Dying of the Light Read Online Free PDF

short-sleeved jumpsuit of brown-red chameleon cloth. He glanced at Dirk out of intense blue eyes, the bluest eyes that Dirk had ever seen, set in a gaunt hatchet face above a full red beard.
    Gwen sat down. The red beard paused in front of Dirk’s chair. “I am Garse Ironjade Janacek,” he said. He offered his palms. Dirk rose to press them.
    Garse Ironjade Janacek, Dirk noted, wore a laser pistol at his waist, slung in a leather holster on a silvery mesh-steel belt. Around his right forearm was a black bracelet, twin to Vikary’s—iron and what looked to be glowstone.
    “You probably know who I am,” Dirk said.
    “Indeed,” Janacek replied. He had a rather malicious grin. Both of them sat down.
    Gwen was already munching on a biscuit. When Dirk resumed his seat, she reached out across the table and fingered the little manta pin on his collar, smiling at some secret amusement. “I see that you and Jaan found each other,” she said.
    “More or less,” Dirk replied, and just then Vikary returned, with his right hand wrapped awkwardly around the handles of four pewter mugs, and his left hand holding a pitcher of dark beer. He deposited it all in the center of the table, then made one last trip to the kitchen for plates and ironware and a glazed jar of sweet yellow paste that he told them to spread on the biscuits.
    While he was gone, Janacek pushed the mugs across the table at Gwen. “Pour,” he said to her, in a rather peremptory tone, before turning his attention back to Dirk. “I am told you were the first man she knew,” he said, while Gwen was pouring. “You left her with an imposing number of vile habits,” he said, smiling coolly. “I am tempted to take insult and call you out for satisfaction.”
    Dirk looked baffled.
    Gwen had filled three of the four mugs with beer and foam. She set one in front of Vikary’s place, the second by Dirk, and took a long draft from the third. Then she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smiled at Janacek, and handed him the empty mug. “If you’re going to threaten poor Dirk because of my habits,” she said, “then I suppose I must challenge Jaan for all the years I’ve had to suffer yours.”
    Janacek turned the empty beer mug in his hands and scowled. “
Betheyn
-bitch,” he said in an easy conversational voice. He poured his own beer.
    Vikary was back an instant later. He sat down, took a swipe from his own mug, and they began to eat. Dirk discovered very soon that he liked having beer for breakfast. The biscuits, smeared over with a thick coating of the sweet paste, were also excellent. The meat was rather dry.
    Janacek and Vikary questioned him throughout the meal, while Gwen sat back and looked bemused, saying very little. The two Kavalars were a study in contrasts. Jaan Vikary leaned forward as he spoke (he was still bare-chested, and every so often he yawned and scratched himself absently) and maintained a tone of general friendly interest, smiling frequently, seemingly much more at ease than he had been up on the roof. Yet he struck Dirk as somehow deliberate, a tight man who was making a conscious effort to loosen; even his informalities—the smiles, the scratching—seemed studied and formal. Garse Janacek, while he sat more erect than Vikary and never scratched and had all the formal Kavalar mannerisms of speech, nevertheless seemed more genuinely relaxed, like a man who
enjoyed
the restrictions his society had laid on him and would not even think of trying to break free. His speech was animated and abrasive; he tossed off insults like a flywheel tossing sparks, most of them directed at Gwen. She tossed a few back, but feebly; Janacek played the game much better than she did. A lot of it gave the appearance of casual, affectionate give-and-take, but several times Dirk thought he caught a hint of real hostility. Vikary tended to frown at every exchange.
    When Dirk happened to mention his year on Prometheus, Janacek quickly seized on it. “Tell