Аврам Дэвидсон - Peregrine - primus

Peregrine : primus

Peregrine : primus

TRENT UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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Peregrine : primus

Davidson, Avram

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PEREGRINE:

PRIMUS

PEREGRINE:

PRIMUS

Avram

Davidson

WALKER AND COMPANY New York

ft

\

Copyright © 1971 by Avram Davidson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

All the characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious.

First published in the United States of America in 1971 by the Walker Publishing Company, Inc.

Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry& Whiteside, Limited, Toronto.

ISBN: 0-8027-5546-1

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-161122 Designed by Carl Weiss and Nachama Warner.

Printed in the United States of America.

PART

T he year in which Captain Dragonet, a bluff and goodhearted sea-rover with a harmless (one would think)fancy for young ladies with round bosoms, was murdered by a mercenary named George something-or-other, hired by the Municipality of Joppa (a bargain, if that is what it was, which the Municipality would soon regret and rue), was or should have been famous for another event. Peregrine, youngest son of Paladrine—commonly called Palindrome—Sovereign of Sapodilla, known far and wide as “the last pagan king in lower Europe,” said farewell to his father and his father’s land.

“Well, Peregrine,” said the old man, rubbing his nose and eyes.

“Yes, Dadda,” said Peregrine. Not, note, not Prince Peregrine. The old man delicately took his nose between two fingers and turned his head. And at once turned it back again. “Hey, have you heard this one?” he asked, brightly, though a trifle stuffily: ‘Able was I ere I saw Elba’?”

“Yes, Dadda.”

“Oh,” said his father, a bit flattened. “Well. Here you go.

Hey? Always a wrench, you know, sending off me bastard sons like this. But so it must be, the will and counsel of our forefathers, as necessary today as it was the day they was uttered, whenever that was, me legitimate sons eating me out of house and home—”

“That’s all right, Dadda. Comes as no surprise.” A spritely young man, Peregrine, well-made and on the slender side, with complexion tending towards the dark, and with a high color nonetheless in his cheeks.

“You’ve been issued the full ration, now, hasn’t you? Plus,” he glanced aside and for the tenth time totted up what he saw before him under the mulberry tree before the castle door, which cast a fine shade and made everything squashy underfoot in the berry season. “One fine riding-mule and two sumpter-mules, item. One chest of fine linens, item. One set of best quality second-rate arms and armor, item. One—”

“It’s all there, Dadda. Prince Buddy’s mother checked it through three times with the master-list.”

His father’s eyes and nose were all very red by now, but he fired up at this mention of his wife. “Drat that woman. Afraid you might get a grommet too many, I suppose. Ah well. You’re well out of it, lad. This lot is washed up, last me own time, and then, ho! and scrabble for it. Time was,” he said, wistfully, tugging at a grey hair in his aft nostril, and waving away some elderly nanny-nurses and thralls who were weeping nearby, “when a petty king like me could always make a decent submission to the Imperial court, get a bang-up banquet and a parade, and retire on a good enough pension and never have to worry about collecting a tax or balancing a bloody budget in your life again. But,” he sighed and blew out his pigeon-grey moustachios, “that’s all washed up now. Religious bigotry is what’s done for that. Treats you like the dirt under their feet, them Christians, is what they does, and that’s a fact. Call that Brotherhood? Hahr! And as for turning me coat, for that’s what it amounts to, chop and change it as you may, and stripping to the buff and climbing into one of them bloody cold baptistries or what-you-may-call’em, after a lifetime adhering to the faith of me fathers, which I’ve never regretted it,” he said, regretfully; “ah, it’s too late for that. For they doesn’t know, nowadays, as to what their own religion is, fact. There was King Vassily of East Central Thrace,

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