Wyrms

"You're right, of course," said Patience. "May I kiss you for luck?"

Lyra distractedly held out her hand. Patience knelt before her and reverently kissed Lyra's fingertips. She had learned years ago what a soothing effect such obeisance had on Oruc's daughters. As Angel always said, Your own humility is the best flattery.

The far door to the garden opened. A white hawk flew out the door into the open air. It immediately flew straight up and began to circle. A white songbird, already perched on a low branch, began to sing sweetly. Lyra cried out softly, hiding her mouth behind her hand, for it was obvious the hawk had seen. It plummeted downward directly toward the songbird-

And was caught by the swift motion of a net. It struggled, but the young falconer who had caught the hawk reached deftly past the jabbing beak and brought the bird upside-down out of the net. The falconer was dressed all in white, a perfect, dazzling white that hurt the eyes when the sun was reflected in it. He whistled; the door opened behind him and two servants came out, bearing cages. In only a few seconds, the falconer had put the two birds into the cages.

Through it all, the songbird had not missed a note.

Obviously, thought Patience, this scene has been rehearsed so often the songbird has lost its fear of the hawk.

Then she looked more closely and realized that, quite to the contrary, the songbird remained perfectly placid because it was blind. The eyes had been put out.

The servants stepped back toward the door as the falconer sank to his knees in front of Lyra and began to speak in Tassilik.

"Me kia psole o ekeiptu," he whispered.

"So will I protect you always from the despoiler," said Patience. Her inflection was, as far as possible, a perfect mirror of Prekeptor's.

"It was beautiful," said Lyra. "The song, and you to save the bird."

"Iptura oeenue," said Patience, mimicking Lyra's breathless delight. "Oeris, marae i kio psolekte."

"Oh, you sound just like me," whispered Lyra.

Prekeptor spoke again, and Patience translated. "I have brought a gift for the Heptarch's daughter."

He reached out his hand. A servant placed a book in it.

"A copy of the Testament of Irena, the Starship Captain's Daughter," he said.

He held the book out toward Patience. Patience was a

Lyra pretended to be thrilled when Patience gave her the book. Quietly Patience pointed out to her that the pages of the book were unfinished paperleaf, which had grown in such perfectly uniform shape and size that no trimming was needed to make a perfect book. "It took great effort in breeding the paperleaf," said Patience.

She did not point out that it was about as stupid a waste of time as she could imagine, since processed paperleaf was much better for writing and lasted longer, too.

"Oh," said Lyra. And she managed to come up with a gracious little speech of thanks.

"Don't think that I pride myself on my technique with plant husbandry," protested the Prince. "It has often been said that the plants and animals of Imakulata seem to understand what traits we are trying to develop, and they change themselves to cooperate. Even so I shall gladly be and do exactly what the Heptarch's daughter desires of me."

Patience was growing uncomfortable with the way Prekeptor looked directly at her instead of at Lyra when he spoke. The interpreter is furniture; every diplomat was taught that. Except, obviously, Tassal princes.

Prekeptor came up with another gift. It was a small glass rod, hollow and filled with flowing light. Even in broad daylight it glowed; when he shaded it under his hand, it was positively bright. Again he smiled modestly and made a little speech about his own poor skill at husbandry. "If there were any Wise left in the world, I might have done this far more quickly, by altering the genetic molecule, but as it is I turned the great shipeater weed into something quite useful." He smiled. "You can read the Testament in bed after your father has commanded you to blow out the candles."

"I never read in bed," said Lyra, puzzled.

"It was a joke," said Patience. "At least smile."

Lyra laughed. Too loudly, but she was obviously trying to please the fellow. And for obvious reasons. His white clothing showed his body to be lithe and strong; his face could have been the model for a statue of Courage or Manhood or Virtue. When he smiled, he seemed to be making love with his eyes. And Lyra didn't miss any of it.

Except that Prekeptor never took his eyes off Patience.

And. now she realized what a dangerous game the Prince was playing.

"The Heptarch's daughter will find that the prophecies of joy in the Testament will all be fulfilled in her life," said Prekeptor. Patience dutifully translated, but also realized now that the Prince was saying every word to her, the true Heptarch's daughter, with the meaning doubled.

The prophecies in the Testament no doubt included some of the mumbo-jumbo about the seventh seventh seventh daughter. He was urging Patience to accept the prophecies.

The Prince had still a third gift. It was a plastic sheath that fitted over the glass rod. Within the sheath were constantly shifting flows of bright-colored but transparent animals. With the light inside, the display was fascinating and beautiful. Prekeptor handed it to Patience.

"The Heptarch's daughter will see that it can be worn, if she chooses, like a crown, for all the world to see and admire," said the Prince. "It's like the future-you can choose any color and follow it wherever it goes. If the Heptarch's daughter chooses wisely, she'll take a path that leads to the restoration of all that was lost."

Subtly, in mid-speech, he had ceased using double meanings. Now he was clearly speaking only to Patience, and offering her a restoration to the throne.

Patience could not possibly translate Prekeptor's last sentence. Lyra would insist on an explanation. However, Patience could not leave it out of her translation, either, or change its meaning, because that would alert Oruc's listeners that she was conspiring with the Prince to conceal his treasonous offer.

So instead she stood silent.

"What did he say?" asked Lyra.

"I did not understand him," said Patience. To Prekeptor she said, "I'm sorry my understanding of Tassalik is so poor, but I ca

"I understand," he answered, smiling. His hands were trembling. "I, too, feel fear, here in the heart of Heptagon House. What you do not know is that all of our party are trained soldiers and assassins. They are prepared to penetrate to the deepest recesses of Heptagon House to destroy your enemies."

Anything Patience answered could be her death sentence.

In the first place, she herself had been trained as an assassin, and she knew that if Prekeptor's plan had any chance of working, he had just destroyed it by saying it out loud in the open garden. No doubt throughout Heptagon House all the Tassal embassy was now being placed under irresistable arrest, with the words of their own prince as their indictment. That he did not know that he would be listened to here in the garden told Patience that Prekeptor was too great a fool for her to entrust her life to him.

But there was nothing she could say to stop him and clear herself. If she said, I have no enemies here in Heptagon House, she was admitting that he was somehow correct to call her the Heptarch's daughter. She had to go on pretending that she had no idea of why he was speaking to her, and to do that she had to pretend not to understand the plainest-spoken Tassalik. It wasn't likely anyone would believe it, but it was not necessary to be believed. It was necessary merely to make it possible for Oruc to pretend to believe it. As long as they could both pretend that she didn't know she was the rightful Heptarch's daughter, she could be allowed to live.