Song of Time

7

Sketches in his good hand, his other one painful and bandaged, Javin stumbled up the dunes to the site where Cheyne and Muni had worked the night before, hoping against his suspicions to find Cheyne at work already, hoping the young man had just gone off up here alone for awhile to sort his troubles out. But when Javin mounted the last rise he saw he was alone. He sat down on the corner of the weathered marble slab, where Cheyne's familiar charcoal-smudged handprint marked the pale stone suface. Javin placed his own hand over it, wondering when time had made them equal. He sat quietly, listening to the sigh of the hot wind and the sounds of the brass sheep bells as the Sumifan shepherds brought their flocks toward the riverbanks to graze. The bells each had a particular voice; in the stunning quiet of the windblown ruins, Javin had picked out three he knew in only a moment or two.

It must have been like this during the Collector's time. When the Circle and peace had their finest hour. When it almost stopped the war, he thought, looking over toward the new city, the river road clearly visible from this height.

And clearly empty. Muni's crew should have been making their way in from town. The Fascini would be on their way, then. Javin shook his head in frustration. If Cheyne had gone back into Sumifa, he could only wait for him.

Javin took out the sheaves of paper and idly shuffled through the drawings again, for the fifth or sixth time, searching for any clue that might lead to the Collector. But Cheyne had not put much detail into these quick drawings. He'd rendered the basic lines and measurements of the room under the slab. There was one sheet with few quick sketches of pottery shards that Javin had not noticed before. Probably from last night's work, he thought, scanning the dunes in the direction of the city again-no sign of the Fascini yet.

/ might as well go down and see what he found. It will be the last chance I have.

He sighed, securing the plaited ropes to a large rock and lowering himself into the crypt. In another moment, he was out of the harness and over by the shards, matching them to the drawings.

Some Sarrazan work-older than I've ever seen, by the look of the clay. He noted the jar's grainy surface and its peculiar yellow color. After the cataclysm in the forest, the elves' clay was dark, almost red, and much smoother.

"This is before…" he muttered. The broken lugs of the jar looked very familiar, though. He ran his fingers over them, tracing the wavy lines and the intricate circles. Glyphs like the ones on the jars he had at home. Glyphs like the ones on the totem Cheyne had been polishing.

Ah, no, Cheyne! I should have known. I should have known. But I couldn't tell you any more. And now you have set forth toward the most dangerous part ofallAlmaaz with the crudest assassin in Sumifa after you, he raged silently, quickly gathering the shards, wrapping them and placing them in his bag.

His mind racing, Javin began to climb back into the harness. There was no time to lose. As he raised himself up the rope, he paused, gathering strength-the

descent into the crypt had been much easier on his hand and aching arm. As he hung there resting, panting, he twirled slowly back and forth, the new angle on the room intriguing him. From here, he could see light from behind a small crack about halfway up the wall.

He swung himself closer to the wall and caught hold of another crack to steady himself. With his bad hand, wincing, he removed his hand sweep from his belt and brushed away the dust and sand from the rift in the marble. There appeared to be something blocking light from the other side.

Something remotely the shape of a human hand, a couple of gold rings visible upon its fingers.

Excited, his heart pounding, Javin followed the line of the light and made out some kind of fabric, its purple dye still strong and dark. The juma records stated the Collector had been buried in his "robes of purpure royal." Javin could only hang there and stare.

By the Circle's sacred oath!

He pried as much of the wall away as he could, the marble coming out in small chunks, breaking along the main fracture line. After another moment or two, Javin had cleared an opening of about three inches at its widest point. He could see the body clearly. A stray shaft of sunlight overhung the desiccated mummy, illuminating the sunken face, the fragile, darkened skin. Thousands of years of the dry desert climate had protected the corpse so perfectly that Javin could see the man's final expression. Samor had died smiling, his face peaceful and serene, and the obvious haste of his interment had not changed it. Javin ached to get at his find, to discover the secrets of the body behind that wall.

"I have found you. Samor, I have found you! He slapped the wall mightily with his good hand, frustration and joy breaking his heart. Laughing, Javin hung swaying like a pendulum upon the plaited ropes, tears streaming down his face.

But there was nothing for it. Even if the Holy Book of the Confessors was on the other side of that wall, Cheyne was still in grave danger. Javin wiped his face upon his sleeve, drew himself up and out of the crypt, into the light and heat of the day.

"I come back for you, Samor. I will not leave you here, unmarked and unknown.

With a salute, and the Circle's prayer of benediction upon his lips, favin walked slowly to the mess tent, his head aching from the last of the fever, his heart from being torn in two.

He stuffed as much food as he could find and a skin of water into his pack, and was heading out of the tent as the first Fascini counsel chair turned onto the site.

"Your horse is missing and so is Kifran," said Muni, suddenly standing squarely in front of him.

"By the Seven, Muni, you can put a fright in a man!" said Javin. "My horse? Ah, I see. Kifran, you say. Muni, you will never see him again, but try to recover my horse, if you will. He will probably show up in some Fascini stable soon. But I must go now, horse or no. To the Borderlands."

"How can you think you can make such a journey with the poison not yet done with you? I beg you, let the surgeon take the finger, Javin. This is far from over," said Muni.

"I'm all right. The pain comes and goes; I'm moving fine again. The doctor has done all he can. I have no time to recover from an amputation. I need my hand now. I have to go after Cheyne."

"So he has found a direction for his quest. I am not surprised." Muni regarded Javin for a long time. "You are leaving the site to them?" He pointed to the purple-fringed sedans rounding the last curve before the broken face of Caelus Nin.

"I am leaving the site to you, my friend. I have no choice. He is my son." Javin dropped his head, took a deep breath, and then met his old friend's eyes.

"Muni, I found him. I found the Collector. He's in the wall, in the room under the slab. Don't let them close us down."

Muni smiled implacably and raised his hand in farewell. "We will be here when you both return."

"I need a horse. Has the doctor left?" said Javin.

"Yes, but you can still catch him." Muni smiled.

Javin ducked out the back of the tent and ran for the river, putting the ruins between him and the sedans, hoping he hadn't been seen.

"I hope I have not let you go to your death, my friend," Muni breathed to himself.

In a few minutes and a thousand apologies to the puzzled physician, Javin was on the back of the doctor's old horse, trotting toward Sumifa. When he cleared the Lion gate, he let the horse have its head. He pulled his kaffiyeh close, held his throbbing hand inside his robes, and hoped the doctor didn't live too close to the Citadel.

He had nothing to worry about. In what looked like the worst part the Barca, on perhaps the worst street, the ancient horse stopped and refused to move another inch. Javin climbed down, searching the storefronts and hovels for anything that looked like a surgery. He had no time for this, but he had promised the doctor he would return the animal and get a better one in Sumifa. In the third doorway on the street, a young woman stood waiting outside, one arm cradled in the other, her face ashen with pain, favin brought the horse around up to the house. A blue crescent was painted crudely upon its door.

"Mujida, I am returning the doctor's horse. Is no one else at home?"

"He lives alone. I am waiting for him myself. My arm is broken. He set it last night, but it is aflame today. I need something for the pain. They have told me he was called out to the diggers. That is all that I know," she said wanly.

"How did this happen, Mujida? Is there no one else to help you?" said Javin, wondering why she didn't just take the pain-dulling shirrir, like everyone else in the Barca.

The girl smiled ruefully. "How can I request treatment at the hand of the Schreefa when she is the one who sent the one who broke it? The doctor will return soon. He will have something that will leave me able to look for work." She sounded a little stronger, her words full of anger.

"It is the fault of the diggers, I tell you. My man's work is uncertain, and now my work is gone, since the shop is burned. That young digger, the fair one, he has gone with my employer and a drunkard who pretends to guide them across the western erg on a treasure hunt. And all I have left is this." She held out a small bronze-bound book.

Javin could not believe his eyes. "Mujida," he said, his voice shaking, "where did you find such a book?"

"It dropped from the digger's pack in the fight. They were gone before I could give it back to him. But it is useless-the words are unreadable. The doctor likes antiquities, and it is clearly very old. I will use it to pay him. Should he ever return," she said miserably, eyeing the doctor's horse.

"Please-I would buy it from you, and you may give the doctor money for his efforts. There will be enough left over until you can find more work."

A moment later, for the price of two hundred kohli, Javin had the Collector's priceless Holy Book of the Confessors in his possession. "I have one more favor, please, Mujida," he said. "If you would tell me how the digger and his party travel?"

Vashki pointed west with her chin. "They are fools. They pass the caravan route. You will never see them again, and neither will I. But a thousand blessings upon you, Muje, for your generosity."

"It is I who have been blessed, Mujida." Javin bowed and left her with the horse for company, telling himself that the doctor would be there very soon.

He moved around the corner, sat down, and carefully opened the Book. A bright ray of light struck the pages and made the old words glow before his eyes, their hazy letters pale and red from age. But it was the Book. He closed his eyes and began the prayer that had once drawn the Circle together and made the Collector able to read the peculiar, veiled script. But there was no one to draw now, and no answering presence in his thoughts to await the words of the Book's spirit. He opened his eyes and read the first words that he saw: "Fear not." Javin breathed in the words with hunger, and they filled his heart to overflowing with joy of a sort he had never experienced. He sought to read on, but the script had reverted to its unreadable form. Javin closed the precious volume and placed it reverently inside his pack, buckling the straps with extra care. Time to find a horse.

From the shadows of the dark alleyway, through a crack in the old wall, a pair of pale eyes followed him to the livery.

The smell of night-blooming jasmine mingled with smoke from the fire, making it into a sort of incense, and wafted out over the desert on a vagrant breeze. The three sisters had all but disappeared in the pale dawn sky. Tired from their all-night walk, Cheyne trudged clumsily across a high dune, bringing a shower of sand down on Og, who had removed his new boots and walked in his old rope sandals. Miraculously, he had not passed out and died, as he had continually promised to do ever since the little party had left the city and its bountiful, untapped supply of raqa behind them many hours ago. But he was leaving a small trail of blood, dark drops in the dry sand, despite the bandages Claria had applied.

Cheyne shifted his pack, now considerably heavier for the food and other supplies they had scrounged before leaving Sumifa. To Cheyne's great chagrin, since there were now three of them to feed, there had not been money enough for even the worst of droms. They would have to go on foot.

"How far to that oasis, Og? It'll be full day very soon. We need to find more water for tomorrow," said Cheyne.

"And a place to rest," said Claria. "We cannot let the face of the sun find us in the desert."

"It should be over those rocks there, the best I remember," obliged Og.

"The best you remember…" Cheyne broke his stride for a moment, letting the little man catch up. Cheyne scanned the horizon. There were no rocks in sight. "Og, do you know where it is or not?"

"Of course I do. Keep walking. It's getting hot."

Cheyne was about to protest when Claria waved her hand excitedly and pointed to their left. "Look! I see the rocks. Come on." Sure enough, a low outcropping of sandstone glinted brightly in the first rays of the morning sun.

Finding new energy, they ran toward the bluff, leaving Og shambling behind, his feet ragged and bleeding from the long walk, the new boots, and a severe lack of raqa, he was sure.

The oasis had been recently used. Or abused, Cheyne thought. While there was plenty of fresh water, the previous travelers had left bits and pieces of their refuse scattered over the green carpet of cress at the edge of the spring, and the remains of a campfire scarred the center of the little clearing in the heart of a grove of date palms.

Claria gently placed her bundle in the mouth of a small shallow cave near the spring, took off her boots, tied up her long skirt, then walked into the cool clear water. She sank into the delicious spring, soft water-grass under her tired, sore feet, her skin drinking in the moisture, relieving the chaff and dryness of the desert air. Cheyne already had one boot off when Og finally managed to join them.

"Not yet. You wait while I go. One of us should stand watch," Og said, heading for the pool, where Claria had found a place deep enough to cover her shoulders. She lay back, her long curls fanning out over the water. Bright red-and-green parrots chattered in the trees overhead.

"Why?" said Cheyne, annoyed. There was no one in sight, no tracks, the birds haggled undisturbed over the abundant ripe dates.

Og pointed to something half-buried in the sand by the old fire. Cheyne put his boot back on, walked over to it, and took out his sweep to brush the sand away. Before the broom ever touched the object, he froze, his hand suspended in midair over a long-toothed, lowbrowed, hollow-eyed yellow skull.

"Ore," said Og. "Probably a rival tribe. The Wyrvils eat them. Or if they really respect them, or really hate them, or if they gave good sport in battle, they keep the heads. They build their temples with bones. This fellow must have been old or easy to kill. Skull was too soft to use in construction, so they left it. See that ridge just north of the rocks? The desert turns into scrub and the clouds coming off the inland sea drop their last rain there. That is the beginning of Wyrvil territory."

Cheyne drew his hand back slowly, an odd tingling making its way up his arm. He found a bit of broken bamboo and rolled the skull away into the bushes, then took the little man by the sleeve and led him back to the pool. Claria still lounged in the water, a couple of the parrots' feathers now tucked into her hair.

"How does a raqa-loving vagrant know about the weather and battle customs in Wyrvil territory, Ogwater?" asked Cheyne.

Og sat down on the grassy bank and put his miserable feet into the pool, sandals and all. "Ahhh…" He laid back and closed his eyes blissfully.

"Og." Cheyne persisted.

"Oh, all right," said the little man, his nose pointing skyward like a beacon. "I… was a songmage. A long time ago. Years and years. I was the best. Worked in the Citadel for the royal family. They treated me like one of their own." He cupped a handful of water from the pool and let it drain out onto the bank. "I could make it rain in the desert." He chuckled ruefully. "I could make it snow in the desert. Then I lost my ring, you know. The ring's stones helped me true the tones, find the right rhythms-make the magic work. Without it, the Fascini king had no use for me anymore. And, like one of his family, he banished me from the court.

"So I took whatever work 1 could gel, and one day, I hired out to entertain a caravan of Mercantos before they were forbidden to cross here. We were hit by the Wyrvil on the way back from the mountains-and when I had nothing to give them, they took me prisoner. What could I do but sing, or lose my head? 1 sang. 1 was terrible; one of them, Yob, was impressed. Somehow, I had chosen his favorite drinking song as my debut and he thought it was a sign from the gods.

"They let me live. I stayed with his roving band for better than a year. When they finally ranged over to this oasis, I put them to sleep one night-for a couple of days-and escaped. Yob woke up and came after me, but the city guards drove him back. So he retreated, waited awhile, and then decided that I wasn't worth feeding all of the time anyway, and since he knew where I was, he could always arrange for his boys to sneak into the city at night and find me, drag me out here, or over to his regular camp, and make me sing for them whenever he wanted. Mostly weddings and funerals; same songs, you see." Og's voice trailed off into a quiet sob.

Claria had floated toward them and was listening intently.

"How did you lose your ring, Og?" she said softly.

Og sat up and brushed the tears out of his ears. "I gave it away. To Riolla."

Prince Maceo nearly choked as he tried to swallow a long draught of the fifth of his twelve regular medications.

Since that trouble with the juma some years back, his eyes had slowly begun to fail him. But he was certain there was a cure. For enough money, Maceo was also certain he could have it.

"When? I don't know when. I have only just proposed, Riolla. Is that not enough? Are we not engaged? I know you have no naming ring yet, but it is being specially prepared for you. You know there is the waiting period for your purification. Though I can barely wait to take you to wife, my darling, no Mercantan comes to the rank without undergoing a time of fasting, a time of self-denial, a time of change. A time, well, of accounting. And I want to be invested beforehand. My father's year of mourning has only just begun. I am king, yes, but officially, I cannot make policy until his year is passed. It is an evil beginning to take a throne before your predecessor is properly mourned."

"I do not have time for mourning, my dear," Riolla cooed, draping her veil over her face. "Grave things are afoot."

Maceo looked up from his medicines, finding something about her tone of voice disconcerting. Riolla smiled, meeting his glance with a look of total innocence.

"I have a short trip to take, Maceo. It's business. I want us to be married immediately after I return."

Maceo held his head back and dropped silvery fluid into both eyes, trying to relieve the pain. Nothing had worked for months now. He was all but broke from trying to pay the physicians, and the thought of that lustrous black pearl leaving his presence was almost more than he could stand.

No matter, he would soon be king. What did that mean? If Riolla left him for another, if he did not take this opportunity, all he could see was an image of himself penniless and blind in the Barca, and worst of all, the object of ridicule and disrespect. They would demand a new king, one with the necessary funds, someone who could bring back the grain. The Fascini would pass him in their chairs as he stumbled around the streets. They would mock his clothes and toss him coins. Even Claria wouldn't marry him then.

He became just the tiniest bit depressed when he thought of Claria. She had been so wonderful to him, so genuine. What a pity she had absolutely no chance of ever rising through the circles to become anyone he could actually take to wife. She seemed to really love him, had been so upset when he had to break it off. If only she'd had a name! Didn't understand at all about Riolla, and, well, the necessity of making the right marriage, even if it wasn't the best one. Pity about the ring, too. He should have asked for it before he told her; Claria's fingers always swelled when she was upset. But he'd get it back when he was king. Maybe get her back, too.

Maceo brightened at that thought and put another couple of drops into each eye. Someday he'd make her see… it had been so awful telling her, and now all this. He sniffed, wrestling his thoughts back to Riolla.

"Well… I suppose I could find a way to shorten the mourning and the waiting period, since, of course, I am king now, and your purity is renowned, my pearl." He dabbed at his eyes, thinking quickly. "Why don't I stay here and get things in order… and when you return, we will be married."

"What a brilliant idea, my dear. I can hardly wait. You will be true to me, won't you? I shall count the hours while we are apart." Riolla ran her hand along the edge of a gilded dagger, one of twelve that decorated her bedroom wall, arranged equally apart in a circle around the two faces of Nin, their edges forming rays like a noonday sun.

Maceo nodded vigorously, still unable to see.

"You gave your magical ring to Riolla, that-that power-grubbing, backstabbing she devil? Riolla the Schreefa, who killed my uncle for being three days late with his protection dues?" Claria slapped the water, showering Cheyne and sending a wave up into Og's lap. "Riolla, may she find her future blessed with too many of everything, who sent her assassins to burn my shop?" Cheyne smiled ruefully, thinking of his own encounters with the Schreefa and her thugs. "Are you out of your mind?" Claria's golden eyes flashed fire under her wet lashes.

Og stood up from his growing pile of date pits. "Yes. I am," he snorked. "Always have been, 1 guess, where Riolla was concerned." He found an aloe, broke off a leaf, rubbed its slick juice onto his blisters, and replaced his sandals.

Claria charged out of the water, wringing her skirts and shaking her dark mane of hair. She found a sunny rock halfway up the cliffside and sat down to rub fragrant oil into her skin as her clothes began to steam in the heat.

Cheyne watched her, appreciating how the light broke on the planes of her face, how the brilliant parrot feathers set off the color of her hair. How the air filled with that wondrous scent of bergamot and myrrh, and how she dabbed at her eyes again and again, turning her head away from them to do it. Then he looked at Og, completely puzzled. "I think you better tell her why, Og," he said quietly.

Og nodded. "Fair enough."

Claria whirled on him, waiting to hear his explanation, crouched and ready to spring her anger on him again when it wouldn't be good enough.

"Well… I told you I was a songmage. Well, Riolla once served in the Citadel-" He paused at Claria's sharp breath.

"Yes, Riolla was bom a slave; she was not always the richest person in the Mercanto. Anyway, she grew up as a bought companion to a Fascini child, one of the king's daughters, actually, and the child thought so highly of her that she would pout and trouble her family if Riolla were left out of anything she did or wanted. So, when 1 was hired to tutor the princess in music and dance and acrobatics, Riolla was allowed to join in. When it became obvious to the old king that Riolla had the superior talents in these arts, he stopped the lessons.

"Some years passed. One day, when she had come of age, and the princess had become enraged that Riolla had taken her young man from under her very nose, Riolla ran away and found my house, invited herself in, and begged me to teach her more magic. I confess that I fell in love with her then and there. She was beautiful and young-all that dark red hair, those blue eyes. And she could sing. She seemed to be so interested in the songs, in how to find and channel the power, how to work the silences.

"I taught her everything I knew, and then drove myself to learn more so that I could teach her. Every day, I loved her more, risking even death if the king found out she was there. I wanted to marry her, to give her my name. It is an old and respected one, you know, whether I look like it or not.

"One morning, when I believed I had found the right words, the words that would make her love me back, I gave her the ring. It is custom to pledge a ring when you are about to give a name," he explained to Cheyne as Claria unconsciously twisted at the one on her own finger. "It was my most valuable possession, and I wanted her to know that her love was even more valuable to me, and that I would share everything I had with her. She took the ring, pretending to be honored, saying yes, she would marry me, that we would make magic together for all time. I was the happiest man under the sun. I went to fetch Bandro, who was the Mercanto Schreef at that time, to marry us."

"Well-what happened?" said Claria, frowning, refusing to be caught up in Og's romantic story.

Og looked up at her, his face bleak and pale behind his reddened nose. "When I returned, she was gone.

Everything she owned-and most of what I owned- had been packed and moved."

"So that's how Riolla got to be Schreefa!" Claria said, daggers in her words. "I knew she had to have had some kind of magic behind her. Maceo wouldn't fall in love with her otherwise."

"Oh, Maceo, yes. Well, she did use the magic, at first. She could spark a bit of a spell off the ring, but she never had the perfect pitch it required to really control the power in the four stones. Burned her house down once, changed some poor steward into a big white cockroach for bringing her the wrong drink. But in the end, she split up the ring-stones and scattered them. The first I heard about it on the street was that she had bought her freedom with one of the stones, then stole the gem back not three hours later. She gave the others out for political favor and privilege. Paid off the controllers of the caravan route."

Cheyne interrupted him. "This caravan route? Why would she need to do that?"

"Oh, well, the situation with the route is that the heads of the smaller factions of Almaaz let only Riolla's caravans go through unharmed for the price of the gems-otherwise, they would raid the caravans, and Riolla would end up with nothing soon-like the many other caravan owners she has driven out of business.

"See, this is, was, I mean, the shortest route to bring ch'mina into Sumifa. You can't grow it there, it's a mountain crop, and the main ingredient of bap-pir. Since the river dries up for six months every year, Sumifa lives off of it, actually. The longer route takes so much more time that the stuff spoils before it gets to the city. Riolla had cornered the market on it. She brought in tons and tons, converted it to a sort of meal that keeps indefinitely, and stockpiled it in those big round buildings between the Mercanto and the Citadel. Only her caravans were getting through, and so, Claria, that's how she got so rich.

"So now she doesn't actually direct all of the stones' magic. Only I could do that, it turns out," he finished, still forlorn at the memory of better times. Cheyne looked away, and even Claria had momentarily faltered in her anger at Og.

"The stone on her necklace-is that part of the ring?" asked Cheyne.

"Yes. The black pearl of Nadrum. The one she used to buy her freedom. Its magic is easier to use than any other stone in the ring-not as exact a tone is called for. By itself, depending on a lot of things, but mainly the user, it can do anything from cure to kill. Very unstable, the pearl. But when it's used with the other stones, it provides bass and adds volume, amplifies the power I guess you could say, for my songspells. Even if all the other stones were put back together, Riolla could stand off their magic by sheer force of the pearl's dark, confusing noise. But it's very draining. You have bad dreams and pains for days after using it alone. Dreams of swamps and murky, foul places. Very unpleasant," said Og, wrinkling his nose.

Cheyne sat pondering Og's story for a white. One thing he knew: Riolla's caravan route had been closed for many years now. No matter how much ch'mina she had brought to the city, treated, and stored, she had to be getting to the end of it by now.

Still deep in thought, Cheyne removed his boots and tunic and entered the cooling spring. Despite herself, Claria could not help noticing how the water and sunlight played over his well-muscled body.

"Og?" Cheyne said, his eyes distant.

"Yes."

"Og, who else has the stones?"

Smiling, the little man considered for a moment. "The last I knew…" His face rounded into an endearing smile.

"What?" said Cheyne hotly, beginning to suspect the reason for Og's choice of routes. He pushed wet blond hair out of his eyes and swatted hard at a tenacious horsefly.

"Well, the selkies have one that Drufalden once owned, and the elves-yes, the elves-have the fire-bane, but they got it through one of their own, who turned out to be a traitor. Riolia had made some kind of deal with him for monopolizing the ch'mina, and he used the stone to kill the fields that were promised to other traders and such. Shalikre, I believe, was his name, dead now, anyway, but the elves use the fire-bane only to heal.

"And… the Wyrvil overking has one, the ajada." Og grinned sheepishly. "We could go there and you could see it for yourself. The overking, Rotapan-his name means 'One-lip' in orcish, but never, never, call him that-has had it made into a staff. Never leaves his temple; quite a place, really, everyone should go there at least once. He can do one or two things with the ajada, nothing really of much import, though. Nothing that would hurt us. Oh, and seems I've heard that it even protects him from snake venom."

Claria combed at her hair with her fingers, drying it quickly in the brilliant sun. "Would it turn the poison on an orcish spear?" she asked flatly, her face rigid and white with fear.

"I don't know," replied Og.

"Why do you ask, Claria?" said Cheyne, angrily ducking under the water again to avoid the horsefly.

The answer missed his head and twanged into the striated trunk of a date palm on the other side of the pool, sending the parrots into frenzied flight and their cluster of dates raining down upon Og's unprotected head.

"Oh. Well, you could have just said," Cheyne sputtered, surfacing.