Simon breathed in and out several times before Josua at last tucked the thing into the breast of his shirt and followed his brother out of the chapel.
A lengthy interval had passed before Simon felt safe to creep down from his spying-place and make his way to the chapel’s main door. He felt as though he had witnessed a strange puppet show, a Usires Play enacted for him alone. The world suddenly seemed less stable, less trustworthy, if the princes of Erkynland, heirs to all of Osten Ard, could shout and brawl like drunken soldiers.
Peering into the hall, Simon was startled by a sudden movement: a figure in a brown jerkin hurrying away up the corridor—a small figure, a youth of perhaps Simon’s age or less. The stranger flicked a glance backward—a brief glimpse of startled eyes—and then was gone around the corner. Simon did not recognize him. Could this person have been spying on the princes, too? Simon shook his head, feeling as confused and stupid as a sun-struck ox. He pulled his hat off the nest, bringing daylight and chirping life back to the birds. Again he shook his head. It had been an unsettling morning.
4
Cricket Cage
Morgenes was rattling about his workshop, deeply engaged in a search for a missing book. He waved Simon permission to find a cage for the young birds, then went back to his hunt, toppling piles of manuscripts and folios like a blind giant in a city of fragile towers.
Finding a home for the nestlings was more difficult than Simon had expected: there were plenty of cages, but none seemed quite right. Some had bars so widely spaced that they seemed built for pigs or bears; others were already crammed full of strange objects, none of which resembled animals in the least. Finally he found one that seemed suitable beneath a roll of shiny cloth. It was knee-high and bell-shaped, made of tightly twisted river reeds, empty but for a layer of sand on the bottom; there was a small door on the side held closed by a twist of rope. Simon worried the knot loose and opened it.
“ Stop! Stop that this instant!”
“What?!” Simon leaped back. The doctor hopped past him and pushed the cage door shut with his foot.
“Sorry to alarm you, boy,” Morgenes panted, “but I should have thought before sending you off to dig and muck about. This is no good for your purposes, I’m afraid.”
“But why not?” Simon leaned forward, squinting, but could see nothing extraordinary.
“Well, my grub, stand here for a bit and don’t touch, and I’ll show you. Silly of me not to have remembered.” Morgenes cast about for a moment until he found a long-ignored basket of dried fruit. He blew the dust off a fig as he walked to the cage.
“Now observe carefully.” He opened the door and tossed in the fruit; it landed in the sand on the cage bottom.
“Yes?” asked Simon, puzzled.
“Wait,” whispered the doctor. No sooner had the word passed his lips than something began to happen. At first it seemed that the air in the cage was shimmering; it quickly became apparent that the sand itself was shifting, eddying delicately around the fig. Suddenly—so suddenly that Simon jumped backward with a surprised grunt—a great toothy mouth opened in the sand, gulping the fruit as swiftly as a carp might break the surface of a pond to take a mosquito. There was a brief ripple along the sand, and then the cage was still again, as innocent-seeming as before.
“What’s under there?” Simon gasped. Morgenes laughed.
“That’s it!” He seemed very pleased. “That’s the beastie itself! There is no sand: it’s just a masquerade, so to speak. The whole thing at the bottom of the cage is one clever animal. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Simon, without much conviction. “Where does it come from?”
“Nascadu, out in the desert countries. You can see why I didn’t want you poking about in there—I don’t think your feathered orphans would have had a very happy time of it,
A lengthy interval had passed before Simon felt safe to creep down from his spying-place and make his way to the chapel’s main door. He felt as though he had witnessed a strange puppet show, a Usires Play enacted for him alone. The world suddenly seemed less stable, less trustworthy, if the princes of Erkynland, heirs to all of Osten Ard, could shout and brawl like drunken soldiers.
Peering into the hall, Simon was startled by a sudden movement: a figure in a brown jerkin hurrying away up the corridor—a small figure, a youth of perhaps Simon’s age or less. The stranger flicked a glance backward—a brief glimpse of startled eyes—and then was gone around the corner. Simon did not recognize him. Could this person have been spying on the princes, too? Simon shook his head, feeling as confused and stupid as a sun-struck ox. He pulled his hat off the nest, bringing daylight and chirping life back to the birds. Again he shook his head. It had been an unsettling morning.
4
Cricket Cage
Morgenes was rattling about his workshop, deeply engaged in a search for a missing book. He waved Simon permission to find a cage for the young birds, then went back to his hunt, toppling piles of manuscripts and folios like a blind giant in a city of fragile towers.
Finding a home for the nestlings was more difficult than Simon had expected: there were plenty of cages, but none seemed quite right. Some had bars so widely spaced that they seemed built for pigs or bears; others were already crammed full of strange objects, none of which resembled animals in the least. Finally he found one that seemed suitable beneath a roll of shiny cloth. It was knee-high and bell-shaped, made of tightly twisted river reeds, empty but for a layer of sand on the bottom; there was a small door on the side held closed by a twist of rope. Simon worried the knot loose and opened it.
“ Stop! Stop that this instant!”
“What?!” Simon leaped back. The doctor hopped past him and pushed the cage door shut with his foot.
“Sorry to alarm you, boy,” Morgenes panted, “but I should have thought before sending you off to dig and muck about. This is no good for your purposes, I’m afraid.”
“But why not?” Simon leaned forward, squinting, but could see nothing extraordinary.
“Well, my grub, stand here for a bit and don’t touch, and I’ll show you. Silly of me not to have remembered.” Morgenes cast about for a moment until he found a long-ignored basket of dried fruit. He blew the dust off a fig as he walked to the cage.
“Now observe carefully.” He opened the door and tossed in the fruit; it landed in the sand on the cage bottom.
“Yes?” asked Simon, puzzled.
“Wait,” whispered the doctor. No sooner had the word passed his lips than something began to happen. At first it seemed that the air in the cage was shimmering; it quickly became apparent that the sand itself was shifting, eddying delicately around the fig. Suddenly—so suddenly that Simon jumped backward with a surprised grunt—a great toothy mouth opened in the sand, gulping the fruit as swiftly as a carp might break the surface of a pond to take a mosquito. There was a brief ripple along the sand, and then the cage was still again, as innocent-seeming as before.
“What’s under there?” Simon gasped. Morgenes laughed.
“That’s it!” He seemed very pleased. “That’s the beastie itself! There is no sand: it’s just a masquerade, so to speak. The whole thing at the bottom of the cage is one clever animal. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Simon, without much conviction. “Where does it come from?”
“Nascadu, out in the desert countries. You can see why I didn’t want you poking about in there—I don’t think your feathered orphans would have had a very happy time of it,
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