Yarrel had moved away from us, spoke now from some distance in that same cold voice. "Pot-lid or trumpet, Chance, but a Shifter, still. Shifty in one, shifty in all, or so I have always learned. Not Peter any more, at least. I am certain of that, "
"That's not the way it is, " I screamed at him in an agonized whisper. "You don't understand anything!" I knew this was a mistake as soon as I had said it, for his voice was even more hostile when he answered.
"Perhaps you win enlighten us. Perhaps you will tell us
'how it is, ' and what you intend to do... "
"I don't know, " I hissed. "If I knew what to do, I'd have done it by now. I know I have to get Silkhands and you two out of this place, somehow. Mandor is mad and if he can use her in any way to do evil against those he imagines are his enemies, he will do so. And Dazzle is here to make sure he imagines enemies. He could easily give Silkhands to the Divulgers, as he did me... "
But it was not Yarrel who calmed me and comforted me and told me all that I have recounted about
Himaggery's Demesne and the surety of a Great Game building around Bannerwell. No, it was Chance, comfortable Chance, dependable Chance. Only when I spoke of Mandor's wild plan to link some various
Talents together to get himself a new body did Yarrel speak, saying roughly, "More minds than one on that idea. Himaggery works along that line as well, to link the Talents of the Bright Demesne, In Himaggery's hands it might not go ill for my people, but in
Mandor's... "
"Himaggery marches against Mandor for your sake,
Peter, " said Chance. "What will you do?"
"I hoped you would help me. I don't know what to do next. I don't really understand how this Shifting works.
I've only done it twice. The first time it just happened, not even intended. I thought you and Yarrel... "
Yarrel interrupted, firmly, coldly. "The Talent is yours. I will not take responsibility for it. It is yours by birth, yours by rearing. We are no longer schoolfellows to plot together. You have gone beyond that... "
"But, Yarrel... " I stopped. I didn't know what to say to him. This chance was unexpected, sudden. I remembered his saying to me on the way to the High
Demesne that I might gain a Talent which would make us un-friends, but surely he would not pre-judge me in this fashion. Except that... it had been a Shapeshifter who had done great harm to his family. Except that. Oh,
Yarrel.
Chance said, "We're as good as rat's meat if Mandor knows who we are, lad. From what you say, Silkhands should be out and away from here as soon as may be. If this Talent of yours can help us, time it did so, I'd say.
Great Game is coming. It would be better not to be caught in the middle of it. "
"A Great Game, " I said miserably. I turned away from them to lie curled on my side, hurt at Yarrel's coldness. After a time, I slept. I dreamed of a Grand
Demesne, a Great Game gathering around Bannerwell.
The ovens in the courtyard were red hot, their mouths gaping like monstrous mouths came to eat the people of
Bannerwell. Stokers labored beside them, black against the flame. Once more I saw the flicker of Shifters in and out of the press of battle, Elators in and out of the lines of Armigers upon the battlements, saw fire raining from the sky, a sky full of Dragons and Firedrakes and enormous forms I had not seen before. And there, far at the edge of vision, gathered at the forest edges, were the pawns with their hayforks and scythes, stones in their hands. I woke sweating, gasping for air. The dark hours were upon the place. I rose wearily and went from the stables through the garden down to the little orchard which grew behind low walls over the abrupt fall to the
River.
I needed someone with more knowledge than I had. If
I found someone, however, what would I do? Kill him for whatever thoughts were on the surface of his brain?
Likely they would be only about his dinner or his mistress or his gout, and I'd be no better off. I needed to know what I could do and had no idea how to begin. So, there in the darkness among the trees I tried to use my
Talent.
After a time, it was no longer difficult. I found I could become anything I could invent or visualize, any number of empty-headed creatures like Swallow, male or female, though there were things about the female form which were uncertain at best. I could turn myself back into Grimpt, or into something else which didn't look or smell like Grimpt but had Grimpt's small Talents. The kitchen cat meauwed at me from the orchard grass, and
I laid my hands on it to try to take that shape, only to burst out of the attempt with heart pounding in a wild panic. The cat's brain was so small. As soon as I began to be in it, it began to close in from all sides, pressing me smaller and smaller to crush me. Was it only that it was small? Let others find out. I would not try a creature that size again.
By the time I heard the cock gargling at the false dawn from atop the dung heap, I knew why it was that Shifters were said not to take human form. Had it not been for the panic, Windlow's herb, and my own inheritance, I would not have been able to do so when I changed to
Grimpt. Only ignorance had let me make up the person of Swallow. In the dark hours I had learned that I could change only if the pattern were there, only if I could lay hands upon it and somehow "read" it. So much for easy dreams of shifting into an Elator and flicking outside the walls, or shifting into an Armiger to carry Silkhands to safety through the air from her window. I could not become a Dragon because I had no pattern for it, nor a
Prince, nor a Tragamor. Not unless I could lay hands upon a real one. Which it would be death for Peter to do and highly dangerous for Swallow to attempt. Grimpt? I could, perhaps, go back to that. There were undoubtedly other clothes in the filthy hidey-hole the man had lived in.
But there were other creatures larger than a cat on whom Swallow might lay hands. Horses. The great hunting fustigars from the kennels. There were possibilities there. Well enough. I went back to the loft and spoke, to Chance, telling him that I needed to sleep. I said it in a firm voice without begging for help. My pride would not let me do that. If Yarrel would not help me, I would help myself.
Still, the last thought I had was a memory of Yarrel saying that I might get a Talent which would make him hate me. I knew I had already done so, and there was no comfort from that thought. I let Peter sink away from it into swallowing darkness, let Swallow come up again into the quiet of sleep. A few hours until day. It would come soon enough.
11
The Caves of Bannerwell
We awoke to the smell of smoke and food, the clamor of guards and grooms, the pawnish people of the fortress about the business of breakfast, the cackle of fowls, the growling of hungry fustigars. When we had received our slabs of bread and mugs of tea, we sat on the sunwarmed stones while I told Chance and Yarrel what I could do.
More important, what I could not. I saw Chance's look of disappointment, but Yarrel's face was as stony as it had been the night before, almost as though he were forbidding himself to have any part in my difficulties. Well, if he would not, he would not. I did not beg him for pity or assistance. If he would be my friend again, he would when he would. I could only wait upon him, and this I owed him for the many times he had waited upon me. So and so and so. It wasn't comforting, but it was all I could do.
"Well then, " said Chance. "We'll busy ourselves around the stables. Likely no one will bother us if we are seen grooming horses and mucking out. That will give you time to think more... "
"We haven't time, " I said. "And I have already thought as much as I can. They gave me to the Divulger because they saw an Elator flick into my dungeon, give me a looking over, then disappear. Would that have been Himaggery's man?"
Chance said, "Himaggery knew where you were.
He had a Pursuivant close enough to Read you. He wouldn't have risked your life so-no. -It would have to be someone else. "
"Then who? Mandor knew where I was. It was none of his doing, obvio
usly. Mertyn?"
"Unlikely, " said Yarrel in a distant voice.
"Himaggery had already sent word to Mertyn. He would not have risked your life either, as you well know. "
"Then again, who?"
"The High King, " said Chance. I stared at him in astonishment. I had never thought of the High King.
"But why? What am I to the High King?"
"You are a person who was with Windlow, that's who. You are a person who was with Silkhands. The
Elator may have been looking for her, for Windlow, not for you at all. But the High King would look, wouldn't he? He's a suspecter, that one. "
"Having found, what would he do?',;
Chance mused. "Get himself into the midst of us one way or. another, I'd say. He was set on keeping old
Windlow captive, most set. Like a fustigar pup with his teeth in a lure, not going to let go even though there's nothing in it but fur. Likely he's wanting Windlow back again and come here looking for him. "
"Windlow will be-here, " said Yarrel. "When
Himaggery comes, Windlow will be with him. "
I was dizzy with the thought of it. "So, Himaggery comes from the east, with Mertyn, in such might as they can muster. And the High King comes from the south, also in might. Are there no contingents moving upon us from other directions as well... "
Yarrel said coldly, "From what direction might
Mavin come, knowing her son is held captive by
Mandor?"
I refused to rise to this bait. Being Mavin's son was no fault of mine. I would not be twitted about it.
Remembering the dream of the pawns with hayforks, I tried to sympathize with his feelings. "The end of it all will be only blood and fury, " I said, as softly and kindly as I could. "First the Gamesmen will kill one another, and then perhaps the pawns will come to kill those of us who are left, if any are left, and there will be more Mandors and more Dazzles to turn death's faces upon the world. "
I saw their incomprehension. They had not seen Dazzle and Mandor as I had. I tried again. "The Great Game will be a monstrous Death. In which we may all perish.
This is not the way to do things. There must be something better. "
"Justice, " said Yarrel. "Himaggery says we might try that. "
"I do not know the word. " Indeed, I had never heard it.
"Few do, " he answered. "It means simply that the rules do not matter, the Game does not matter so much as that thing which stands above both rules and Game. "
He went on, becoming passionate as he described what
Himaggery had said and what he, himself, had been thinking and dreaming in all his journey from the Bright
Demesne-perhaps in his journey since birth. I understood one tenth of it. That tenth, however, was enough to give me an important thought. How important, even I did not know.
"Yarrel, if you believe in this, then why do we not try to do it-try to stop the Game. "
"Surely, " he sneered. "Ask Mandor to let you and
Silkhands go. Ask him to let you both go to Himaggery without Mandor's plotting against Himaggery. Ask the
High King to leave Windlow alone. Ask Dazzle to stop building conspiracies against Silkhands. Ask the world to change. Ask that my people be given Justice. All that. " His voice was bitter.
"There are those who could not need to ask, " I pleaded. "The Immutables, Yarrel. They wouldn't need to ask. If they came, then there could be no Game. "
There was a long silence. "Why would they come?" he asked at last.
"Perhaps because of this 'Justice' you speak of.
Perhaps because their leader's daughter was killed by
Mandor and Huld and the pawner. The killers are here.
Perhaps because we beg it of them. I don't know why they would come, but I know they will not unless someone asks them, begs them... "
"And how may we beg them, we who are prisoners here?" '
That piece I had already worked out. "I have an idea, " I said, and told them about it. Chance objected to certain things about it,, and Yarrel offered a suggestion op two. By the time we were done with our bread and tea, which we had made last longer than any of those around us, we had a plan and my heart was a little lighter. Yarrel had looked at me once without enmity, almost as he used to do. They went off to the stables and I went to offer myself to my taskmaster, the gardener, who was furious that I had not been with him since before dawn. Swallow gaped a witless grin at him and let the words of fury slide away. Within moments he was at the barrow handles once more, on his way to the dung heap.
When he went to get the second barrow-load of the day, Chance signaled from the stable door and Peter rose. I let the -barrow rest near the privy, as though I might be inside, and slipped away to the kennels. One of the fustigars lay against the fence, drowsing in the sun, and I laid hands upon her body for long moments before she roused to challenge me. It was enough. I skulked away behind the kennels and went over the fence in the shape of a fustigar, opened the kennel gates in that guise
(easy enough even with paws, when the mind inside the beast knew how to do it) and then went among the great, drowsy beasts like a hunter among bunwits. I was mad. My mouth frothed, my growls were deafening as I snapped at flanks, howled, bit, drove them into panic and from panic into wild flight out the open gate. From the stables came the high, screaming whinny of horses similarly driven into fear and flight, and I knew that
Chance and Yarrel were at their work getting the horses to the same frenzied pitch as the hunting animals. The fustigars burst across the courtyard in a howling mob, me among them still snapping at hind legs; the horses came out of the stables in a maddened herd, both groups headed straight for the bridge. The lounging Tragamors who guarded it dived out of the way as the animals plunged past them pursued by Yarrel and Chance, pitchforks in their hands, shouting, "Get the horses, don't let the horses get away, grab those horses.., "
By the time some surly guardsmen were sent in pursuit, Chance and Yarrel were hidden within the forest whistling up their own saddled and laden beasts who had gone unnoticed among the stampeding animals. No one had realized that the two pawns pursuing the horses were not grooms from Mandor's own people. It was true what Yarrel had said. No one paid much attention to pawns.
One fustigar had not gone out with the others. That one slipped behind the kennels from which Swallow emerged, grinning and scratching, so amused by the spectacle that he stayed overlong in the courtyard and had to be summoned back to the gardener.
Armigers went aloft to seek the animals. A Tracker strolled out of the barracks to join others on the bridge.
By early afternoon the horses and fustigars were back where they belonged except for two. No one missed the two, or the two pawns who had gone after them. During all this, Peter stayed well down just in case anyone should take it into his head to discover the source of the animals' panic. Distracted as they were by the threat of challenge and Great Game, no one did. There was no hurry, now. The Gathered Waters lay two days' journey east along a good road from Bannerwell. There were littie ships crossing it almost daily. Or, one could travel around it to the place of the Immutables on the far side.
It would be days before Chance and Yarrel would get there, days more before they could return-or not.
That afternoon Swallow stole some clothing from a washline, the clothing of a steward. He tucked it away where it could be found later and promptly forgot about it. That afternoon the fortress gossiped about an Elator who had appeared in the audience hall and after that in the dungeons. There was much talk of this, and a great deal of movement among the Borderers and other guardsmen. Throughout it all, Swallow fetched manure.
When he had eaten his evening meal, he slept, much in need of sleep, and then repeated the previous day's activities. That evening he went to the roof, but saw nothing of importance going on. The third day the same, and on that evening Swallow ceased to be.
On that evening Swallow heard Mandor say to
/> Silkhands that she would be sent to the Divulgers upon the morrow. "To learn who it is who sends these spies among us. " Dazzle, leaning against a pillar, heard this threat with enormous and obvious satisfaction. Huld attempted to argue, half-heartedly, as though he knew it would do no good. Silkhands was pale and shaking. As a
Healer she knew that they need only leave her in a chill room without sufficient food and she would be unable to
Heal herself.
"Why do you do this?" she whispered. "Your thalan knows I make no plot against you! The High King's
Demons knew it as well. Yet there is this idiocy among you!
What is this madness?"
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