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“Yes, my Lord,” De
Peyna asked his question, and De
“You’re sure?” Peyna persisted.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. Then here is what I want you to do.”
Peyna spoke to De
“Good,” Peyna said. “Very, very good.”
“I’m glad I’ve pleased you, sir.”
“Nothing about this business pleases me, De
And inside the man who had in his heart once condemned a boy because of that boy’s tears, the stranger laughed and laughed and laughed.
88
The two old men parted from De
He protested De
The farmer’s eldest daughter, Naomi, drove Peyna and Arlen north on a sled pulled by twelve of the dogger’s strongest huskies. By Wednesday night, they reached the edge of the Far Forests.
“How long to the camp of the exiles?” Peyna asked Naomi that night.
Naomi cast the thin, evil-smelling cigar she had been smoking into the fire. “Two more day if the skies keep fair. Four more days if it snows. Maybe never, if it blizzards.”
Peyna turned in. He drifted off to sleep almost at once. Logic or illogic, he was sleeping better than he had in years.
The weather kept clear the next day, and on Friday as well. At dusk of that day-the fourth since Peyna and Arlen had parted from De
“Ho! Who comes, and can you say the password?” a voice called. It was strong, sturdy, cheerful, and unafraid. Peyna recognized it.
“It’s Naomi Reechul,” the girl called, “and the password two weeks ago was ‘tripos.’ If it’s not that now, Ben Staad, then put an arrow through me and I’ll come back and haunt you!”
Ben appeared from behind a rock, laughing. “I’d not dare meet you as a ghost, Naomi-you’re fearsome enough “live!”
Ignoring this, she turned to Peyna. “We’ve come,” she said.
“Yes,” Peyna said. “So I see.”
And I believe it’s well that we have… because something tells me that time has grown short… very short indeed.
89
Peter had the same feeling.
By Sunday, two days after Peyna and Arlen reached the camp of the exiles, his rope would still, by his calculations, finish up thirty feet short of the ground. This meant that when he dangled from the end of it with his arms fully extended, he would face a drop of at least twenty-one feet. He knew that he would be wiser by far to go on with his rope for another four month seven another two. If he dropped from the rope, fell badly, and broke both of his legs so that the Plaza guards found him groaning on the cobbles when they made their round-o'-the-clock, he would have wasted more than four years, simply because he did not have the patience to pursue his labor another four months.
This was logic Peyna could have appreciated, but Peter’s feel-ing that he must now hurry was much stronger. Once Peyna would have snorted at the idea that feelings could be more trust-worthy than logic… but now he might have been less sure.
Peter had been having a dream-for almost a week ru
The night before, Saturday night, there had been a fairy-ring around the moon. The Lesser Warders thought it would soon snow. Examining the sky this afternoon, Peter knew they were right. It was his father who had taught Peter to read the weather, and standing at the window, Peter felt a pang of sadness… and a renewed spark of cold, quiet anger… the need to make things right again.
I’ll make my try under cover of darkness and under cover of storm, he thought. There’ll even be a bit of snow to cushion my fall. He had to grin at that idea-three inches of light, powdery snow between him and the cobbles would do precious little one way or the other. Either his perilously thin rope would hold… or it would break. Assuming it held, he would take the drop. And his legs would either take the impact… or they wouldn’t.
And if they do take it, where will you go on them? a little voice whispered. Any who might have shielded you or helped you… Ben Staad, for instance-have long since been driven from the castle keep… from the very Kingdom itself; for all you know.
He would trust to luck, then. King’s luck. It was a thing his father had often talked about. There are lucky Kings and unlucky. But you’ll be your own King and you’ll have your own luck. M’self, I think you’ll be very lucky.