fs.thefirstbookofswords-第38部分
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ad； stood Ben； plumed hat tipped on the back of his head； his lute temporarily forgotten under one arm。 His stocky figure was part of the small crowd gawking at the belly…dancer's outside…the…tent performance。 Mark realized that he had unconsciously fled in a circle； and was now back near the place where he had started running。
He took another step forward； intending to warn Ben。 And at that same moment； the chunky dandy reappeared； approaching from the direction of the dragon…tent beyond。 He saw Mark； and at once raised a fresh outcry。 Mark yelped and turned and sped away。 He didn't know whether Ben had even noticed him or not。
Now； several more of the marshal's men were blocking the lane ahead of Mark。 He turned on one toe； to dash in at right angles under the broad banner advertising the Maze of Mirth； past a startled clown…face and into a dim interior。 The stuffed figure of a demon； crudely constructed； lurched at him out of the gloom； and a mad peal of laughter went up from somewhere behind it。 The inside of this place was a maze； furnished with crude mirrors and dark lanterns flashing suddenly； constructed of confusingly painted walls all odd shapes and angles。 The head of a real dragon； long since stuffed and varnished； popped out at Mark from behind a suddenly open panel。
Mark could feel the burn on his face throbbing。 Now another panel opened unexpectedly when he leaned on it； and he spun in confusion through a dark opening。 A mirror showed him a distorted image of the chunky dandy； ing after him； perhaps still two mirrors away。 The man's mouth was opening for a yell。
An arm； banded in orange and black； came out of somewhere else to flail at Mark； and then was left behind when yet another panel closed。 The very walls were shouting as they； moved； roaring with mad laughter。。。
A new figure loomed before Mark； that of a tall； powerful clown in jester's motley。 The clown was holding something out to Mark in one hand； while at the same time another hand； invisible； pushed at the jester's painted face。 The face moved。 It became a mask that slid back； revealing。。。
The mask slid back from the face of the one…armed clown。 The face revealed was fair and large and smiling。 It was lightly bearded； as Mark had never seen it before； but he had not an instant's doubt of just whose face it was。
〃Father！〃
Jord nodded； smiling。 The shape he was holding out was half…familiar to Mark。 It was the shape of a sword's hilt。 But this time the weapon was sheathed in ornate leather； looped with a leather belt。 As Mark's two hands closed on the offered hilt； and drew the weapon from its sheath； his father's face fell into darkness and away。
〃Father？〃
Now someone's hands were moving round Mark's waist； deftly buckling a swordbelt on him。 〃Mark； take this to Sir Andrew。 If you can。〃 It was half the voice of Jord as Mark remembered it； half no more than an anonymous whisper。
〃Father。。。〃
Mark turned； with the drawn blade still in his hands； trying to follow dim images that chased each other away from him through mirrors。 He saw the form of a lean carnival clown； two…armed and totally unfamiliar； backing away。 Mark tried to follow the figure through the dim mad illumination； the light of torchflames beyond mirrors； glowing through mirrors and cloth。 This time Mark could feel power emanating from the blade he held。 But the flavor of the power was different； somehow； from what he had expected。 Another sword？ It fed Mark's hands with a secret； inward thrumming
With a terrific shock； something came smashing through thin partitions near at hand。 It was an axe； no； yet another sword； this one quite mundane though amply powerful。 Enchantment seemed to vanish； as it was supposed to do when swords were out。 A nearby mirror fell from the wall； shattering with itself the last image of the retreating clown。
And now hard reality reappeared； in the form of the chunky little man in dandy's clothes。 He was all disarranged and rumpled with triumphant effort。 His face； as he closed in on Mark； displayed his triumph。 His mouth opened； awry； ready to bawl out something。 The dandy lifted a torch toward Mark and then recoiled like one stabbed。 Still staring at Mark； he made an awkward； half…kneeling gesture that was aborted by the narrowness of the passage。 The orange…and…black armbands who now appeared behind him also stared at Mark； in obvious stupefaction。。。
Mark could see now； without knowing quite how he saw it； that they were not what their armbands proclaimed them。
The stocky leader said to Mark： 〃Your Grace。。。 I am sorry。。。 I never suspected that you would be。。。 which way did he go？〃
Mark stood still； clutching the naked sword； feeling the weight of its unfamiliar belt around his waist。 He felt unable to do anything but wait stupidly for whatever might happen next。 He echoed： 〃He？〃
〃That boy； Your Grace。 It was the one that we are after； I am sure。 He was right here。〃
〃Let him go； for now。〃 Magic's mad logic had taken hold of Mark； and he knew； as he would have known in a dream； that he was speaking of himself。
〃I。。。 yes； sire。〃 The man in front of Mark was utterly bewildered by the order he had just heard； but never dreamt of disobedience。 〃The flying courier should have the other sword at any moment now； and will then depart at once。 Unless Your Grace； now that you are here； wishes to change plans。。？〃
〃The other sword？〃
〃The sword called Dragonslicer； sire。 They must have hidden it there somewhere； in their wagon or their tent。 Our men will have it any moment now。 The courier is ready。〃 The stocky man was sweating； and not only with exertion； it bothered him that it should be necessary to explain these things。
Mark turned away from him。 A great anger at this gang of thieves was building in him。 Holding his newly acquired sword before him like a torch； he burst his way out through the hacked opening that made a new solution to the Maze of Mirth。 Feeling the rich throb of the weapon's power steady in his wrists； he ran along the grassy lane outside； past men in orange and black who stumbled over each other to get out of his way。 He heard their muttered exclamations。
〃His Grace himself！〃
〃The Duke！〃
Mark ran in the direction of the dragon…hunters' tent and wagon。 The wagon had been tipped on one side now； and men were prying at its wreckage； while a large gray shape with spread wings squatted near them on the ground。 Before Mark was able to get much closer； the large winged dragon rose into the air。 Mark heard the windmill…creaking of its voice； and he saw that it was now carrying a sword； clutched close against its body in one taloned foot。
Once again a sword was being taken from him。 Mark； incapable at the moment of feeling anything but rage； ran under the creature as it soared； screaming at it to e down； to bring the stolen weapon back to him。 In the upward glow of the fairgrounds varied lights； Mark saw to his amazement how the dragon's fanged head lowered in midflight。 Its long neck bent； its eyes searched half…intelligently for the source of the voice that cried at it。 It located Mark。 And then； to his greater amazement still； it started down。
The people who were standing near Mark scattered； allowing him and the dragon ample room to meet。 At the last moment Mark realized that the creature was not attacking him。 Instead it was ing down as if in genuine obedience to his shouted order。
Feeling the sword surging in his hands； he stepped to meet the dragon。 In rage grown all the greater because of his previous helpless fear； he stabbed at the winged dragon blindly as it hovered just above the grass。 The attack took it by surprise； and Mark felt his thrust go home。 The dragon dropped the sword that it was carrying； and Mark without thought bent to pick it up。
For just an instant he touched both hilts at the same time； right hand still following through his thrust； left fingers touching the hilt that had fallen to the ground。
For an instant； he thought that a great wind had arisen； and was about to blow him off his feet。 For that heartbeat's duration of double
