The Tournament at Gorlan Quotes

“A wise man once told me, don’t believe anything you hear until you’ve seen it with your own eyes,” Halt said. Crowley looked up at him. “Who said that? Pritchard?” It sounded like the sort of thing their old mentor might say. Halt affected to think for a few seconds, then gave a slight smile. “No. I think it was me, actually. I can be very wise at times.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued.
'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said.
Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song'
'What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question.
'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?'
'N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking.
'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o'
'Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?'
'It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently.
'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know.
Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious.
"Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.'
'And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt
'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?'
'It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted
'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him.
'Would that be so bad?'
'Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.'
'It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked.
Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other'
Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him.
'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?'
'So what?' Crowley challenged
Halt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.'
'A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded
Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Halt sighed in exasperation. “What is it with you Araluens? Are you all afraid of a little fall?” He began hauling the rope up, coiling it over his shoulder as it came. “It’s not the fall that bothers me,” said Duncan. “It’s the sudden stop at the end.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“The ferry master moved away to lower the bow ramp onto the sand. He'd taken three paces when he heard a loud splash behind him. He swung around to see Ergon's head bobbing to the surface next to the stern of the punt, his arms thrashing widely as the shock of the cold sea water revived him.
Crowley grinned at the ferry master. 'Thought a little swim might do him good' he said.
Ergon was already floundering his way towards the beach. He was in waist-deep water now and in no danger of growing. Sodden and spluttering, he staggered up the sand and stood, glaring at Crowley and dripping water.
'I'll kill you for that!' he snarled
Crowley raised an eyebrow. 'So you keep saying'
He snapped his fingers at the two horses and they followed him down the ramp onto the land. The ferry master watched with interest. He'd never seen a Ranger tossed overboard before- particularly by another Ranger.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Just time for a mug of coffee in the meanwhile.” Crowley was already beginning to work on a third arrow. “Good idea,” he said. Then he frowned as a thought struck him. “Have you noticed that Leander puts milk in his coffee?” Halt grunted. “The man’s a savage.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “This from the man who laces his coffee with honey?” “Honey is natural,” Halt told him. “Milk is little short of an abomination.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“When Halt was in a bad mood, he invariably paid careful attention to his grammar”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“I’d enjoy smacking him in the chops.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Berrigan gave vent to a meaningful cough, which seemed to conceal the word rubbish inside it. Pritchard looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, and of course, I received a pigeon mail from Berrigan a week or so ago, telling me what you’re up to.” Halt and Crowley both swung round to look at the occasional jongleur. He shrugged. “Didn’t I tell you we keep in touch from time to time?” he asked, indicating Pritchard with a nod of his head. “No. Egon said he did. But I don’t recall your mentioning it,” Crowley replied. Berrigan thought for a second or two, then said, “Pritchard and I keep in touch from time to time.” “Highly amusing,” Crowley said, giving Berrigan a withering look. Berrigan managed to survive without being too withered.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“I kept hearing rumors about two madcap youngsters who were recruiting former Rangers with an eye to confronting Morgarath,” he said. “Apparently, one of them is a grumpy Hibernian and the other is a redheaded prankster. Imagine my surprise when I heard it was you two.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“That Mistress DuLacy is quite a woman.” Halt looked quickly at him and grunted something that Crowley took to be agreement. Hiding his grin with some difficulty, the red-haired man continued, in the same overly casual voice. “I thought that when this is all over, I might call upon her.” He stared straight ahead, but when Halt said nothing, he stole a glance at his friend. Halt wore a stricken expression. The thought of his friend Crowley—witty, urbane and totally at ease with women—paying court to the stunning young Courier was too much for him to bear. Had it been any other man, he might have offered to fight him. But Crowley was a friend—more than a friend, in truth. Halt had come to think of him as a brother. In fact, he held him in a higher regard than his real brother, who had tried to murder him to gain access to the throne.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Halt nodded at him gratefully. "Exactly. We need to elect a leader - and give him the power to make decisions and the authority to have those decisions obeyed and carried through. Otherwise we're like a band of headless chickens."
"But dangerous chickens nonetheless," Leander said with a faint smile.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Halt nodded at him gratefully. "Exactly. We need to elelct a leader - and give him the power to make decisions and the authority to have those decisions obeyed and carried through. Otherwise we're like a band of headless chickens."
"But dangerous chickens nonetheless," Leander said with a faint smile.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“It’s not the fall that bothers me,” said Duncan. “It’s the sudden stop at the end.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“And trust me,” said Crowley”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“The man held out a hand to Halt. “Help me stand,” he demanded. For a moment, annoyed by the arrogant tone, Halt was tempted to help him lie down again, by virtue of a fist to the jaw. But he managed a helpful smile and hauled the man to his feet,”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“The tournament is six . . . no, seven . . . weeks from now.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Crowley continued. “He told you just before you went to mount Abelard, didn’t he? In fact, he stopped you mounting to tell you. Didn’t that make you think?” “Think what?” Halt asked shortly, although he was beginning to get the glimmering of an idea about what Crowley was getting at. “Didn’t you wonder why a Ranger horse can never be stolen?” “Perhaps you could enlighten me,” Halt said. Crowley turned to Bob and gestured for him to explain. Like the others, Bob was grinning broadly. “It’s a matter of training, Master Halt. The horses are specially trained not to let anyone ride them unless they’ve said the secret password to them.” “Secret password?” Halt said incredulously. This was beginning to sound like some far-fetched fantasy tale. He wondered if this wasn’t a further practical joke that they were playing on him. But Bob was nodding, with no sign of any hidden smile.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Good idea,” he said. Then he frowned as a thought struck him. “Have you noticed that Leander puts milk in his coffee?” Halt grunted. “The man’s a savage.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “This from the man who laces his coffee with honey?” “Honey is natural,” Halt told him. “Milk is little short of an abomination.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“The problem with castles, Halt thought as he continued upward, was that they were full of stairs. If someone could only design a castle that was all on one level, it would save a lot of effort.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“And trust me,” said Crowley, who had kissed two women in his entire life—and one of them his mother—“I know about women.” Halt felt a warm glow suffuse his breast at his friend’s words. “Yes,” he said happily. “I should think you do.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“He wondered if he should mention the fact that Halt had been looking for her, then decided that, if he did so, his wife might hit him with the wooden serving ladle that lay close to her right hand. “Of course,” he said, hiding his smile. He noted with relief that Sandra moved her hand away from the heavy ladle.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“In his experience, people who attributed their success to luck often had a lot to do with making their own luck.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Halt rose to his feet instantly, knocking his chair over backward, sending it clattering on the bare floorboards of the office. Hastily, he bent to retrieve it and his cowl fell forward over his eyes, so that he was groping blindly for the chair. Finally, he composed himself, shoved the cowl back and righted his chair. Crowley had also risen to his feet, but not in the same precipitate rush as Halt.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Crowley was just exercising his new authority as leader of the group,” Halt put in, with a smile. Norris turned his gaze to the Hibernian. “He’s your leader?” Halt nodded. “Elected him last night,” he said. Norris studied Crowley for some time and pursed his lips. “Was that a wise choice, do you think?” Halt took a deep breath. In addition to having no sense of humor, Norris apparently had no sense of tact, either. “Tell me,” Halt said eventually, “do you understand the concept of a joke?” Norris sat up straighter in the saddle, looking a trifle affronted by the question. “Of course I do!” he said. “I have an excellent sense of humor.” Halt’s eyebrow shot up before he could stop himself. In his experience, people who claimed to have an excellent sense of humor usually had none at all. “Well, what you heard was a joke. We—were—joking,” he said, enunciating the last three words slowly and distinctly. Norris looked doubtful. “Didn’t sound very funny to me.” Halt shrugged. “You had to be there to appreciate it,” he said. “I was. I was right here!” Norris protested. Halt shook his head slowly. “My point exactly. You were here. You had to be there.” Now Norris looked confused, so Halt decided to explain. “That was another joke,” he said. “It wasn’t very funny.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“In his experience, when a person suggested that someone needed to be elected leader, they often had themselves in mind for the position.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Crowley made an encouraging gesture with his hand, indicating that Halt should proceed. “So,” he said, “talk away.” Halt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let his gaze travel round the small semicircle of faces. When he was sure he had their attention, and that all protests and jokes were stilled, he spoke. “There are five of us now . . . ,” he began. He got no further. “Well,” said Crowley, “I’m glad that’s settled. I was wondering, seeing how I have trouble counting past three. But if you say there are five of us now, that’s good enough for me.” He settled back down to slump against the log, pulling his cowl forward to shield his eyes. Halt regarded him with enormous patience. The silence stretched out between them. Finally, Crowley roused himself, grinning at his friend. “Oh, did you want to say more?” he asked innocently. Berrigan and Leander hid grins. Egon, still not sure of the prevailing dynamic in this little group, watched without expression, but with great attention. Halt sighed. Sometimes talking to Crowley was like trying to herd smoke, he thought.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“Life was good, he thought. They had eaten well. They had a firm plan of action, and he had a traveling companion whom he could tease anytime he liked.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“When Halt was in a bad mood, he invariably paid careful attention to his grammar.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“The air was full of the rasping sound of half a dozen men snoring. Occasionally someone coughed, then resumed the snoring again. As they listened, someone let go a long and resounding fart. “Delightful people,” murmured Berwick.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan

“nights.”
― John Flanagan, The Tournament at Gorlan