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«The sickle,» I said.
Cheeter sprang atop a small table, landing amid herbs. Turning, he leaned forward, hooked his claws beneath the front edge of a small drawer. He jiggled it and drew upon it. It began to move forward to this prompting.
«Unlocked,» he observed. «Let's see now.»
He drew it farther open, so that, rising onto my hind legs, I could see into it. It was lined with blue velvet which bore a sickle-shaped impression at its center.
«As you can see,» he stated, «it's gone.»
«Anyplace else it might be?» I asked.
«No,» he replied. «If it isn't here, it was with him. Those are the alternatives.»
«I didn't see it anywhere out back,» Graymalk said, «on the ground, or in that, mess.»
«Then I'd say that someone took it,» Cheeter said.
«Odd,» I said then. «It was a thing of power, but not really one of the Game tools, like the wands, the icon, the pentacle, and, usually, the ring.»
«Then someone just wanted it for the power, I guess,» Cheeter said. «Mostly, I think, they wanted Owen out of the Game.»
«Probably. I'm trying to link his death to Rastov's now. It would be strange to consider the killer as one player, though, with Owen an opener and Rastov a closer.»
«Hm,» Cheeter said, jumping down. «I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Rastov and Owen had some long talks very recently. I got the impression from listening that Owen was trying to talk Rastov into switching, all his liberal sympathies and his Russian sentiments could have been pushing him in a revolutionary direction.»
«Really?» Graymalk said. «Then if someone is killing openers, Jill could be in danger. Who else might have known of their talks?»
«No one I can think of. I don't think Rastov even told Quicklime, and I didn't tell anyone, till now.»
«Where did they talk?» she asked.
«Upstairs. Kitchen or parlor.»
«Could anyone have been eavesdropping?»
«Only someone small enough and mobile enough to manage the squirrel hole upstairs, I suppose.»
I paced slowly.
«Are Morris and MacCab openers or closers?» I asked.
«I'm pretty sure they're openers,» Graymalk said.
«Yes,» Cheeter agreed. «They are.»
«What about the Good Doctor?»
«Nobody knows. The divinations keep going askew for him.»
«The secret player,» I said, «whoever it is.»
«You really think there is one?» Graymalk asked.
«It's the only reason I can think of for my calculations being regularly off.»
«How do we discover who it is?» she said.
«I don't know.»
«And I don't care, not anymore,» Cheeter said. «I just want the simple life again. The hell with all this plotting and figuring. I wasn't a volunteer. I got drafted. Get me my shadow.»
«Where is it?»
«Over there.»
He turned toward the big red design on the far wall.
I looked in that direction, but could not tell what it was that he was trying to indicate.
«Sorry,» I said. «I don't see…»
«There,» he said, «in the design, low, to the right.»
Then I saw it, something I had thought simply an effect of the lighting. A squirrel-shaped shadow overlay a part of the design. Several upright, shining pieces of metal were contained by the shadow's perimeter.
«That's it?» I said.
«Yes,» he replied. «It is held there by seven silver nails.»
«How does one go about releasing it?» I asked.
«The nails must be drawn.»
«Is there a danger to the person who would draw them?»
«I don't know. He never said.»
I reared up and extended a paw. I touched the topmost nail. It was somewhat loose, and nothing unusual happened to me. So I leaned forward, seized it with my teeth and withdrew it, dropping it then to the floor.
With my paw, I tested the remaining six. Two of them were obviously loose. These I seized, one after the other, and pulled them out with my teeth. They gleamed upon the floor, real silver, and Graymalk inspected them.
«What did you feel,» she asked, «as you drew them?»
«Nothing special,» I said. «Do you see anything about them that I don't?»
«No. I think the power is mainly in that design. If there is to be a reaction, look to the wall for it.»
I tested the remaining four. These were tighter in place than the ones I had drawn. The shadow-outline was now undulating among them.
«Have you felt anything special while I was about it, Cheeter?» I asked.
«Yes,» he replied. «I felt a small tingling at each place in my body that seemed to correspond to the place in the shadow from which the nail was removed.»
«Tell me if it changes,» I said, and I leaned forward, took hold of another nail, and worked it back and forth with my teeth.
It took about a half-minute to loosen, and then I dropped it to the floor and tried the other three in succession. Two seemed seated fairly tightly, and one about the same as that which I had just drawn. I took hold of the looser one and worried it till it, too, came free. By then, the shadow was shrinking and expanding regularly, as if it were flapping in the third dimension of thickness with parts of it becoming imperceptible to me each time this occurred.
«The tingling is not going away,» Cheeter remarked. «I'm begi
«Any pain involved?»
«No.»
I poked with my paw at the two remaining nails. Tight. Perhaps it would be better to fetch Larry and a pair of pliers than to risk breaking my teeth on them. Still, it wouldn't hurt to try a bit first. I worried one for the better part of a minute, and it did seem to loosen slightly near the end. I stopped to rest my jaws then, promising myself I would have a go at both nails before I considered quitting.
I gave the second one, which was located about ten inches to the left of the first, well over a minute of the same treatment, and I found it hard to tell when I'd let up whether I'd affected it much.
I did not like the taste of the plaster and the pigment used in the design. I was not sure what lay beneath the plaster, holding the nails in place. Not enough of that covering had chipped away for me to distinguish the surface it covered, only enough for grit with a damp basement taste to come into my mouth.
I stepped back. The design looked slobbered-upon, and I wondered how dog spit would affect its subtle functions.
«Please don't quit,» Cheeter said. «Try again.»
«I'm just catching my breath,» I told him. «I've been using my front teeth so far, because it was easier. I'm going to switch to the side now.»
So I leaned again and took a grip with my back teeth, right side, upon the nail which seemed to have responded slightly to my suasions. I had it moving, then loosening, before too long.
Finally, I dropped it and listened. Silver makes a pleasant sound when it's struck.
«Six,» I a
«More tingling,» Cheeter said. «Maybe some sort of anticipation.»
«Last chance to quit while you're ahead,» I said, as I repositioned myself to use the left side of my jaws on the final one.
«Go ahead,» he told me.
So I caught hold and began to work it, slowly, with steady pressure rather than jerking movements, which I had learned from the previous one to be more effective. I feared for my teeth, but nothing cracked or chipped. As much as I liked the sound of silver, I did not like its cold metallic taste.
And all this while the shadow itself flowed over my face intermittently, passing before my eyes like a quick cloud before the sun, wrapping me momentarily, falling loose again.
I felt the nail move. My jaws were begi