Pattern Read Free Page A

well, not from scratch, exactly, but once you’re in your own house, running your own farm, you’ll know what’s got to be done without needing anybody to tell you. Believe me,’ he added, ‘I’ve done it.’
    That really didn’t help, of course. Poldarn knew, because he’d been told, that when Halder and his wife Rannwey were both dead, this house would be dismantled, pulled apart log by log and plank by plank and the materials piled up so that the farm people could help themselves to free building materials for their own houses and barns, and most of the household goods (apart from a few valuable heirlooms) would be divided up the same way. By then, Poldarn would be living in a brand new house a mile away down the valley, called Ciartansford or Ciartanswood or something like that – he’d still own all the land and the stock (not ‘own’, of course; wrong word entirely) and the grain and straw and hay and wood and apples and cheeses and hides and leeks and pears and cider and beer and everything else the land produced would be stored in his barn and eaten off his plates on his table; but for some reason he simply couldn’t grasp – nobody had told him what it was, because either you knew or you didn’t – he didn’t have the option of living here in this house; it was like walking on water or flying in the air, it simply couldn’t be done.
    â€˜So you say,’ Poldarn replied. ‘And we won’t go into all that again, it made my head hurt the last time we talked about it. So let’s put it this way: if you were me, what do you think you’d be likely to be doing, right now?’
    Eyvind frowned, as if he’d been asked a difficult question about a subject he’d never considered before. ‘Well,’ he said, as a particularly loud clang echoed across the yard from the direction of the forge, ‘that, probably. Having a nasty accident, by the sound of it.’
    â€˜I see,’ Poldarn muttered. ‘That sounded like the anvil’s just fallen on his foot. Would I absolutely have to?’
    Eyvind shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t happen,’ he explained. ‘You see, you’d be the smith, you’d be more careful and the accident wouldn’t happen. Asburn – well, he’s a very nice man and he does some of the best work I’ve ever seen, but he’s not a smith. Little wonder if he screws up from time to time.’
    He could never tell whether Eyvind was joking or being serious when he started talking like this, probably both simultaneously. ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘you’re telling me I should be over there learning to bash hot iron, not sprawling around in a chair wasting your time.’
    â€˜ I ’m not telling you that,’ Eyvind replied. ‘But if you’re asking me if I think it’d be a good thing for you to do, I can’t see any reason why not.’
    Poldarn nodded, and let his head rest against the back of the chair. It was a fine piece of work; old and beautifully carved out of dark, close-grained oak, with armrests in the shape of coiled dragons. Presumably it counted as an heirloom and he’d be allowed to keep it. ‘Another thing you can help me with,’ he said. ‘That mountain. Is it meant to be doing that?’
    Eyvind craned his neck round to look. ‘Doing what?’ he said.
    â€˜Breathing out all that steam,’ Poldarn replied. ‘Strikes me there’s a lot more than usual.’
    â€˜Not really.’ Eyvind shook his head. ‘Some days there’s more than others, that’s all. Why, has somebody been trying to scare you?’
    â€˜No,’ Poldarn said, ‘unless you count what you just said. What’s there to be scared of?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ Eyvind smiled. ‘It’s just that some of the old jokers around here would have you believe that once every so