“Uh, yes, sir. I made delicious soup for my mistress. She always said so.”
This took Merlin aback. “Are you telling us that she grew that fat on soup?!”
George mistook his surprise for menace. “N-no sir. She ate everything. Everything. I was always busy.”
“I believe it. The pantry is well stocked.”
He nodded. “Shall I make soup, then, sir?”
“Soup for our patients. Bread and meat for the rest of us. Make cakes for our dessert. Robert, go with this young man and keep a careful eye one him.”
Robert snapped to attention. “Yes, Merlin.”
The two boys left. Merlin turned to Peter. “At least we will have a good lunch, albeit a late one.”
And a good lunch it was. The venison was succulent, the bread fresh and aromatic, the cakes delicious. Robert brought a cask of fine wine from the pantry. The patients were glad of George’s soup, all but Accolon, who was only half conscious and muttering in his sleep about living corpses and dragons.
Merlin whispered to Peter that he might take George back to Camelot to be his personal cook. “Then I would never have to leave my tower. With Colin and young George, I might never again have to leave my books and my laboratories.” He smiled, plainly finding the thought pleasant.
“You lead too insular a life already, Merlin.” Peter chewed his venison enthusiastically. “You should get out and about more.”
“That is what Arthur tells me. But I am content in my tower, when I am able to stay there. With Plotinus and Aristotle for company, what do I need with anyone else?”
“I envy you your misanthropy.”
“It is hardly misanthropy, Peter. I do not hate my fellow human beings. But I find life so much more restful when I do not have to deal with them.”
“You can hardly detect crime from your tower, Merlin.”
He shrugged. “You are the sheriff, not I. Besides, crime happens whether I am cloistered in my tower or not. And criminals… I find I have seen enough of them. And of humankind in general. I should like nothing better than to retire to Egypt, under the protection of my old friend Germanicus, and live an even more isolated existence.”
Peter sipped his wine and said wryly, “I understand they have crime there, too.”
“Yes, but in a much more lovely setting. And with much better weather.”
Just after sunset a ferocious wind blew up. Trees trembled in it; the waters of the stream were roiled wildly and even sprayed up onto the banks. The roar of the wind was loud enough even to drown out the incessant moaning on the waterwheel at times. Bits of the mill’s thatched roof tore free and blew away; the wind gushed into several rooms. But George prepared a meal for the party, and it was every bit as good as Merlin hoped.
“You are quite an excellent cook,” he told the boy.
“My mother taught me.” He seemed abashed by the compliment. “She was really good. You should have known her.”
“Where is she?”
“She died six years ago, sir. Lulua took me in, or I would have… I don’t know.”
There was a tiny barn adjacent to the mill, and Merlin ordered that the mounts and the pack animals be moved there for shelter from the driving wind.
Peter oversaw this. Then he reported to Merlin, who was standing beside the stream, watching the waves, “The building is quite small. The horses are unhappy at being so crowded.”
Merlin’s robes were blowing wildly, to the point where they almost knocked him off balance. “They would be un-happier still if they had to stay out in this horrible storm. At least, that dreadful groaning will be less loud there. It cannot be pleasant for them.” He raised an arm to protect his face from some blowing leaves, then glanced up at the sky. “Let us hope this wind does not bring rain. Or worse yet, snow.”
Robert came out and joined them. “Please, Merlin, the sick men are all asleep. And they are right in the main part of the mill. Should we leave them there?”
“Find another room large enough to quarter them-and myself. I shall sleep in that same room, so that I might keep an eye on them.”
“What about the room where the millstones turn? It’s the biggest in the mill. It should be more than big enough.”
“If you can find no other place for us, that will be fine. I only hope the turning of the stones does not disturb their rest.”
“If the damned sound of the waterwheel does not keep them awake, nothing could.” Peter raised an arm to protect himself from the wind. But a twig blew and hit his cheek. There was a trickle of blood. “Of all the horrible places for a hospital.”
Robert had not moved. “If you please, sir, that boy-”
“George?”
“Yes, sir. He has eaten and rested, as you ordered. You wanted to know, so that you could question him.”
“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”
“You… you want to know about the witch?”
He nodded. “Arthur requires intelligence. And while I am at it, I may ask the boy for his recipes, just in case he does not want to return with us. Dinner was delicious. Go and place the boy in the mill room. I will join you there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” Covering his face for protection from the wind, Robert ran back inside.
Peter stared fixedly at Merlin. “Wizard, you are a fraud.”
This caught Merlin off guard. “I never claim to be a wizard. There is no fraud. Do not be disagreeable, Peter.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
A particularly ferocious gust caught Merlin’s robes and nearly knocked him off balance again; Peter caught him by the arm and steadied him. “Thank you, Peter. But what on earth are you talking about?”
They began to move toward the door of the mill. “I am talking about you. You preach a life of reason, of the mind, of austerity. Yet when a good chef comes your way, you all but leap at him. You are as much devoted to the senses as any Roman emperor.”
Merlin’s hat started to blow off and he raised a hand to steady it on his head. “Pleasure is essential to life, Peter. The things that give me the most pleasure are not the usual ones, though. I derive more pleasure from a good book than from any woman I have ever known. Besides, I have lived longer than the typical Roman emperor.” He smiled. “Much longer.”
They stepped inside the mill and Peter pushed the door shut against the wind.
Merlin shrugged. “I never claim to be an ascetic, and I certainly never suggest that anyone else should live a life without gratification. I am merely… different in my choice of pleasures, that is all.”
“Different indeed. And does unmasking murderers give you pleasure, then?”
“Let us say
“Have you ever not found a murderer you were pursuing?”
Merlin brushed bits of dead leaves and twigs from his robes. “Young George will be waiting. Come. I want my new cook in good spirits.”
“Sybarite.”
“Cynic.”
In the mill room the great stones turned more quickly than they had earlier, driven by the furious water in the furious wind. They made a constant grinding sound. Merlin wished there was some way to brake them, but the mechanism offered no such option. A fire roared in a huge open hearth not far from the stones.
George was waiting there, pacing and looking nervous. Robert was standing off in a corner, trying to look unobtrusive but clearly keeping an eye on George.
When Merlin entered, he waved Robert away. “Thank you, Robert. You may go and get some rest.”
“I don’t think I could rest with that horrible groaning. I’d really like to stay.”
“Go, I said.”
Robert pouted. “You need protection, Merlin. And I am in your service.”
“Do you think George, here, is going to assault me with a bowl of soup? Go and sleep.”
“Yes, Merlin.” Sullenly he went.
Merlin found a stool for himself, then turned his attention to George. The boy was looking anxious, and Merlin smiled to reassure him.
“That Robert fellow doesn’t trust me.” The expression on George’s face was part apprehension, part bewilderment. “Why?”
“You are Lulua’s servant.” He tried to make his voice calming.
“What of that, sir?”
“Well…” Merlin chuckled. “She does fancy herself a witch, after all.”
“She’s more like a priestess to all of the local tribes. Not a witch like a mean old woman.”
Merlin gave the boy a brief summary of what had nearly happened to Arthur and himself at the hands of Marmaduke and Lulua. “So you see, Robert wonders if you can be trusted. You serve the woman who wanted me dead.”
“But you said she is a prisoner now. She can’t hurt you. Can I sit down, please?”
“Of course.”
George looked around for another stool. Not finding one, he sat on the floor five feet in front of Merlin. “Lulua has taken care of me since my mother died. I owe her a lot.”
“That is the first good thing I have heard anyone say about her. Besides, your cooking made her fat-or kept her that way. I would say you had repaid your debt to her more than sufficiently.”
The boy lowered his eyes. “I feel like I owe her a lot more.”
“Feed her much more than you have, George, and she may explode. But tell me, what happened to your mother?”
“She died, sir.”
“Yes, but how? What happened to her?”
“She just… stopped living, that’s all.”
“And where did this happen?”
“Paintonbury, sir. She was Marmaduke’s cook. She taught me.”
“I see. So your family has made a tradition of fattening up villains.” Merlin’s bench wobbled. Irritably he got to his feet. “Now, tell me about Morgan.”
George’s face turned blank. “Who?”
“Morgan le Fay. The king’s sister.”
