Pol was silent for a time, then, "There was an instrument of power which had belonged to my father," he said. "With it, I think I might be able to command all of the, uh, resources of Rondoval. If I could get hold of it before Mark begins to move, I would have something formidable to throw against him. I'm still hazy on the geography and the political setup of this land, though. I don't know how much territory and how many population centers he would be moving against, or what the local defense apparatus is. All of the books I have are older than I am. ... I have maps, too, but I'm not sure what goes where."
"I can show you," she said, "and tell you about it, when we get to the maps."
"But I'll be dropping you in your village."
"No! You can't do that! I'm afraid. He might come for me again. Who would stop him this time?"
"You might not like Rondoval."
"It's got to be better than Anvil Mountain. You don't know any magic that could change him back, do you? To the way he was a few years ago?"
"I don't think any magic can undo what life has done to a person, or a person to himself. I'm sorry."
"I thought you'd say that. The wise folk all seem to talk the same way."
She began to cry softly, for the first time that day. Though it was gaming, the tracer-bird did not hear this either. Pol did, but he was not certain what to say. So he stared ahead and said nothing.
It was dark when they passed above Nora's village and by then Pol had placed his cloak about her shoulders. The stars had come forth in profusion and shone with great brilliance. Pol realized for the first time that he did not recognize any constellations. Moonbird, looking down rather than up, noted the locations of all visible cattle against his return for a late night snack.
He awoke in a dirty room far below ground level. It seemed to be one of the original ancient chambers in the rock, which the new occupants had not yet gotten around to refurbishing. Possibly it had been some sort of storeroom. It was full of junk, dust and stale air. This was why he had chosen it. It was far from the throbbing, or even the humming of the great machines, and none of the lesser ones had rattled by. As for the small, long-armed, slope-shouldered men with the low brows--they seemed to avoid this quarter.
He ate some of the food he had brought with him. He secreted the parcel of figurines beneath a trash heap.
...Had to leave at this stop, he reflected. Once the kid caught on, it was all over. Damned scary, the way he'd plucked the information out of the air. Good thing there was a distraction...
...How many days' walk to Dibna? Could take the better part of a week, he guessed. Therefore, he needed a good supply of food before he set out....
...What time was it? Probably the middle of the night, judging by his internal clock. With any luck at all, he'd have the supplies by morning and be ready to move the following night....
He opened the door slightly and stared out upon the dim corridor. Empty. He was out, along it and up a ramp in a matter of seconds. The air grew somewhat fresher as he advanced, but was still warm. Keeping to the darkest ways available, he mounted until he was several stories above the ground. He heard the distant noises of the factories now, the nearer ones of servant machines passing on mysterious errands.
He stepped out beneath stars. There was that low structure he had not investigated earlier, some illumination within it now. Off to the left and standing higher was the building from which he had descended that afternoon. Yes. There was the bridge above the avenue by which he had crossed over....
He had seen Pol and Nora fly off, heading back to the north. Good that they had gotten free. He wished them no ill, particularly at the hands of that tall, red-haired man with the glowing eye. He had a fear of something even worse than magic should he fall that one's prisoner, and he resolved to avoid him at all costs.
They may keep the food someplace around here....
He was attracted again by the small, dimly lighted structure. It was probably not a supply house, but it might be prudent to know what it was--situated in such a prominent position--in case any threats resided there.
He moved nearer, circling to place a blank wall between his advance and whoever was inside. His tread was soundless. He was alert for trip-wires, sentries.
Finally, he touched the gray wall, slid his hand along it, flattened himself and waited a moment. Then he edged his way to the corner, peered around it, passed beyond it, moved toward the window near the door.
Nothing. The view was blocked by some sort of equipment. He dropped and passed beneath it, hastily passed the door. He tried the next window.
Yes. There were two men, off toward the right, rear, seated before what appeared to be a group of glowing windows which he knew did not penetrate the wall. But the angle was too sharp here, and the window through which he peered was closed.
He passed on, turned the next corner, advanced even more cautiously toward an opened window. Reaching it, he dropped to one knee and looked in toward the right.
He heard an occasional voice, though it took him several moments to realize that the figures within were not speaking. The words seemed to emerge from the wall before them. He squinted, he concentrated, he breathed a few words to Dwastir.
Suddenly, he recognized one of the scenes on the wall. The peripheral screens held strangely accented aerial views of countryscape, not unlike some over which he had passed earlier on dragonback. But the central one, toward which the two men were leaning, showed, in much sharper detail, the library at Rondoval, where he had spent so many hours. It was as if he were peering in through the end windows. There was Pol at the desk, candles flickering near at hand, a number of books opened before him. Nora was dozing on the couch.
Abruptly, he realized that the larger of the two men viewing the screen was Mark Marakson. He fought an impulse to flee. Both men seemed too involved with the display to be exceptionally wary. So, checking about him periodically, Mouseglove continued to stare. The men's attitudes, the surreptitious quality of the enterprise, both convinced him he must be witnessing something important.
Time slipped by, with Pol occasionally muttering something about the points of a triangle. Once or twice, this drew a sleepy reply from Nora.
An hour, perhaps longer, passed before Pol spoke again. He was smiling as he looked up.
"A pyramid, a great labyrinth and the Itzan well," he said, "in that order. That's the Triangle of Int. Nora?"
"Mm?"
"Can you find them for me in the big atlas?"
"Bring it here." She raised herself upright and rubbed her eyes. "I've never been anyplace far, but I always liked geography. What were they, again?"
Pol was rising, a book in his hands, when the view was suddenly blocked by a movement of Mark's.
Mark half-rose to scrawl something on a writing sheet, which he folded and inserted into one of his pockets. Pol's and Nora's voices had resumed, partly muffled now. Mark leaned forward, moving his face close to the screen.
"I've got you," he said softly. "Whatever the weapon you seek to use against me, you shall not have it. Not when I have three chances--"
His voice broke. He raised a hand as if to cover his eyes, forgetting for a moment the red lens that he wore.
"Damn!"
He turned away and Mouseglove ducked quickly, but not before he had glimpsed the screen and what might have been an embrace.
Moonbird drowsed, riding a thermal to a great height, then dropping into a long glide. When he lowered the night-membrane over his eyes, he saw another thermal, like a wavering red tower, ahead and to his left. Unconsciously, he shrugged himself in that direction. He'd a full belly now, and it was pleasant just to drift home, watching the dreams form in the other chamber of his mind.