Some of the embers were still smoking, but mostly there was just black ash. He ground some of it under his foot and listened to the crunch. It had been a fine house, but now it was just so much charcoal. That thought made him grin in spite of himself; maybe he should come back here with a cart and some sacks and bag it up, then there'd always be plenty of charcoal to get the forge lit. He considered that for a moment, but dismissed it as profoundly lacking in taste and respect for the dead.
There was nothing more to do here, so he turned his back and walked away. Nearby, next to the trap-house wall, he saw a nice sturdy log and sat down on it, his back to the wall. Once he'd taken the weight off his feet, he suddenly became very much aware that he hadn't slept for several days. This was hardly the time or the place for a nap; but resting his eyes for a moment or so couldn't do any harm.
As soon as his eyelids closed, he knew he was somewhere else, in a dream; he was sure of that, because he was sitting at a table, in the middle of which stood a wonderfully lifelike ebony statue of a crow with a ring in its beak. It was extraordinarily realistic; in fact, it looked more like a crow than any crow he'd ever seen, especially the live ones. The urge to throw a doughnut at it was almost impossible to resist.
But that would have been a waste of an exceptionally fine doughnut-there was a plate piled high with the things right next to his hand, and beside that another plate of honey-cakes, and a silver basket of cinnamon biscuits. In the distance-it was a very long table-he could just make out a parcel-gilt fruit bowl overflowing with oranges, apricots and peaches. Closer to hand was a huge chunky wine goblet, silver with gold inlays-vulgar, but impressive nevertheless. This was clearly a better class of dream altogether.
'And just then,' someone was saying, 'the stable door opened and in walked the sergeant; and he looked at the young officer, and he said, "Actually, what we do is, we use the mule to ride down the mountain to the village."'
Everyone-everyone but him, of course-burst out laughing, and someone suggested that that called for a drink. A pair of hands appeared over his shoulder; they were holding a gigantic silver wine-jug, which gurgled a stream of red wine into his cup. Then someone out of sight at the far end of the table called for a toast, and everyone started to get up. Naturally, he followed suit.
'His majesty,' said the distant voice, and everyone repeated, 'His majesty,' and had a drink. Then they sat down again. As he settled back in his chair he noticed that everyone was staring at him, though they stopped doing so almost immediately and started talking to the person next door. It was only then that he realised that he was sitting at the head of the table, and the toast had apparently been aimed at him; hence their surprise when he joined in. Bad form, to drink your own health.
They were all substantial-looking types, wearing some pretty fancy clothes-lots of velvets and heavy silks, the men as well as the women-but they didn't look like the sort of people you'd expect to see gathered around a royal dining table. In fact, they looked more like bandits or pirates or the men who hold horses for money outside theatres and brothels. Or soldiers, of course. But their appearance didn't seem to be bothering him unduly, which suggested that he'd had a drop or so to drink already (and a vicious twinge of heartburn went a long way towards corroborating that theory).
'Now then,' someone said, 'we've all had a nice dinner and a nice drink. How about the entertainment?'
That was a popular suggestion; all the villainous-looking men were shouting and banging their cups on the table; the women were trying to be a little bit more refined, so they just clapped and cheered. If anything, they looked marginally rougher than the menfolk.
'Well?' someone said, looking at him. 'How about it?'
Well indeed, he thought, why not? Naturally he had no idea what the entertainment would turn out to be, though if he had to hazard a guess he assumed it'd be either fire-swallowers or young ladies with very few clothes on. But he had no deep-rooted objections to either category; and since the decision seemed to rest with him, he nodded. That made everyone very happy indeed, and a lot of perfectly good wine ended up soaking away into the tablecloth.
After a few bumps and thuds off stage, eight men in overstated livery brought in two large wooden frames (like window frames without glass or parchment). Inside each frame a human being was stretched like a curing hide, hands and feet pulled tight into the corners. One of them was a woman, and she looked familiar; he thought for a moment, and the name Copis came into his mind, though he couldn't fit a context to the name. The other was a man, and he was familiar too-in fact, he'd seen him a few moments before, in his first dream: he was one of the two monks (Monach, he remembered, and Poldarn) but offhand he couldn't recall which one. Both of them were naked and dirty and thin, with rather disgusting ulcers and sores on their ribs and shins. Their heads had been recently shaved, which was a blessing-there were few things more likely to put a man off his food than the sight of matted, greasy hair-and their eyes and mouths were red and swollen. If this is what passes for entertainment in aristocratic circles, he decided, I don't think much of it.
The men in livery lugged the frames up onto a raised dais on the right-hand side of the room-they tripped, dropping the woman, which caused a great deal of mirth around the table-and someone passed ropes over hooks in the ceiling beam. From these they hung the frames, securing them at the bottom with more ropes passed through rings set in the floor. The presence of these rather specialised fixtures suggested to him that this performance, whatever it might turn out to be, was a regular event. Personally, he'd have preferred a string quartet or the ladies with very few clothes, but obviously the customs of the royal court overrode his personal tastes.
Once they'd finished fastening the ropes, the servants got out of the way in a great hurry; which turned out to be a sensible move on their part, because the company around the table were busily arming themselves with missiles of every sort, from soft fruit to the chunkily vulgar wine goblets. The barrage they let fly was more vigorous than accurate. Most of their projectiles banged and splatted against the wall rather than against the poor devils in the frames; but such was the volume of missiles that inevitably a proportion found their mark. He saw the man's head knocked sideways by a goblet, splattering the wall behind with wine or blood or both. Two of the men in the middle of the table were having a contest, to see who could be the first to land a napkin ring on one of the woman's breasts. Other diners were throwing spoons and knives. He wasn't sure whether he ought to join in; he didn't really want to, so he kept his hands folded in his lap and just watched instead.
It wasn't long before the table was stripped bare. The ebony crow had been the last missile to fly; it had been claimed by a tall thin man with a very long beard, who took a long time over his aim and managed to catch the woman square in the ribs with considerable force. The thin man got a good round of applause for that, and it was hard, in all conscience, to begrudge it to him.
Well, he thought, that was rather childish, but I guess it does them good to let off steam after dinner; and presumably these two are wicked, antisocial types who've done something to deserve it. It was impossible to tell just by looking at them what their particular malfeasances might have been. Anybody who's been locked up in prison and starved for a month or so will inevitably come out looking guiltily wretched, whether they were locked up for infanticide or stealing clothes from the public baths. He wasn't sure he approved of the proceedings, at that; but he was a stranger here and didn't know the score, so who was he to pass judgement?