He saw himself bearing the young master and the lady across a great desert, heading toward a mountain that was not a mountain. Yes, he had passed that way once before, long ago. He remembered it as very dry. He saw a gleaming bird pass and lay an egg which bloomed into a terrible flower. This, he felt, he should remember.
He glided into the next thermal and rose again. It was good to be out of the cavern once more. And he saw that they would be leaving for the dry place tomorrow. That was good, too. Perhaps he would sleep in the courtyard, where he could show them the carrier and the saddle come morning. They would be up early, and they would be needing them....
Near to the tower's top, he spread his wings and commenced a long glide. Somewhere in his dreams, the one with the strange eye moved, but he was difficult to follow.
The sun was already high when Pol finished packing the gear. Again, Nora's argument that she would be in greater danger alone than with him prevailed. He packed two light blades, along with the food, extra clothing, blankets ... No armor. He did not want to push Moonbird to the limits of endurance, or even to slow him with more than the barest of essentials. Besides, he had learned to fence in a different school.
How did he know? he wondered, hauling the parcels out to the carrier the great beast had located for him.
Crossing the courtyard, he placed his hands upon Moonbird's neck.
How do you know what is needed?
I--know. Now. Up high. Look!
The massive head turned. Pol followed the direction of its gaze.
He saw the small, blue-bellied, gray-backed thing upon the sill overhead. It was turned as if watching them. A portion of its front end caught the sunlight and cast it down toward them.
What is it?
Something I do not know. See how it watches?
It must be something of his. I wonder how much of my plans it has learned?
Shall I upchuck firestuff upon it?
No. Pretend that it is not there. Do not look at it.
He turned and crossed to the castle, entering there. He had come upon a description of an effect in one of his father's volumes and had been meaning to try it when he had the time.
He hurried up the stair, to halt outside the library where Nora sat sketching some final maps. Peering in, he saw that she wore a pale tunic, short gray breeches, a metal belt and sturdy boots she had located in one of the upstairs wardrobes. Her hair was bound back by a black strap.
She looked up as Pol entered.
"I am not entirely finished," she said. "There's another page."
"Go ahead."
She completed a drawing she had been making, took up another writing sheet, turned a page, began another map. She glanced up at Pol and smiled. He nodded.
"Soon," she said.
She worked for several minutes. Finally, she sighed, closed the book and took up the papers.
"Would you step outside for just a moment, please?"
"Your voice sounds strange."
"Yes. I talked too much. Please."
She crossed to the door. He waited beside it. His face was expressionless. She paused.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"No. Go out."
His lips, now that she looked closely, did not seem to move in proper time with his words. She passed through the doorway and halted. In the corridor, Pol stood off to the right, fingers to his lips.
"How?"
"This way," he whispered, taking her hand.
She followed him.
"It is a simulacrum spun of magical strands, my likeness laid upon it. I don't know how long it will last. Maybe all day, maybe only a little while." He began gesturing, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Something took shape between his hands, a faint glow to it. "This one is yours," he said. "It will go back in there and keep mine company, to distract the spy device, while we depart. He's been watching us. I want as good a lead as possible."
Later, Nora seemed to stroll back into the room, taking the hand of Pol, who still stood beside the door. They crossed slowly to a pair of chairs and sat facing one another.
"Lovely weather."
"Yes."
Periodically, one of them would rise and walk about the room. There were a number of things they would do, together and apart, taking perhaps an hour before the sequence began again.
The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird followed their every step, hung upon their words. It did not turn away at the noises below, or as Moonbird rose above the flagstones, drifted over the far wall, pivoted on the point of a breeze, bore east and vanished.
As the night progressed, Mouseglove had slowly come to feel as if he were a prisoner. Despite several near-disasters, he had remained undetected, gradually enlarging his mental map of the area and developing an awareness of the city's peculiar defenses. But he could find no way off of Anvil Mountain. The perimeters of the plateau were extremely well-patrolled, both by the small men and the half-mechanical caterpillars, as well as being subject to the scrutiny of fixed mechanical eyes and those of the circling birds. It seemed that not even an insect could pass undetected.
Picking lock after lock, he had finally located stores of foodstuffs and transferred what he judged a sufficient quantity to his hiding place. He memorized every niche, every unfrequented passage he came upon. With a thief s eye, he studied the various fixed detection devices from a distance and finally close up, coming to appreciate their functions and some of their weaknesses.
It was only by chance--chance, and Mark's immediate decision to bolster his combat forces above the level he had formerly felt adequate--that Mouseglove happened upon a newly formed ground school for the preliminary training of pilots for a series of manned fliers on which production had been stepped up.
Lying flat on the roof, blocked from overhead detection by an angled air duct, he could hear the words and view the training machine through a grating he had exposed by removing a small panel.
He listened to the entire lecture. When it was over, he had convinced himself. If he could audit just a few more sessions, he would be willing to steal a flier by night and take his chances in the air. Short of finding a hidden tunnel through the rock itself, it seemed the only way to manage an escape.
Feeling a grudging respect for the red-haired man who had brought this city back to life, he returned to his quarters to rest until evening when he intended spying upon the surveillance center once again and later breaking into the classroom to study the trainer's controls at closer range.
Following a full meal, he slept deeply; one hand upon his dagger, a stolen grenade he knew was some sort of weapon beneath the other.
Statue-like, an old female and two young stallions stood on a crag in the midst of a stand of dwarf pines, regarding Castle Rondoval.
"There is nothing out of the ordinary," she said.
"I saw lights last night, Stel, and I heard noises. Bitalph, in the south, did report a dragon."
"The place is probably haunted," she said. "Enough has gone on there."
"And what of the dragon?" asked the younger stallion.
"If one has come awake, it will be dealt with---eventually--by those it most oppresses. It could also be a foreign beast."
"Then we should do nothing?"
"Let us watch here, a day and a night. We can take turns. I've no desire to enter the place."
"Nor I."
It was much later in the day that they saw the dragon rise and drift eastward.
"There!"
"Yes."
"What do we do now?"
"Alert the others. It may never return. But then, again, it may."