The Dragonbone Chair Read Online Free PDF Page A

entered the gate and were coming toward him; one slow and stumpy, the other stumpier and slower still. It was Jakob the chandler and his assistant Jeremias. The latter was carrying a large, heavy-looking bag over his shoulder, and walking—if such was possible—more sluggishly than usual. Simon called a greeting as they passed. Jakob smiled and waved.
    “Rachel wants new candles for the dining room,” the chandler shouted, “so candles she gets!” Jeremias made a sour face.
    A short trot down the sloping greensward brought Simon to the massive gatehouse. A sliver of afternoon sun still smoldered above the battlements behind him, and the shadows of the pennants of the Western Wall flopped like dark fish on the grass. The red-and-white liveried guard—scarcely older than Simon—smiled and nodded as the master spy pounded past, deadly broom in hand, head held low in case the tyrant Rachel should happen to peep from one of the keep’s high windows. Once through the barbican and hidden in the lee of the high gatewall he slowed to a walk. Green Angel Tower’s attenuated shadow bridged the moat; the distorted silhouette of the Angel, triumphant on her spire, lay in a pool of fire at the water’s farthest edge.
    As long as he was here, Simon decided, he might as well catch some frogs. It shouldn’t take too long, and the doctor frequently had use for such things. It wouldn’t really be putting off the errand so much as expanding the nature of the service. He would have to hurry, though—evening was coming on swiftly. Already he could hear the crickets laboriously tuning up for what would be one of the waning year’s last performances and the bullfrogs beginning their muffled, clunking counterpoint.
    Wading out into the lily-crusted water, Simon paused for a moment to listen, and to watch the eastern sky darkening to a dull violet. Next to Doctor Morgenes’ chambers, the moat was his favorite spot in all Creation ... all of it that he had seen so far, anyway.
    With an unconscious sigh he pulled off his shapeless cloth hat and sloshed along toward where the pond grass and hyacinths were thickest.
     
    The sun had completely vanished and the wind was hissing through the cattails ringing the moat by the time Simon had reached the Middle Bailey to stand, clothes a-drip and a frog in each pocket, before the door of Morgenes’ chambers. He knocked on the stout paneling, careful not to touch the unfamiliar symbol chalked on the wood. He had learned by hard experience not to carelessly lay hands on something of the doctor’s without asking. Several moments passed before Morgenes’ voice was heard.
    “Go away,” it said, in a tone of annoyance.
    “It’s me ... Simon!” called Simon, and knocked again. There was a longer pause this time, then the sound of rapid footfalls. The door swung open. Morgenes, whose head barely reached Simon’s chin, stood framed in bright blue light, the expression on his face obscured. For a moment he seemed to stare.
    “What?” he said finally. “Who?”
    Simon laughed. “Me, of course. Do you want some frogs?” He pulled one of the captives from its prison and held it up by a slippery leg.
    “Oh. Oh!” The doctor seemed to be coming awake as from a deep sleep. He shook his head. “Simon ... but naturally! Come in, boy! My apologies ... I am a little distracted.” He opened the door wide enough for Simon to slip past him into the narrow inner hallway, then pulled it closed again.
    “Frogs, is it? Hmmmm, frogs ...” The doctor angled past and led him along the corridor. In the glow of the blue lamps that lined the hall the doctor’s spindly form, monkeylike, seemed to bound instead of walk. Simon followed, his shoulders nearly touching the cold stone walls on either side. He could never understand how rooms that seemed as small as the doctor’s did from outside—he had looked down on them from the bailey walls, and paced the distance in the courtyard—how they could have such