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village's fields to protect their crops from the Moonracers" kanks.
There was no point in asking the elves to confine their herd.
Freedom was a virtue among elves second only to friendship. If Quraite
valued Moonracer friendship, it was the farmers' chore to enclose the tender
green plants.
Yohan grabbed a rock-headed maul and started hammering stakes into
the ground. The stakes, with a burnt opening at one end for the rope and
a dirt-caked point at the other- this was clearly not the first
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time Quraite had hurriedly defended its ripening fields-were bound into
easily managed bundles. Pavek hesitated a moment, waiting for someone to tell
him to do the obvious, then picked up two bundles and a maul.
Ropes had been threaded through the stakes and knotted fright by the time the
heart of the tribe and its herd settled down on the scrubland beyond the
village. Tall, elven women and their loose-limbed children visited the wells
to replenish their water jugs-always the first and most important
task at any encampment. Other elves traded bright-colored cloth and
metalware for Quraite's surplus fruits, vegetables, and grain.
For his part, Pavek followed Yohan and the others who had worked up a thirst
protecting the fields. They entered the elven camp where, as the dwarf had
promised, a barrel of honey-ale had been broached.
And while the Moonrace tribe would not confine their herd nor stoop to
farmers' labor, they understood the virtue of compromise well enough to
offer the Quraiters as much ale as they cared to drink. Pavek drained his
first mug between breaths. The sweet, amber-colored brew slid easily down his
throat and shot into his blood. He got a second mug and, sipping it slowly,
walked away from the barrel.
Pavek had lived without many possessions, first in the templar
orphanage, then the barracks, and now the bachelor's hut. The traders
offered little that tempted him, and anyway, he had nothing to offer the elves
in return, like his templar medallion, the few coins he'd slung from his belt
the day he left Urik hadn't been returned to him. Since
Ruari had the medallion, he assumed the half-wit scum had his coins, as well.
More from idle curiosity than any desire to feel the weight of his small
wealth against his leg again, he glanced among the traders, looking for that
unmistakable coppery hair.
He spotted it, too, but not among the traders. Much as Yohan had
predicted, Ruari had joined his elven age-mates in their constant games
of skill and daring. At least, that was what Ruari was trying to do. Tall
and lithe among the Quraiters, Ruari showed his human blood against his
Moonrace kin. As Pavek watched, he lost both a footrace and a
barrel-leaping contest. The victorious elves made no secret of their
contempt for a slow, clumsy, outcast relative and would-be elf.
The elves ridiculed Ruari mercilessly. The scum issued brash
challenges he couldn't hope to carry through.
Remembering his lesser moments, when he'd joined in the torment of those
orphans who did not survive to become templars, he hoped Ruari would
have sense enough to back down before the mockery turned
physical-though a half-elf would have the edge, if it came to brawling.
Elves were lousy wrestlers, no match for a well-made fist. They took more than
their share of bruises and broken bones on the practice fields where he'd
trained with and against every Tableland's race. A templar's training was
as thorough as his enemies were numerous; it had to be. From where Pavek
stood, he could see any number of ways he, a heavy-set human, could have
bested the boasting elves. Even a few that didn't resort to cheating. With his
nearly full mug of ale clutched in his fist, he found a piece of shade with a
view not only of Ruari's hapless struggle, but of most of the village as well.
The Moon-race elders with their piercing eyes and wind-carved faces had
begun to assemble near the central well. Akashia, Yohan, and several others,
including several Pavek had marked as farmers, not druids, appeared with
platters of Quraite's finest fruit.
The offering was accepted and, following Akashia, the tribal patriarch
led the way into Telhami's hut. Pavek considered moving closer. The
memory of Rokka slipping a handful of gold coins into a salt sack at the
customhouse had flitted across his mind's eye. He wondered what the
Moon-racers might offer in trade for gold. They had the look of true nomads
who ranged over the entire Tablelands, not merely the environs of a
single city-state. The sort of elves-truth to tell-that made Urik's
templars nervous when their flags appeared in the elven market,
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Dobre pomysły nie mają przeszłości, mają tylko przyszłość. Robert Mallet
De minimis - o najmniejszych rzeczach.
Dobroć jest ważniejsza niż mądrość, a uznanie tej prawdy to pierwszy krok do mądrości. Theodore Isaac Rubin
Dobro to tylko to, co szlachetne, zło to tylko to, co haniebne.
Dla człowieka nie tylko świat otaczający jest zagadką; jest on nią sam dla siebie. I z obu tajemnic bardziej dręczącą wydaje się ta druga. Antoni Kępiński (1918-1972)
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