"It's like that first book Nettle tried to sew, the thread has broken and the pages have fallen out. They are gone now--all gone, except for Nettle and me. And Maytera, out there on her rock with Mucor, Marrow, and a few others. Old cla.s.smates. Sisters and brothers."

Calf, Tongue, and Tallow had wanted help from him, a great deal of help that his mother had urged him to provide, when he and Nettle had nothing to eat. It was a bitter memory, one that he counseled himself to forget.

"Got to practice!" That was Xiphias in the Blue Room.

How can I get to be a good swordsman, sir? I don't have anybody to practice with.

The sword out at once and pushed into his hand. Xiphias's old, veined hands (still astonishingly strong) positioning him before a pier gla.s.s. "See him? Fight him! Good as you are, every bit! Up point, and guard! Parry! Hilt, boy! Use the hilt! Think you've got it?"

He had said yes and thought no. Now he halted, making quartering cuts with the lighter end of the k.n.o.bbed staff and parrying each the moment that he made it.

"Not so bad," he muttered. "Better than I did down on Green, though that sword was a better weapon."

"No cut," a harsh voice overhead advised. Startled, he terminated his practice; and something large, light, and swift lit upon his shoulder. "Bird back!"

"Oreb, is that you?"

"Good Silk."

"It can't be! By Bright Pas's four eyes, I wish I could see you."

"Bird see."

"I know you do, but that's not much help to me. Not unless something's lying in wait for us like the convicts did for Auk. Is there anything of that kind?"

"No, no."

"Armed men? Or wolves?"

"No man. No wolf."

He recalled the new word that the husband had used. "What about G.o.dlings, Oreb? Can you see any of those?"

The bird fluttered, his beak clacking nervously.

"You see those. You must. Are they close by?"

"No close."

"I'd ask you what they are, if I thought there was any hope of getting a sensible answer out of you."

"No talk."

"It's unlucky to speak of them? Is that what you mean?"

A hoa.r.s.e croak.

"I'll take that for a yes, and take your advice, too--for the time being at least. Are you really Oreb? The Oreb who used to belong to Patera Silk?"

"Good bird!"

"You're a good talker at any rate, just as Oreb was. Did he teach you? That's what I heard long ago about you night choughs, that when one of you learns a new word he teaches the rest."

"Man come."

"Toward us?" He sought to peer ahead into the darkness, but might as effectively have peered into a barrel of tar. Recalling the husband's slug gun and three remaining sh.e.l.ls, he turned to look behind him; the darkness there was equally impenetrable.

He faced about again. "Now, Oreb, I want to keep going the way I was before I turned around. Am I headed right?" He tapped the ground before him with the staff as he spoke.

"Good. Good."

"There isn't a pit at my feet, by any chance? Or a tree that I'm about to knock my head against?"

"Road go."

"And so will I." He stepped forward confidently, cutting and thrusting as he walked--and seemed to hear the staff that slashed the air tapping the roadway still. Stopping, he called, "h.e.l.lo!"

A distant voice answered, "Heard me, did yer?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. I heard your stick."

The methodical tapping continued, but there was no further reply.

Under his breath he asked, "Can you see him, Oreb?"

"Bird see."

"That's the way. Keep your voice down. One man alone?"

"Big man. No men."

"Does he have a slug gun, or anything of that nature?"

"No see."

Deep and rough and somewhat nearer now, the distant voice said, "Dinna have such. Yer neither, bucky."

"You're right," he said. There was a faint, metallic rattle, and he added, "What was that?"

"Yer got gude h'ears."

"Tolerably so."

Nearer still. "How's yer een, bucky?"

"My eyes?"

Oreb muttered, "Man big. Watch out."

"Ho! Won't hurt him." The roughness of the approaching voice suggested a second night chough hopping along the road, its depth a huge bird as tall as a man.

"I heard something that sounded almost like the sling swivels of slug gun."

"Did yer, bucky?" A second rattle followed the final word.

"Yes," he said. "What is it?"

"How's yer een?"

"My vision, is that what you mean? Good enough." Recalling the spectacles he had found in his pocket, he added, "A little worse than most, perhaps, for reading."

"For readin', bucky?" The rough voice was close now. "Yer can read." A deep chuckle. "H'only ther wind's blowed yer candle h'out." Wind Wind rhymed with rhymed with fiend fiend in the stranger's mouth. in the stranger's mouth.

"You're not from Viron, I take it."

"Nae from naewhere." The chuckle came again, followed by the rattle.

"I believe I recognized that sound this time--a sword blade in a bra.s.s scabbard. Am I correct?"

"Smack h'on, bucky."

Something--hard leather--touched his fingers, and he was reminded again of Xiphias's pressing the sword upon him, although the hand that gripped his arm was far larger than Xiphias's had been.

"Want ter feel a' her?"

"Yes, I do. May I draw it?" His hands had found the throat of the scabbard, a throat that was covered with leather too, like the rudimentary guard and the rest of the hilt.

"Canna see me whin, can yer, bucky?"

"No. But I'll be able to--to weigh it in my hand, without the scabbard. I needn't, if you'd prefer I wouldn't."

"Yer a h'officer, bucky?"

"A military officer, you mean? No. Nothing of the sort."

"Yer talks like such. Aye, pluck."

The blade hissed from the scabbard, heavier than the k.n.o.bbed staff and nearly as long. He made a few cuts, ran his fingers gingerly over the flat, then wiped it on the sleeve of his tunic.

"Got h'it h'off a dead coof," the rough voice confided. "He dinna want h'it nae mair."

"But you do, I'm sure." He sheathed it again and held it out, touching something large and solid: leather again, soft old canvas, and cool metal that seemed to be a belt buckle nearly as high as his chin.

" 'Tis me." Taking back the sword, the stranger's outsized hands brushed his. "Want ter feel a' me clock?"

"Watch out!" Oreb fidgeted apprehensively on his shoulder.

"No," he told the stranger. "Certainly not."

"Craw, ain't h'it? Thought 'twas a man. H'on me hunkers sae yer can reach. Have yer feel, bucky." His left wrist was caught between fingers as thick and hard as the staff, and guided toward a mat of coa.r.s.e hair. He was conscious of a faint reek of sour sweat.

"You have a beard," he said. "So do I." The nose was wide and prominent, the cheekbones high and gaunt, framed in s.h.a.ggy hair that fell to the stranger's shoulders.

"Took me rag h'off." His hand was freed, then caught again. "Here's me e'e. Stick in yer finger."

"I'd rather not," he said; two fingers were forced into the empty socket nevertheless.

"H'other's ther same. Feel a' her?"

He was forced to. "You're blind," he said. "I--I know how ba.n.a.l it sounds, but I'm sorry."

"Wait till me rag's back h'on," the stranger rumbled. "Want ter feel a' yern. Got ter, an' yer ken why. Yer get a notion a' me clock?"

"Yes," he said, afraid that he would be forced to touch the stranger's face again. "I should warn you, though, that Oreb doesn't like being held. He'll probably fly if you attempt it."

Oreb contradicted him. "Touch bird!"

"Dinna think he never did, not nae live 'un."

"Touch bird!"

"Seen lots, 'fore me een was took. H'oreb's his name?" lots, 'fore me een was took. H'oreb's his name?"

"It's what I call him, at least. A friend I had long ago--the friend for whom I'm searching--had a pet night chough he called that. I'm afraid I've given this one the same name to save the trouble of thinking of a new one." He felt Oreb leave his shoulder and added, "He's going to you, I think."

"Lit h'on me whin. A fin'er, H'oreb, an' speak h'up h'if h'it pains yer."

"No hurt."

He felt a pang of jealousy that he quickly suppressed. "I've already introduced Oreb, so I ought to introduce myself as well. My name is Horn."

"Horn. An' H'oreb."

"Yes," he said, and felt Oreb return to his shoulder.

"What would yer say me h'own name might be, bucky?"

"Your name? I just met you. I have no idea."

The tapping resumed. "We might's well walk h'as talk. Never heard nae name like Horn. Nor H'oreb neither."

"It means raven, raven," he explained as he strode after the steady tapping of the stranger's sword. "It's from the Chrasmologic Writings. Calde Silk, the friend I spoke of, was an augur."

"H'oreb. Horn. Silk. Common names, like? Maybe me h'own might be Cotton, here."

"Why no, that's a woman's name." He felt vague frustration. "Surely it would be better if we called you as your mother did."

" 'Twas Freak, mostly."