An Antic Disposition Read Online Free PDF Page A

worth the occasional visit, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    “I would be glad to,” said Magnus. “I’m always interested in hearing about the world, even if it’s just Slesvig.”
    Terence waved and walked on.
    Nearly two hours later he came up against a more serious earthenwork wall, patrolled by soldiers. One stopped him.
    “What are you?” he said, looking at his motley.
    “A humble fool, good soldier, seeking to exchange amusement for sustenance,” replied Terence.
    The soldier looked at him some more.
    “Where do your loyalties lie?” he asked.
    “To whoever will be buying my next drink,” said Terence. “I will follow that man with more devotion than a puppy, and speak his praise to all and sundry. Do you know where I can find this man?”
    The soldier laughed.
    “If it’s drunken charity you want, try The Viking’s Rest,” he said. “Off the middle wharf. They have rooms, too.”
    “Sounds like heaven,” said Terence. “A fool’s blessing upon you, my friend.”
    The soldier waved him through.
    The river widened, then split around an island, a ragged rectangular chunk of land that he paced off at about three hundred yards. Around its edges ran a wall of tree trunks packed tightly together, with wooden towers encased in layers of hide at random intervals. At the eastern end, where the river spilled into the fjord, there were three levels of platforms with archers keeping a relaxed watch. He couldn’t see over the stockade wall, but guessed that it surrounded a great hall, some barracks, and Ørvendil’s quarters. Some bleating noises escaped from within, joined by hammers hitting anvils, the shouts of soldiers being drilled, and the loud sobbing of what sounded like a child.
    He wondered at this last. Father Gerald hadn’t mentioned whether Ørvendil and Gerutha had any children. He decided he had better learn more in town before approaching the island fortress. Besides, the sun was beginning to set, and already he could see the drawbridge being raised from the northern shore to cut off the island from the rest of the world.
    The fjord stretched out in front of him to the horizon, yet was no more than half a mile wide. The main part of town was a few hundred yards ahead of him on the north shore. Watch fires were being lit in the distance.
    He hurried along the shore, marking wharves, fishing boats in abundance, nets drying on skeletal wooden frames. There were longboats of a more martial mien as well, at a wharf that was fenced off and bristling with guards. He reached the middle wharf, looked left, and saw a welcoming sight—a tavern, with a sign depicting a Viking of old, asleep at a table with a tankard spilling onto the floor by him.
    He bounded in, his bundles swinging merrily about, as the sailors and salt packers in the room turned in astonishment. He held up a hand in greeting, dropped his bundles to the floor, and rummaged through them hastily, finding a number of odd objects: a stuffed sparrow hawk, a drum, a tankard, a small saw, and a lute. Placing the last carefully aside, he tied the drum at his waist and started juggling the other three, marking each rotation by slapping one hand or the other on the drum. He started tossing them higher, increasing the frequency of the drumbeats until it looked like he was simply a drummer with the ability to levitate strange objects about his head. He caught all three, waited for the applause to die down, then searched through the bundles some more, diving under some of the larger ones in his quest. He emerged holding six brightly painted wooden balls, which he sent into a strange circuit, both into the air and bouncing off the drum back into his hands, which were darting about like flies. When he finished up this routine, he put the drum on the floor and picked up his lute.
    “I am Terence the Fool, my friends,” he proclaimed to the room. “I am here to sing for you.”
    By the end of the song, which he accompanied both by lute and drum,