Taltos Read Online Free PDF Page B

to Samuel. The last time Ash had seen Samuel, Samuel’s red hair had been matted and shaggy, and his face so deeply wrinkled that his eyes were no longer fully visible, but flashed now and then in random light, like broken amber in the soft, mottled flesh. In those days Samuel had dressed in rags and carried his pistol in his belt, rather like a little pirate, and people had veered out of his path on the street.
    “They’re all afraid of me, I can’t remain here. Look at them, they’re more afraid in these times than long ago.”
    And now they were used to him in Claridge’s! Was he having his suits made for him on Savile Row? Did his dirty leather shoes not have holes? Had he forsaken his gun?
    The car stopped, and he had to force the door open, his driver rushing to help him, as the snow swept against him in the wind.
    Nevertheless, the snow was so pretty, and so clean before it struck the ground. He stood up, feeling a stiffness in hislimbs for a moment, and then he put his hand up to keep the soft, moist flakes from striking his eyes.
    “It’s not so bad, really, sir,” said Jacob. “We can get out of here in less than an hour. You should board immediately, sir, if you please.”
    “Yes, thank you, Jacob,” he said. He stopped. The snow was falling all over his dark coat. He could feel it melting in his hair. Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket, felt for the small toy, the rocking horse, yes, it was there.
    “This is for your son, Jacob,” he said. “I promised him.”
    “Mr. Ash, for you to remember something like that on a night like this.”
    “Nonsense, Jacob. I’ll bet your son remembers.”
    It was embarrassingly insignificant, this little toy of wood; he wished now that it were something infinitely better. He would make a note—something better for Jacob’s son.
    Taking big steps, he walked too fast for the driver to follow. He was too tall for the umbrella anyway. It was just a gesture, the man rushing beside him, umbrella in hand, for him to take it if he wanted it, which he never did.
    He boarded the warm, close, and always frightening jet plane.
    “I have your music, Mr. Ash.”
    He knew this young woman, but he couldn’t remember her name. She was one of the best of the night secretaries. She’d been with him on the last trip to Brazil. He had meant to remember her. Shameful not to have her name on the very tip of his tongue.
    “Evie, isn’t it?” he asked, smiling, begging forgiveness with a little bit of a frown.
    “No, sir, Leslie,” she said, forgiving him instantly.
    If she’d been a doll, she would have been bisque, no doubt of it, face underpainted with a soft rose blush to cheeks and lips, eyes deliberately small, but dark and deeply focused. Timidly she waited.
    As he took his seat, the great leather chair made especially for him, longer than the others, she put the engraved program in his hand.
    There were the usual selections—Beethoven, Brahms,Shostakovich. Ah, here was the composition he had requested—the Verdi
Requiem
. But he couldn’t listen to it now. If he slipped himself into those dark chords and dark voices, the memories would close in.
    He put his head back, ignoring the winter spectacle outside the little window. “Sleep, you fool,” he said without moving his lips.
    But he knew he wouldn’t. He would think about Samuel and the things Samuel had said, over and over, until they saw one another again. He would remember the smell of the Talamasca house, and how much the scholars had looked like clerics, and a human hand with a quill pen, writing in great curled letters. “Anonymous. Legends of the lost land. Of Stonehenge.”
    “Just want to be quiet, sir?” asked the young Leslie.
    “No, Shostakovich, the Fifth Symphony. It will make me cry, but you must ignore me. I’m hungry. I want cheese and milk.”
    “Yes, sir, everything’s ready.” She began to speak the names of the cheeses, those fancy triple creams that they ordered for him from