He stopped in front of the tavern; there is no telling what compelled him to turn toward the wide, well-known door.
At that early morning hour, the tavern was empty, but a bent back could be glimpsed among the far-off tables. Egert walked closer. Without unbending, the back crawled along the floor, sweeping and humming a tune without words or melody. When Egert pulled out a chair and sat down, the humming broke off, the back straightened, and the maidservant Feta, red and breathless from happiness, let a shaggy mop fall to the floor.
“Lord Egert!”
Forcing a smile, Egert ordered some wine.
Square spots of sunlight lay on the tables, the floor, and the carved backs of the chairs. A fly buzzed weakly, bumping its brow against the glass of a square window. Chewing on the edge of his mug, Egert stared dully at the carved patterns on the tabletop.
The word had been spoken, and now Egert repeated it to himself, wincing from pain. Cowardice. Glorious Heaven, he was a coward! His heart had already failed him innumerable times, and there were witnesses to his fear, the most important of whom was Lieutenant Soll, the former Lieutenant Soll, a hero and the embodiment of fearlessness!
He stopped chewing on his mug and started in on his fingernails. Cowards were disgusting and despicable. More than once, Egert had observed others being cowards; he had seen the outward signs of their fear: pallor, uncertainty, trembling knees. He now knew how his own cowardice looked. Fear was a monstrosity, worthless and insignificant when viewed from the outside, but when seen from within, it was an executioner, a tormentor of irresistible power.
Egert tossed his head. Was it possible that Karver, for example, experienced something similar when he got scared? Perhaps all people did?
For the tenth time, Feta appeared with a rag in hand, scrubbing away Lord Soll’s table until it shone. Finally, he answered her shy, ingratiating glance.
“Don’t fidget so, you little plover. Take a seat next to me.”
She sat with such alacrity that the oak chair creaked. “What is my lord’s pleasure?”
He recalled how the knives and daggers he had thrown at her had rooted themselves in the lintel above her head; he recalled it and was covered in cold horror.
Groaning compassionately, she immediately responded to his sudden pallor. “Lord Soll, you’ve been ill for so long!”
“Feta,” he asked, lowering his eyes, “are you afraid of anything?”
She smiled happily, deciding that Lord Soll was, apparently, flirting with her. “I’m afraid that someday I might displease Lord Soll and then the landlady would fire me.”
“Indeed,” breathed Egert patiently, “but are you afraid of anything else?”
Feta blinked at him, not understanding.
“Well, darkness, for example,” prompted Egert. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
Feta’s face darkened, as though she was remembering something. She muttered grudgingly, “Yes. But why do you ask, Lord Egert?”
“And heights?” It seemed he had not noticed her question.
“I’m afraid of heights too,” she confessed quietly.
There was an oppressive pause that went on for some time; Feta stared at the table. Just when Egert became sure that he would not hear another word out of her, the girl shivered and whispered, “And, you know, especially thunder, when it goes off without warning. Ita told me that in our village there was one little girl who was killed dead by thunder.…” Her breath faltered. She put her palms to her cheeks and added, blushing painfully, “But what I am most afraid of is … getting pregnant.”
Egert was taken aback; frightened by her own candor, Feta began to babble, as if trying to smooth out the awkwardness with a flood of words.
“I’m afraid of bedbugs, cockroaches, tramps, mute beggars, landladies, and mice. But mice aren’t all that terrifying: I can get over that fear.”
“Get over it?” echoed Egert. “But how do you … What do you feel, when you are scared?”
She smiled tentatively. “Afraid, and everything. Inside, it’s as if everything gets weak and all.” She suddenly blushed hotly, and under the veneer of her inability to explain there remained one more important sign of fear.
“Feta,” asked Egert quietly, “were you afraid when I threw knives at you?”
She shivered as if remembering the best day of her life. “Of course not! I know that Lord Egert has a steady hand.”
The landlady snarled from the kitchen, and Feta, making her apologies, flitted away.
The square patches of sunlight slowly crawled from the table to the floor, then from the floor onto a chair. Egert sat, hunched over, and traced the edge of his empty mug with his finger.
Feta could not understand him. No one alive could understand him. The ordinary world in which he, by right, was sovereign and master, that warm, dependable world had been wrenched inside out; it now stared hard at Egert through the tips of swords, the jagged edges of stones, medicinal lancets. Shadows dwelled in this new world, and the nighttime visions that had already caused Egert so many sleepless nights in his blazing rooms. In this new world he was insignificant and piteous, as helpless as a fly with its wings ripped off. What would happen when others found out?
The heavy door crashed open. The gentlemen of the guards poured into the tavern, and Karver was among them.
Egert remained sitting where he was, though he did perk up involuntarily, as though he was about to flee. The guards surrounded him instantly. Egert’s ears began to ring from all the boisterous greetings, and his shoulder ached painfully from all the hearty punches.
“Here we were, talking about you!” trumpeted Dron’s voice over all the others. “As they say, ‘You gossip about a wasp, and behold, the wasp takes wing.’”
“They said that you were on the verge of death,” one of the younger guards reported merrily.
“Don’t hold your breath!” laughed Lagan. “We’ll all die sooner. But if you’re sitting in a tavern, that must mean you’re better.”
“He is sitting in a tavern and avoiding his friends,” mourned Karver bitterly, earning a few reproachful glances.
Egert met his friend’s gaze reluctantly, and he was surprised at what he saw there. Karver was watching his masterful friend with a strange expression on his face; it was as though he had just asked a question and was patiently awaiting the answer.
Feta and Ita were already bustling around the new guests. Someone raised his glass to the renewed health of Lieutenant Soll. They drank, but Egert choked on the wine. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Karver had not stopped examining him with that inquisitive gaze.
“What are you, some kind of hermit crab, hiding away all quiet?” asked Lagan cheerfully. “A guard without good company withers and fades like a rose in a chamber pot.”
The young Ol and Bonifor laughed far too loudly for the quality of the joke.
“I swear by my spurs, he must have been writing a novel in letters,” proposed Dron. “Sometimes, I’d pass by on patrol and see that his rooms were lit until morning.”
“Really?” marveled Karver, but the others just clicked their tongues.
“I’d like to know if there’s some beauty to whom Egert devotes these vigils,” drawled one of the guards in a faux romantic voice.
Egert sat in the middle of the joyful din, smiling sourly and uncertainly. Karver’s intent gaze was discomforting him.
“Dilia sends her regards,” Karver remarked carelessly. “She stopped by the tilting yard and, among other things, inquired why the fights were taking place without Egert.”
“By the way, what should we tell the captain?” Dron asked suddenly.
Egert gritted his teeth. More than anything else, he wanted to disappear from this place, but to leave now would be an insult to the general merriment and the guards’ benevolent attitude toward him.