You know, the farther I stray away from Tolkienesque prose these days, the better I feel. I watched The Return of the King the other day and felt nostalgic, like I was missing something.
I write some really cute stuff sometimes, but it is more like Washington Irving now.
I think characters don't say stuff like that anymore, maybe only in middle earth. I think they talk more like the guys in Martin's books now.
Finn The Devil cont:
On some holidays the Lord of Keynes made its interior into a jungle of screens, tables, chairs and plates, and stocked it full of all sorts of silken tigers up from London, as a sultan would his royal forest for blood sport. In such wildness could not an unwary man’s small wallet soon find itself prey through cards, and his encompassing life by disgrace? My position was such that I did not inquire openly about these parties, nor was I solicited. But on pious Easter he could not or would not affect such a scandal. I checked the pocket of my uniform jacket for my visitation card, then went across the remaining lawn to the great front door and knocked. The butler showed me in, and the quiet and emptiness of the chambers immediately reassured me.
A musical box played softly as I approached down the hallway, bright golden lights warming the wooden paneling, picture frames and furniture. An elaborate revival tapestry graced one wall, the opposite holding a pair of old swords between black sconces. I came out with the butler into the bare stone vastness of the formal dining room and waited, casually looking down the board at the people sitting along both sides.
“Surgeon-Major Leeds” The butler announced. I swept with my hat in my arm to all at the table and then handed the white shako to the footman.
Lord James Keynes stood up from the end of the table and lifted his glass to me, the golden liquid inside shifting and swishing about in the candlelight. He was much younger than he should have been to fit the part, athletic, with a narrow, sharp face and broad nose. The townsfolk all called him dangerous and I very quietly agreed, though I was not the kind of person to become a target for him, and so we got along amicably from a distance.
“Thank you for coming, Major Leeds. Easter is never a complete company until you are here.” He casually joked. “You bring the stiffness to my gatherings that balances out the erstwhile notions of softness and intemperance.” He looked around the table and chuckled, then acted to clear his throat with a measured guffaw.
“I don’t know what I would do without Doctor Leeds.” He continued. “He is as handy with a foaling as he is at setting a broken bone. I have a dozen horses that will vouch for him, but please do not insist on their testimony here, lest they try to sit down and join us for dinner. Please, take your seat Major Leeds, and do have a glass of brandy.”
Some Evot
Evot Long-Arrow looked across the practice field at his foes on the far end. On poles were bales of straw and hide cut and punctured already from heavy use. He sat upon a better horse now, a dark gelding, as he held his lance at ease and talked quietly to Bandt.
“My father went west once. He never returned. Perhaps someone now wishes to repeat that feat.”
“Anyone in particular that you are worried about?’ Bandt asked him, from where he sat on his chestnut.
“It has told. Though I am far from Helot’s and in constant risk of death, Namek perhaps. He angled and moved to come in beside me sometimes on the last patrol, for no other reason than to see if I was aware. He was either judging my alertness, or looking for a chance to place a private blow.”
“He can’t be that stupid.” Bandt commented. “To cut his braid.”
“He may be thinking the same of me: that I’m not wise enough to see, or that I will let him do as he wishes until his attempt. If he makes a real pass at me, he’ll get himself killed.”
“That or my singing knife.” Bandt shook his head. “You and I are moving past that business, on to something bigger than the both of us; bigger than that sun-drop of a girl. Perhaps that also worries Namek. Could it be that his half-promise to Kemke has turned into a personal jealousy: a malice fueled by your new fame?”
“It must be a small fire,” Evot observed, “but sometimes, those do the most damage.”
