After so many weeks of abstinence the substantial amounts of whisky he'd imbibed had his head spinning, and he resisted Clem's attempts to engage him in serious conversation, despite the latter's insistence that the matter was urgent. Gentle was feeling as facetious as Irish, if not more so. The house was by now a trove of treasures-all gifts to the Maestro from Tick Raw's excursionists-and there was no end to the drunken fooling these artifacts, many of them total enigmas, inspired.
Number 28 was noisy that night, the cause a celebration in honor of Irish, who'd that afternoon been released from prison, having served a three-month sentence for petty theft, and had arrived on the doorstep-with Carol, Benedict, and several cases of stolen whisky-to toast his release. His body shone a deep, earthen brown, as if he had been daubed with many layers of paint. There was a sword strapped to his waist, and a broken spear lay to one side. He had a beaked face, like a bird of prey, with deep-set, still-open eyes that seemed permanently set to peer into vast distances. The warrior had been a large man, taller even than Janos, with wide shoulders and thick chest. It was exactly as he had described the horsemen of his childhood.
Janos muttered something, and although I couldn't make out his words, I knew he was reacting to the shape of the armor and helm the corpse was wearing. His corpse could be clearly seen in the light of Cassini's purifying fire. The warrior's body lay broken across a large, flat stone. A weird, bestial roaring commenced: a primal sound.What the hell-? Jazz lifted Zek down from their niche in the rock, turned from her to begin making the descent. Panicked shouts came echoing up to them shockingly, an explosion tore the night: one of Jazz's grenades, left with Lardis.
One moment I felt it in my fingers and against my face, and the next I felt nothing and saw nothing but the distant light flickering in the green leaves. Yet no sooner had I hit the ground-at least I think I did-than I was jerked upright, and the mask was ripped away. She watched dully as the last of the cars rolled by. She liked the feel of his warm hands on her the smell of the perfume rising from his skin. Several times, she saw F'lessan eyeing the drop from the ledge, measuring it, wondering if perhaps Golanth could indeed fall off its edge and manage a strong enough downward stroke with one wing to become airborne. If she caught a darkness in his eye now and then, she knew it was all for his dragon, not himself. He was more his old self, though he didn't smile or laugh quite as easily. He seemed to ignore his own injuries: using a slower, more deliberate step to disguise his limp as he moved around with the cane. He also insisted on taking over as much of Golanth's treatment as possible and trusted no one else, not even Tai, with lubricating the eyelids. More important, F'lessan was immediately involved in the activity, taking time off only to swim, toning the muscles of his bad leg and his shoulder, regaining his tan. Roomer said apologetically:He doesn't go in much for diplomacy. So Bentley figures that you'd craftily wring some careless talk from me without my being aware that I was talking carelessly.
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