Voices Read Online Free PDF

out of the way when I saw they were setting up a large tent in front of the Admirals’ Tower. I asked a boy selling dirty rock-sugar what the tent was for.
    “A great storyteller from the Uplands,” he said, “very famous. I can hold a place for you, young master.” Market boys will turn a turd into a penny, as they say.
    “I can hold my own place,” I said, and he, “Oh, it’ll be terrible crowded in no time—he’s to be here all day, a terrible famous man—half a penny to hold you a good place right up close?”
    I laughed at him and went on.
    I was tempted to go over to the tent, though. I felt like doing something foolish, like listening to a storyteller. The Alds are crazy about makers and tellers. Every rich Ald has a storyteller in his retinue, they say, and every company of soldiers too. There hadn’t been many in Ansul, the Waylord told me, before the Alds came, but there were more now that books were banned. A few men of my own people told stories for small change on street corners. I had stopped to listen a couple of times, but they mostly told Ald stories to get pennies from the soldiers. I didn’t like the Ald stories, all about their wars and their warriors and their tyrant god, nothing I cared a straw for.
    It was the word “Uplands” that caught me. A man from the Uplands would not be an Ald. The Uplands were far, far to the north. I’d never even heard of them or any of those distant lands until last year, when I read Eront’s Great History, with it’s maps of all the lands of the Western Shore. The market boy repeated the word as he’d heard it spoken, without any meaning for him except somewhere-very-far-away. Even to Eront, the Uplands were mostly hearsay. I didn’t remember anything on that part of his map except a big mountain with a strange name I couldn’t bring to mind, as I made my way on past the potmenders to the fishwives.
    I bargained down a big redspot that would feed us all today, even the cats, and make fishhead soup for tomorrow. I went round the stalls and bought a fresh cheese and some coarse greens that looked good. Then before I set off home I wandered over towards the big tent to see if anything was happening yet. The crowds were thick. I saw riders above the people’s heads, and horse’s heads tossing up and down: two Ald officers. The Alds brought no women from their deserts, but they brought their fine, pretty horses, which they treated so well that it was a street joke to call the horses “soldiers’ wives.”
    People in the crowd now were trying to get out of the horses’ way, but there was some kind of commotion behind them and a good deal of confusion. Then all at once one of the horses reared up squealing and bolted, bucking stiff-legged like a colt. People in front of me pressed back to get out of it’s way. It came straight at me. There were people crowding from behind and I couldn’t move. The horse came at me—there was no rider on it, and the flailing reins slapped my hand as if thrown at me. I grabbed and pulled. The horse’s head came down right by my shoulder, it’s eye rolling wildly. That head seemed huge, it filled the world. But the horse had stopped. I shortened my grip on the rein up to the bridle and stood firm, not knowing what else to do. The horse tried to toss it’s head, which half lifted me off the ground, but I hung tight out of pure terror. The horse gave a great whuff through it’s nostrils and stood still—even pushing up against me a little as if for protection.
    All around me people were shouting and screaming, and I could only think of how to keep them from panicking the horse again. “Be quiet, be quiet,” I said foolishly to the shouting people. And as if they had heard me they began to back away, leaving a space of marble pavement empty behind the horse. In that white, sunlit space was the Ald officer, who had been thrown hard and was lying stunned, and a woman standing near him, and a lion.
    The woman and the