“Hm? Oh, good morning.”
He sighed and looked up at the patch of dark clouds in the east that was giving way before the fresh wind. Yes, he thought, in spite of all the setbacks and reluctances, you two did what you were called on to do. You saved the beer, and therefore the King and the West. This Turkish attack this morning can accomplish nothing; it’s the last desperate blow of a defeated opponent who is determined at least to leave as much ruin behind as he can.
Merlin picked up the old longsword with both hands, stared at it as if to fix it in his memory for a while, and then tossed it spinning end over end toward the water below.
He turned and ambled thoughtfully toward the stairs. I guess I’ll be leaving for England in about a week, he calculated. I will leave the brewery once again in Gambrinus’ capable hands... and there are things at home that could bear a bit of meddling with. Perhaps—
The sentry came puffing up. “What did that mean?” he gasped.
Merlin was puzzled. “What did what mean?”
“That sword you just dropped into the Wiener-Bach—didn’t you watch it fall?”
“No.” the magician smiled. “What did I miss?”
“Well, I couldn’t see it too clear through the ground mist, you know, but I’ll swear that a hand rose out of the water and...” The sentry paused, scratching his nose and frowning.
“Go on,” prompted Merlin politely. “A hand...?” The wind was twitching his hair again and he shook it back out of his face.
“Never mind, sir,” said the sentry stolidly. “It was a fancy, I’m sure. I haven’t been getting near enough sleep these days.”
The wizard smiled sympathetically. “Few of us have.” He walked past to the stairs and stepped down them to the ash-dusty street. From the southeast the Turkish cannons began firing, but the wind blew most of the sound away, and to Merlin it sounded like nothing but plodding footsteps receding away in the distance.