things?”
“They are my people, Wyrtheorn. No one knows them better than I do. And I tell you they will pull the palace Ambrose down around the Protector's ears if he harms the King. I am one thing—I'm not Vraidish, and moreover am supposed to look out for myself. The King is different. He is truly honored in the city.”
“Then why do you fear for him?”
Ambrosia was silent.
“You see, my lady, everything you say simply underlines the desperation of the Protector's position. And desperate men prefer savage measures: it gives release to their emotions. And, Lady Ambrosia, I spent all yesterday at the Great Market, scrounging for gossip. There was more sympathy for yourself than you have supposed, and less feeling for the King than you imagine. People are weary of weak and troubled reigns. They say the Ambrosian line has run its course; they are looking for a leader. They'll never love Urdhven, but if he proves himself the strongest they'll follow him sure.”
Ambrosia became restless with this analysis. “Then best I be back at the city as soon as can be. Tell my brother—”
“No, my lady, wait. Morlock can counsel you better than I. I always see the debt side of a ledger.”
“And Morlock is an optimist?”
“Morlock sees a way,” the dwarf replies. “Always. Please wait till he awakes.”
“I can't wait, Wyrth. If—”
The unconscious form lifted its hand. It drew a long, shuddering breath. “Wait!” it rasped, in a voice unlike Morlock's.
“I hate this,” the dwarf complained. “When he speaks in a vision he hardly sounds like himself. I could almost believe another spirit has possession of him.”
“Don't be superstitious, Wyrth. Morlock, I can't wait. Speak to me what you see.”
Voice rasping, eyes closed, Morlock said, “The death in the Protector's Shadow sleeps and, sleeping, dreams.
“The death the Protector fears wears our faces like masks.
“The death to ease the Protector's pain wears our name, like gravestones.
“The wing rides over the plain.”
“Shake him out of it,” the dwarf said impatiently. “What does that mean, ‘the wing rides over the plain'?”
“The wing enters the hills—”
“Canyon keep the wing. Wake up, Morlock!”
“He is waking,” Ambrosia said. “Be quiet, Wyrth, you can't hurry him. ‘The flight must take its course,' as seers say.”
“No,” said Morlock, in a voice almost his own. “Wrong.”
“What's wrong?” Ambrosia asked.
“Wing. Not flight. Shoes.”
“A wing with feet? ” Wyrth demanded.
Morlock looked puzzled, like a sleeper with a perplexing dream. “No feet. Shoes.”
“Oh, that's plain. A wing with shoes, but no feet.”
“Not plain,” Morlock insisted. “Hills.”
Ambrosia looked speculatively at her brother, then said to Wyrth, “I'll be back in a moment.” She climbed a nearby hill and looked westward. After a moment she turned and came down again. She called to the horse and then said to Wyrtheorn, “Pick up my brother and carry him. We must be going.”
“I don't understand.”
“Wyrtheorn, what sort of wing rides rather than flies and has shoes but not feet?”
The dwarf glared at her. It was Morlock who answered, ascending (or descending) finally to full wakefulness.
“A cavalry wing,” said the Crooked Man, “and almost upon us.” He sat up. “Wyrtheorn, where are my clothes?”
Thousands of heartbeats later Wyrtheorn still had not gotten over it. “Wyrtheorn,” he intoned to himself, “where are my slippers, where are my buttered biscuits, where my evening tea?”
Morlock, who was wearing the dirty, rusty, torn, bloody black rags that Wyrth had been prepared to discard, did not respond.
“Wyrtheorn,” Wyrtheorn intoned, “bring me my rags.”
“Shut up, Wyrth,” Ambrosia said irritably. “They'll track us down by your whining alone.”
“They won't track us at all,” Wyrth rejoined. “They'll quarter the area and search. They're cavalry, not hunters. They'll
“They are my people, Wyrtheorn. No one knows them better than I do. And I tell you they will pull the palace Ambrose down around the Protector's ears if he harms the King. I am one thing—I'm not Vraidish, and moreover am supposed to look out for myself. The King is different. He is truly honored in the city.”
“Then why do you fear for him?”
Ambrosia was silent.
“You see, my lady, everything you say simply underlines the desperation of the Protector's position. And desperate men prefer savage measures: it gives release to their emotions. And, Lady Ambrosia, I spent all yesterday at the Great Market, scrounging for gossip. There was more sympathy for yourself than you have supposed, and less feeling for the King than you imagine. People are weary of weak and troubled reigns. They say the Ambrosian line has run its course; they are looking for a leader. They'll never love Urdhven, but if he proves himself the strongest they'll follow him sure.”
Ambrosia became restless with this analysis. “Then best I be back at the city as soon as can be. Tell my brother—”
“No, my lady, wait. Morlock can counsel you better than I. I always see the debt side of a ledger.”
“And Morlock is an optimist?”
“Morlock sees a way,” the dwarf replies. “Always. Please wait till he awakes.”
“I can't wait, Wyrth. If—”
The unconscious form lifted its hand. It drew a long, shuddering breath. “Wait!” it rasped, in a voice unlike Morlock's.
“I hate this,” the dwarf complained. “When he speaks in a vision he hardly sounds like himself. I could almost believe another spirit has possession of him.”
“Don't be superstitious, Wyrth. Morlock, I can't wait. Speak to me what you see.”
Voice rasping, eyes closed, Morlock said, “The death in the Protector's Shadow sleeps and, sleeping, dreams.
“The death the Protector fears wears our faces like masks.
“The death to ease the Protector's pain wears our name, like gravestones.
“The wing rides over the plain.”
“Shake him out of it,” the dwarf said impatiently. “What does that mean, ‘the wing rides over the plain'?”
“The wing enters the hills—”
“Canyon keep the wing. Wake up, Morlock!”
“He is waking,” Ambrosia said. “Be quiet, Wyrth, you can't hurry him. ‘The flight must take its course,' as seers say.”
“No,” said Morlock, in a voice almost his own. “Wrong.”
“What's wrong?” Ambrosia asked.
“Wing. Not flight. Shoes.”
“A wing with feet? ” Wyrth demanded.
Morlock looked puzzled, like a sleeper with a perplexing dream. “No feet. Shoes.”
“Oh, that's plain. A wing with shoes, but no feet.”
“Not plain,” Morlock insisted. “Hills.”
Ambrosia looked speculatively at her brother, then said to Wyrth, “I'll be back in a moment.” She climbed a nearby hill and looked westward. After a moment she turned and came down again. She called to the horse and then said to Wyrtheorn, “Pick up my brother and carry him. We must be going.”
“I don't understand.”
“Wyrtheorn, what sort of wing rides rather than flies and has shoes but not feet?”
The dwarf glared at her. It was Morlock who answered, ascending (or descending) finally to full wakefulness.
“A cavalry wing,” said the Crooked Man, “and almost upon us.” He sat up. “Wyrtheorn, where are my clothes?”
Thousands of heartbeats later Wyrtheorn still had not gotten over it. “Wyrtheorn,” he intoned to himself, “where are my slippers, where are my buttered biscuits, where my evening tea?”
Morlock, who was wearing the dirty, rusty, torn, bloody black rags that Wyrth had been prepared to discard, did not respond.
“Wyrtheorn,” Wyrtheorn intoned, “bring me my rags.”
“Shut up, Wyrth,” Ambrosia said irritably. “They'll track us down by your whining alone.”
“They won't track us at all,” Wyrth rejoined. “They'll quarter the area and search. They're cavalry, not hunters. They'll
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