Harry looked at the caravans with their ornate, curiously carved sigils, their painted and varnished woodwork. The various symbols were so stylized they seemed to flow into and become one with the fancy scrolls of the general decoration, almost as if they'd been deliberately concealed in the design. And looking closer — but yet maintaining an attitude of casual observation — he saw that he was right and they had been so concealed.
His interest in this regard centred on the funeral vehicle, which stood a little apart from the rest. Two women in mourning black sat side by side on its steps, their heads on their bosoms, arms hanging slackly by their sides. 'A dead king,' said Harry… and out of the corner of his eye watched his new friend give a start. Things began to piece themselves together in his mind, like bits of a puzzle forming up into a picture.
'How did you know?'
Harry shrugged. 'Under all the flowers and garlic, that's a good rich caravan and fit for a Traveller king. It carries his coffin, right?'
Two of them,' said the other, regarding Harry in a new, perhaps slightly more cautious light.
'Oh?'
'The other one is for his wife. She's the thin one on the steps there. Her heart is broken. She doesn't think she'll survive him very long.'
They sat down on the humped roots of a vast tree, where Harry got out his sandwiches. He wasn't hungry but wanted to offer them to his Gypsy 'friend', in return for the good plum brandy. And: 'Where will you bury them?' he eventually asked.
The other nodded eastward casually enough, but Harry felt his dark eyes on him. 'Oh, under the mountains.'
'I saw a border post up there. Will they let you through?'
The Gypsy smiled in a wrinkling of tanned skin, and a gold tooth flashed in the sun striking through the trees. 'This has been our route since long before there were border posts, or even signposts! Do you think they would want to stop a funeral? What, and risk calling down the curse of the Gypsies on themselves?'
Harry smiled and nodded. 'The old Gypsy curse ploy works well for you, eh?'
But the other wasn't smiling at all. 'It works!' he said, quite simply.
Harry looked around, accepted the bottle again and took a good long pull at it. He was aware that others of the Gypsy menfolk were watching him, but covertly, while ostensibly they made camp. He sensed the tension in them, and found himself in two minds. It seemed to Harry that he'd discovered a way across the border. Indeed, he believed the Gypsies would gladly take him across; more than gladly, and whether he wanted to go with them or not!
The odd thing was that he didn't feel any animosity towards this man, these people, who he now felt reasonably sure were here partly out of coincidence but more specifically to entrap him. He didn't feel afraid of them at all; in fact he felt less afraid generally than at almost any time he could remember in his entire life! His problem was simply this: should he casually, even passively accept their entrapment, or should he try to walk out of the camp? Should he make allusion to the situation, make his suspicions known, or simply continue to play the innocent? In short, would it be better to 'go quietly', or should he make a fuss and get roughed up for his trouble?
Of one thing he was certain: Janos wanted him alive, man to man, face to face — which meant that the last thing the Szgany would do would be to hurt him. Perhaps now that Harry was on the hook, it were better if he simply lay still and let the monster reel him in. Part of the way, anyway.
… When he yawns his great jaws at you, go in through them, for he's softer on the inside…
Did I think that? Harry used his deadspeak, or was it you again, Faethor?
Perhaps it was both of us, a gurgling voice answered from deep within.
Harry nodded, if only to himself. So it was you. Very well, we'll play it your way.
Good! Believe me, you — we? — have the game well in hand.
'Do you think I might rest here a while?' Harry asked the traveller where they sat under the trees. 'It's peaceful here and I might just sit and look at my map, and plan the rest of my trip.' He took a last mouthful of slivovitz.
'Why not?' said the other. 'You can be sure no harm will come to you… here.'
Harry stretched out, lay his head on his holdall, looked at his map. Halmagiu was maybe, oh, sixty miles away? The sun was just beyond its zenith, the hour a little after noon. If the Travellers set off again at 2:00 p.m. (and if they kept up a steady six miles to the hour) they might just make it to Halmagiu by midnight. And Harry with them. He couldn't even hazard a guess as to how they would go about it, but felt fairly sure they'd find a way to get him through the checkpoint. Just as sure as he'd seen that sigil of a red-eyed bat launching itself from the rim of its urn, painted into the woodwork of the king's funeral caravan.
He closed his eyes and, looking inwards, directed his deadspeak thoughts at Faethor. / think I frightened Janos off-when I threatened to enter his mind, I mean.
It was bold of you, the other answered at once. A clever bluff. But you were in error, and fortunate indeed that it worked.
I was only following your instructions! Harry protested.
Then obviously I had not made myself plain, said Faethor. / meant simply that your mind is your castle, and that if he tried to invade it you must look to understanding his reasons, must look into his mind and try to fathom its workings. I did not mean, literally, that you should step inside! It would in any case be impossible. You're no telepath, Harry.
Oh, I knew that well enough, Harry admitted, but Janos himself wasn't so sure. He's seen some strange things in my mind, after all. Not least your presence there. And if you were advising me, then obviously he would need to step wary. The last thing he would want — the last thing anyone would want, including myself-is you in his mind. Still, I suppose you're right and it was bluff. But I felt… strong! I felt I was playing a strong hand.
You are strong, Faethor answered. But remember, you had the additional strength of the girl and Layard. You were using their amplified talents.
I know, said Harry, but it felt even stronger than that. It could of course have been your influence, but I don't think so. I felt that it was all mine. And I believe that if I had been a true telepath, then I would have gone in. If only to try and do to Janos what he did to Trevor Jordan.
He sensed Faethor's approval. Bravo! But don't run before you can walk, my son… And before Harry could answer: Will you go with the Szgany, the filthy Zirra?
In through his jaws? Harry answered. Yes, I think so. If I can't get into his mind, then I'll get into his 'body', as it were, and maybe blunt a few of his teeth a little along the way. But answer me this:
If I have frightened him off from any sort of mental seduction or invasion, what will he do next? What would you do, if you were him?
What remains to him? Faethor answered. In the skilful use of powers — those very powers he desires to steal from you — he believes you are his match. So he must first conquer you physically. What I would do if I were him? Murder you, and then by use of necromancy rip your Knowledge right out of your screaming guts!