Octobers Baby Read Online Free PDF

too.
    Mocker had always been a chimera, apparently at home in any milieu. The man within was the rock to which he anchored himself. What was visible was protective coloration. In an environment where he needed only be himself, he must feel terribly vulnerable. The lack of anyimmediate danger, after a lifetime of adjustment to its continual presence, could push some men to the edge.
    Ragnarson was not accustomed to probing facades. It made him uncomfortable. He snorted, downed a pint of warm beer. Hell with it. What was, was. What would be, would be.
    A sudden loud, piercing shriek made him choke and spray beer. When he finished wiping tears from his eyes, he saw a huge owl pacing before him.
    He had seen that owl before. It served as messenger for Zindahjira the Silent, a much less pleasant sorcerer than the Visigodred who employed Marco.
    “Desolation and despair,” Mocker groaned. “Felicita-tions from Pit. Self, think great feathered interlocuter maybe should become owl stew, and tidings bound to leg tinder for starting fire for making same.”
    “That dwarf would be handy now,” said Ragnarson. Both ignored the message.
    “So?”
    “He talks to owls. In their own language.”
    “Toadfeathers.”
    “Shilling?”
    “Self, being penurious unto miserhood, indigent unto poverty, should take wager when friend Bear is infamous as bettor only on sure things? Get message.”
    “Why don’t you?”
    “Self, being gentleman farmer, confirmed anti-literate, and retired from adventure game, am not interested.”
    “I ain’t neither.”
    “Then butcher owl.”
    “I don’t think so. Zindahjira would stew us. Without benefit of prior butchery.”
    “When inevitable is inevitable... Charge!” Mocker shouted the last word. The owl jumped, but refused to retreat.
    “Give him a beer,” said Ragnarson.
    “Eh?”
    “Be the hospitable thing to do, wouldn’t it?” He had drunk too much. In that condition he developed a childish sense of humor. There was an old saw, “Drunk as a hoot owl,” about which he had developed a sudden curiosity.
    Mocker set his mug before the bird. It drank. “Well, we’d better see what old Black Face wants.” Bragi recovered the message. “Hunh! Can you believe this? It says he’ll forgive all debts and transgressions-as if any existed-if we’ll just catch him the woman called Mist. That old bastard never gives up. How long has he been laying for Visigodred? Tain’t right, hurting a man through his woman.”
    Mocker scowled. “Threats?”
    “The usual. Nothing serious. Some hints about something he’s afraid to mix in, same as Visigodred.”
    Mocker snorted. “Pusillanimous skulker in subterra-nean tombs, troglodytic denizen of darkness, enough! Let poor old fat fool wither in peace.” He had begun to grow sad, to feel sorry for himself, A tear trickled from one large, dark eye. He reached up and put a hand on Ragnarson’s shoulder. “Mother of self, long time passing, sang beautiful song of butterflies and gossamer. Will sing for you.” He began humming, searching for a tune.
    Ragnarson frowned. Mocker was an orphan who had known neither father nor mother, only an old vagabond with whom he had traveled till he had been able to escape. Bragi had heard the story a hundred times. But in his cups, Mocker lied more than usual, about more personal things. One had to humor him or risk a fight.
    The owl, a critic, screeched hideously, hurled himself into the air, fluttered drunkenly eastward. Mocker sent a weak curse after him.
    A little later Nepanthe came out and led them to their beds, two morose gentlemen with scant taste for their futures.
     

THREE: The Long, Mailed Reach of The Disciple
     
    I) A secret device, a secret admirer
    Elana rose wondering if Bragi had reached Mocker’s safely. How soon would he be home? The forest was a refuge for Itaskia’s fugitives. Several bands roamed the North Road. Some had grievances with Bragi. He took his charter seriously, suppressed