it was still blank.
The mare was still trying to have her way, rearing and prancing, the men
shouting in the hard determined way he remembered. He heard the splat of crop
on flesh: the mare hesitated and her rider vaulted into the saddle. Another
splat brought an abrupt end to the contest. She had never had to use a stick
on him, he remembered complacently. Always he had been ready to do as she
asked, for she'd a light hand, a firm seat, and a kind voice. They'd gone like
the wind together across field and through forest. Those had been the good
days: when he'd breath and will to run, when his muscles moved easily, when he
couldn't wait to see what the next field brought, ditch or fence or bank, the
baying of the hounds ahead of them and most of the other, slower horses
stretched out behind them. She'd been a light and gracious burden for him to
carry, her hands along his neck encouraging him, her affectionate pulling of
his ears (an indignity that he had permitted only from her), the slaps of
approval on his neck when the day's hunting had ended. And the tidbits from
her hand as she saw him safely bedded for the night inside a warm,
deep-strawed box.
He'd had other riders from time to time: some he'd carried with no protest.
There had been the odd one or two he hadn't wanted on his back. He had
developed simple tricks, dropping his shoulder or going under a low branch at
speed. Those times were few because, mostly, she rode him. He could take pride [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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