Chapitre 21: Arrivals: 4
Arthur walked down Artist Street, steered clear of hawkers and peddlers, threw a glance at the theatre he had visited last summer and passed it after checking what play was on schedule for tonight. His errand, though, was not that of an audience. Tonight, as most nights, he had a show of his own. Weaving, spreading the news and living a full life.
Late, for once. Meeting with Harbend had stretched out longer than he had planned. Harbend needed to borrow money, which was fine, but there was something fishy about what he needed the money for, and he wouldn't tell. Well, if Harbend wanted his secrets, so be it. Arthur wasn't going to start complaining now. Not when life once again showed its sunnier side. He continued half a block and turned at the discreet sign announcing the Taleweaver's inn. Every city had one, but he hadn't known when he last visited Verd. Damn, he hadn't known about Weaving either.
And now for my adoring fans. And where the hell are those fans? Strange. There had been a long queue each evening for weeks, but then he recalled. Late, forgot I'm late.
He closed to the door and knocked. Moments later a wrinkled old man opened. He could have been the twin to the one at the Roadhouse, or the one in Belgera, and as it was unlikely that there were three identical twins Arthur accepted that it was simply part of whatever magic enshrouded any Taleweaver's inn.
"Your errand?"
"I'm Arthur Wallman, taleweaver. I come to Weave."
The guardian blinked. That was not the normal response. There was a glimmer of surprise in his eyes, which was absurd as Arthur had been through this door almost daily the last weeks. "You may enter," he finally said.
Arthur frowned but said nothing. Shaking off a moment of discomfort he made his way through the narrow corridor, turned right and entered the tavern.
What the bloody... The stage was already taken.
#
It came as a welcome surprise that the Taleweaver's inn was filled almost to capacity when he arrived. If memory served him he usually needed an eightday or two before he could count on having the place packed, but a lot could have happened in thirty years. The theatre, a rather shabby thing as he recalled it, must have attracted a rich audience and perhaps some of it spilled over.
Later he would get a room in Thengrandil's Palace, the gaudy hotel he preferred when in Verd. He deserved that luxury. A full season on ships was punishment enough, even for one as used to travelling as Ken Leiter de Ghera. But first, as he had done each time he'd visited Verd the last four hundred years, he would Weave. And, of course, find out how and when another born on Earth had managed to make his or her presence known here without Ken ever knowing of it.
That could wait. Now he had to care for the visitors. They had been fed, everyone but the tall latecomer back at the fireplace. So be it. It wouldn't do to have them all wait for one guest to finish his meal. Even an important one, if all the looks he received from those close enough to notice him were anything to go by.
"My, my. This is a stately crowd if I ever saw one," Ken started. Time to release some of the tension. It wasn't everyday a taleweaver came visiting. "No reason to look so awed," he addressed the latecomer. "I won't eat you, not even take a tasty bite of your wife." That won him a round of laughter, but it was more nervous than he had counted on. "In difference from a dragonling, I guess, but I am a bit tall for one," he continued and flexed his shoulders in an attempt to flap wings that weren't there. More nervous laughs.
"Now," he began. Unholy gods! I've scared the living daylight out of the man. "I have a tale to Weave, about the very raiders who have plagued your coast," Why? Has he seen a raid, or experienced one? "so that you may learn a little of their beliefs, their justification for coming here," I have to talk with him later. "which is, as always, the reason to share a Weave. To learn and understand. To know what has been, what is, the here and elsewhere. To become part of the Weave."
Ken finished the traditional speech a little faster than he had planned. He really had to talk with the man later.
Not now, later. He drew breath. He climbed into his mind and touched the hopes of his audience, inviting them to his world. He remembered. He Wove.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone