Much has changed, but not that. Arlen cleared his throat. I know the boy. It is Dennis, son of Brandon. It is the Kings butler who calls. Peyna stared at Arlen, hardly believing what he had heard. Perhaps he was growing deaf even faster than he had thought. He asked Arlen to repeat, and it came out sounding just the same. Ill see him. Send him in. Very good, my Lord. Arlen turned to leave. The similarity to the night Beson had come with Peters noteeven down to the cold wind screaming outsidecame strongly to Peyna now. Arlen, he called. Arlen turned back. My Lord? The right corner of Peynas mouth quirked the smallest bit. Are you quite sure its not a dwarfboy? Quite sure, my Lord, Arlen replied, and the left corner of his own mouth twitched the tiniest bit. There are no dwarves left in the known world. Or so my mother told me. Obviously she was a woman of good sense and clear discernment, dedicated to raising her son properly and not to be held responsible for any inherent flaws in the material she had to work with. Bring the boy here directly. Yes, my Lord. The door closed. Peyna looked into his fire again and rubbed his old, arthritiscrippled hands together in a gesture of unaccustomed agitation. Thomass butler. Here. Now. Why? But there was no sense in speculating; the door would open in a moment, and the answer would come walking through it in the form of a manboy who would be shaking with the cold, perhaps even frostbitten. Dennis would have found it a good deal easier to reach Peyna if Peyna had still been at his fine house in the castle city, but his house had been sold from beneath him for unpaid taxes following his resignation. Only the few hundred guilders he had put away over the course of forty years had allowed him to buy this small, drafty farmhouse and continue to pay Beson. It was technically in the Inner Baronies, but he was still many miles west of the castle . . . and the weather had been very cold. In the hallway beyond the door, he heard the murmur of approaching voices. Now. Now the answer would come through the door. Suddenly that absurd feelingthat feeling of hope, like a ray of strong light shining in a dark cavecame back to him. Now the answer will come through the door, he thought, and for a moment he found himself believing that was really true. As he drew his favorite pipe from the rack beside him, Anders Peyna saw that his hands were trembling. 82 The boy was really a man, but Adens use of the word was not unjustifiedat least not on this night. He was cold, Peyna saw, but he also knew that the cold alone does not make anyone shudder as Dennis was shuddering. Dennis! Peyna said, sitting forward sharply (and ignoring the twinge in his back the sudden movement caused). Has something happened to the King? Dreadful images, awful possibilities suddenly filled Peynas old headthe King dead, either from too much wine, or possibly by his own hand. Everyone in Delain knew that the young King was deeply moody. No . . . that is . . . yes . . . but no . . . not the way you mean . . . the way I think you mean . . . Come in here close to the fire, Peyna snapped. Arlen, dont just stand there gawking! Get a blanket! Get two! Wrap this boy up before he shakes himself to death like a buggerlug bug! Yes, my Lord, Arlen said. He had never gawked in his lifehe knew it, and Peyna did, too. But he recognized the gravity of this situation and left quickly. He stripped the two blankets from his own bedthe only other two in this glorified peasants hut were the ones on Peynasand brought them back. He took them to where Dennis crouched as close to the fire as he could without bursting into flames. The deep frost which had covered his hair had begun to melt and to run down his cheeks like tears. Dennis wrapped himself in the blankets. Now, tea. Strong tea. A cup for me, a pot for the boy. My Lord, we only have half a canister left in the whole Bugger how much we have left! A cup for me, a pot for the boy. He considered. And make a cup for yourself, Arlen, and then come in here and listen. My Lord? Even all of his breeding could not keep Arlen from looking frankly astounded at this. Damn! Peyna roared. Would you have me believe youre as deaf as Ive become? Get about it! Yes, my Lord, Arlen said, and went to brew the last tea in the house. 83 Peyna had not forgotten everything he had ever known about the fine art of questioning; in point of fact, he had forgotten damned little of that, or anything else. He had had long sleepless nights when he wished that he could forget some things. While Arlen made the tea, Peyna went about the task of putting this frightenedno; this terrifiedyoung man at his ease. He asked after Denniss mum. He asked if the drainage problems which had so plagued the castle of late had improved. He asked Denniss opinion on the spring plantings. He steered clear of any and all subjects which might be dangerous . . . and little by little, as he warmed, Dennis calmed. When Arlen served the tea, hot and strong and steaming, Dennis slurped half the cup at a gulp, grimaced, then slurped the rest. Impassive as ever, Arlen poured more. Easy, my lad, Peyna said, lighting his pipe at last. Easys the word for hot tea and skittish horses. Cold. Thought I was going to freeze coming out here. You walked? Peyna was unable to conceal his surprise. Yes. Had my mother leave word with the lesser servants that I was home with the grippe. Thatll hold all for a few days, it being so catching this time of year . . . or should do. Walked. Whole way. Didnt dare ask a ride. Didnt want to be remembered. Didnt know it was quite this far. If Id known, I might have taken a ride after all. I left at three of the clock. He struggled, his throat working, and then burst out And Im not going back, not ever! I seen the way he looks at me since he come back! Narrow and on the side, his eyes all dark! He never used to look at me that waynever used to look at me at all! He knows I seen something! Knows I heard something! He dont know what, but he knows theres something! He hears it in my head, like Id hear the bell ringin out from the Church of the Great Gods! If I stay, hell get it out of me! I know he will! Peyna stared at the boy under furrowed brows, trying to sort out this amazing flood of declaration. Tears were standing in Denniss eyes. I mean F Softly, Dennis, Peyna said. His voice was mild, but his eyes were not. I know who you mean. Best not to speak his name aloud. Dennis looked at him with dumb, simple gratitude. Youd better tell me what you came to say, Peyna told him. Yes. Yes, all right. Dennis hesitated for a moment, trying to get himself under control and to arrange his thoughts. Peyna waited impassively, trying to control his rising excitement. You see, Dennis began at last, three nights ago Thomas called me to come and stay with him, as he sometimes does. And at midnight, or sometime thereabouts 84 Dennis told what you have already heard, and to his credit, he did not try to lie about his own terror, or gloss it over. As he spoke, the wind whined outside and as the fire burned low Peynas eyes burned hotter and hotter. Here, he thought, were worse things than he ever could have imagined. Not only had Peter poisoned the King, Thomas had seen it happen. No wonder the boy King was so often moody and depressed. Perhaps the rumors that passed in the meadhouses, rumors that had Thomas more than half mad already, were not so farfetched as Peyna had thought. But as Dennis paused to drink more tea (Arlen refilled his cup from the bitter lees of the pot), Peyna drew back from that idea. If Thomas had witnessed Peter poisoning Roland, why was Dennis here now . . . and in such deadly terror of Flagg? You heard more, Peyna said. Aye, my Lord JudgeGeneral, Dennis said. Thomas . . . he raved quite some time. We were closed up in the dark together long. Dennis struggled to be clearer, but found no words to convey the horror of that closedin passageway, with Thomas shrieking in the darkness before him and the dead Kings few surviving dogs barking below them. No words to describe the smell of the placea smell of secrets which had gone rancid like milk spilled in the dark. No words to tell of his growing fear that Thomas had gone mad while in the grip of his dream. He had screamed the name of the Kings magician over and over again; had begged the King to look deep into the goblet and see the mouse that simultaneously burned and drowned in the wine. Why do you stare at me so? he had shrieked. And then I brought you a glass of wine, my King, to show you that I, too, love you. And finally he had shrieked out words that Peter himself would have recognized, words better than four hundred years old Twas Flagg! Flagg! Twas Flagg! Dennis reached for his cup, got it halfway to his mouth, and then dropped it. The cup shattered on the hearthstones. The three of them looked at the shards of crockery. And then? Peyna asked, in a deceptively gentle voice. Nothing for a long, long time, Dennis said in a halting voice. My eyes had . . . had gotten used to the darkness, and I could see him a little. He was asleep . . . asleep at those two little holes, with his chin on his breast and his eyes closed. And he remained so for how long? My Lord, I know not. The dogs had all quieted again. And perhaps I . . . I . . . Dozed a bit yourself? I think it is likely, Dennis. Then, later, he seemed to wake. His eyes opened, at any rate. He closed the little panels and all was dark again. I heard him moving and I drew my legs back so he would not trip over them . . . his nightshirt . . . it brushed my face. . . . Dennis grimaced as he remembered a feeling like cobwebs drawn in a whisper over his left cheek. I followed him. He let himself out . . . I followed still. He closed the door so that it looked like only plain stone wall again. He went back to his apartments and I followed him. Did you meet anyone? Peyna rapped so sharply that Dennis jumped. Anyone at all? No. No, my Lord JudgeGeneral. No one at all. Ah. Peyna relaxed. That is very well. And did anything else happen that night? No, my Lord. He went to bed and slept like a dead man. Dennis hesitated and then added, I didnt sleep a wink, meself, and havent slept many since, either. And in the morning he? Remembered nothing. Peyna grunted. He steepled his fingers and looked at the dying fire through the little fingerbuilding he had built. And did you go back to that passageway? Curiously, Dennis asked Would you have gone back, my Lord? Yes, Peyna said dryly. The question is, did you? I did. Of course you did. Were you seen? No. A chambermaid passed me in the hallway. The laundry is down that way, I think. I smelled lye soap, like my mum uses. When she was gone, I counted up four from the chipped stone and went in. To see what Thomas had seen. Aye, my Lord. And did you? Aye, my Lord. And what was it? Peyna asked, knowing. When you slid aside those panels, what did you see? My Lord, I saw King Rolands sitting room, Dennis said. With all them heads on the walls. And . . . my Lord . . . In spite of the heat of the dying fire, Dennis shuddered. All of them heads . . . they seemed to be looking at me. But there was one head you didnt see, Peyna said. No, my Lord, I saw them a Dennis stopped, eyes widening. Niner! He gasped. The peepholes He stopped, his eyes now almost as big as saucers. Silence fell again inside. Outside, the winter wind moaned and whined. And miles away, Peter, rightful King of Delain, hunched over a tiny loom high in the sky and wove a rope almost too fine to see. At last, Peyna fetched a deep sigh. Dennis was looking up at him from his place on the hearth pleadingly . . . hopefully . . . fearfully. Peyna bent forward slowly and touched his shoulder. You did well to come here, Dennis, son of Brandon. You did well to make a reason for your absencequite a plausible one, I think. Youll sleep here with us tonight, in the attic, under the eaves. Itll be cold, but I think youll sleep better than you have of late. Am I wrong? Dennis shook his head slowly once, and a tear spilled from his right eye and ran slowly down his cheek. And your mum knows naught of your reason for needing to be away? No. Then the chances are very good shell not be touched by it. Arlen will take you up. Those are his blankets, I think, and youll have to return them. But theres straw above, and its clean. Ill sleep just as well with only one blanket, my Lord, Arlen said. Hush! Young blood runs hot even in its sleep, Arlen. Your blood has cooled. And you may want your blankets . . . in case dwarves and trolls come in your dreams. Arlen smiled a little. In the morning, well talk more, Dennisbut you may not see your mum for a bit now; I must tell you that, although I suspect you already know it might not be healthy for you to go back to Delain, by the look of you. Dennis tried to smile, but his eyes were shiny with fear. I had thoughts of more than the grippe when I came here, and thats the honest truth. But now Ive put your own health in danger as well, havent I? Peyna smiled dryly. Im old, and Arlen is old. The health of the old is never very strong. Sometimes that makes them more careful than they should be . . . but sometimes it makes them dare much. Especially, he thought, if they have much to atone for. Well speak more in the morning. In the meantime, you deserve your rest. Will you light his way upstairs, Arlen? Yes, my Lord. And then come back to me. Yes, my Lord. Arlen led the exhausted Dennis from the room, leaving Anders Peyna to brood before his dying fire. 85 When Arlen came back, Peyna said quietly We have plans to make, Arlen, but perhaps youll draw us a drop of wine. It would be well to wait until the boy is asleep. My Lord, he was asleep before his head touched the hay he had gathered for his pillow. Very well. But draw us a drop of wine anyway. A drop is all there is to draw, Arlen said. Good. Then well not have to set out with big heads tomorrow, will we? My Lord? Arlen, we leave here tomorrow, the three of us, for the north. I know it, you know it. Dennis says theres grippe in Delainand so there is; one who would grip us if he could, anyway. We go for our health. Arlen nodded slowly. It would be a crime to leave that good wine behind us for the tax man. So well drink it . . . and then take ourselves off to bed. As you say, my Lord. Peynas eyes glinted. But before you go to bed, youll mount to the attic and get the blanket you left with the boy, against my strict and specific instructions. Arlen gaped at Peyna. Peyna mocked his gape with uncanny aptness. And for the first and last time in his service as Peynas butler, Arlen laughed out loud. 86 Peyna went to bed but could not sleep. It wasnt the sound of the wind that kept him awake, but the sound of cold laughter coming from inside his own head. When he could stand that laughter no longer, he got up, went back into the sitting room, and sat before the cooling fireplace ashes, his white hair floating in small clouds over his skull. Unaware of his comic look (and if he had been aware of it, he would have been unmindful), he sat wrapped in his blankets like the oldest Indian in the universe and looked into the dead fire. Pride goes before a fall, his mother had told him when he was a child, and Peyna had understood that. Prides a joke thatll make the stranger inside you laugh sooner or later, she had also told him, and he hadnt understood that . . . but he did now. Tonight the stranger inside was laughing very hard indeed. Too hard for him to be able to sleep, even though the next day was apt to be long and difficult. Peyna was fully able to appreciate the irony of his position. All his life, he had served the idea of the law. Ideas like prison break and armed rebellion horrified him. They still did, but certain truths had to be faced. That the machinery of revolt had come to exist in Delain, for instance. Peyna knew that the nobles who had fled to the north called themselves exiles, but he also knew that they were edging ever closer to calling themselves rebels. And if he were to keep that revolt from happening, he might well have to use the machinery of rebellion to help a prisoner break out of the Needle. That was the joke the stranger inside was laughing at, laughing too loudly for sleep to be even a remote possibility. Such actions as the ones he was now thinking about went against the grain of his whole life, but he would go ahead anyway, even if it killed him (which it just might). Peter had been falsely imprisoned. Delains true King was not on the throne, but locked in a cold tworoom cell at the top of the Needle. And if it took lawless forces to put things right again, so it must be. But . . . The napkins, Peyna muttered. His mind circled back to them and back to them. Before we resort to force of arms to free the rightful King and see him enthroned, the business of the napkins should be investigated. Hell have to be asked. Dennis . . . and the Staad boy, perhaps . . . aye . . . My Lord? Arlen asked from behind him. Are you unwell? Arlen had heard his master rise, as butlers almost always do. I am unwell, Peyna agreed gloomily. But its nothing my physician can fix, Arlen. Im sorry, my Lord. Peyna turned to Arlen, and fixed his bright, sunken eyes upon the butler. Before we become outlaws, I want to know why he asked for his mothers dollhouse . . . and for napkins with his meals. 87 Go back to the castle? Dennis asked the next morning, in a hoarse voice that was almost a whisper. Go back to where he is? If you feel you cant, Ill not press you, Peyna said. But you know the castle well enough, I think, to stay out of his way. If, that is, you know a way to get in unnoticed. To be noticed would be bad. You look much too lively for a boy who is supposed to be home sick. The day was cold and bright. The snow on the long, rolling hills of the Inner Baronies threw back a diamond dazzle which made the eyes water before long. Ill probably be snowblind by noon, and itll serve me right, Peyna thought grumpily. The stranger inside seemed to find this prospect hilarious indeed. Castle Delain itself could be seen in the distance, blue and dreaming on the horizon, its walls and towers looking like an illustration in a book of fairy stories. Dennis, however, did not look like a young hero in search of adventure. His eyes were full of fear, and his face bore the expression of a man who has escaped from a den of lions . . . only to be told hes forgotten his lunch, and must go back in and get it, even though hes lost his appetite. There might be a way to get in, he said. But if he smells me, how I get in or where I hide wont matter. If he smells me, hell run me down. Peyna nodded. He did not want to add to the boys fear, but in this situation, nothing less than the truth could serve them. What you say is true. But you still ask me to go? If you can, I still ask it. Over a meager breakfast, Peyna had told Dennis what he wanted to know, and had suggested some ways Dennis might go about getting the information. Now Dennis shook his head, not in refusal but in bewilderment. Napkins, he said. Peyna nodded. Napkins. Denniss fearful eyes went back to that distant fairytale castle dreaming on the horizon. When he was dying, my da said if I ever saw a chance to do a service for my first master, I must do it. I thought Id done it coming here. But if I must go back . . . Arlen, who had been busy closing up the house, now joined them. Your house key, please, Arlen, Peyna said. Arlen handed it to him, and Peyna handed it to Dennis. Arlen and I go north to join thePeyna hesitated and cleared his throatthe exiles, he finished. Ive given you Arlens key to this house. When we reach their camp, Ill give mine to a fellow you know, if he be there. I think he will be. Whos that? Dennis asked. Ben Staad. Sunshine broke on Denniss gloomy face. Ben? Bens with them? I think he may be, Peyna said. In truth, he knew perfectly well that the entire Staad family was with the exiles. He kept his ear firmly to the earth, and his ears had not grown so deaf that he was not able to hear many movements in the Kingdom. And youd send him down here? If hell come, aye, I mean to, Peyna replied. To do what? My Lord, Im still not clear about that. Nor am I, Peyna said, looking cross. He felt more than cross; he felt bewildered. Ive spent my whole life doing some things because they were logical and not doing others because they were not. Ive seen what happens when people act on intuition, or for illogical reasons. Sometimes the results are ludicrous and embarrassing; more often they are simply horrible. But here I am, just the same, behaving like a crackbrained crystal gazer. I dont understand you, my Lord. Neither do I, Dennis. Neither do I. Do you know what day this is? Dennis blinked at this sudden change in direction, but answered readily enough. YesTuesday. Tuesday. Good. Now Im going to ask you a question that my cursed intuition tells me is very important. If you dont know the answereven if you are not surefor the gods sake, say so! Are you ready for the question? Yes, my Lord, Dennis said, but he wasnt sure that he really was. Peynas piercing blue eyes under the wild tangle of his white brows had made him very nervous. The question was apt to be very difficult indeed. That is, I think so. Peyna asked his question, and Dennis relaxed. It didnt make much sense to himit was only more nonsense about the napkins, as far as he could seebut at least he knew the answer, and gave it. Youre sure? Peyna persisted. Yes, my Lord. Good. Then here is what I want you to do. Peyna spoke to Dennis for some time, as the three of them stood in the chilly sunshine in front of the retirement cottage where the old judge would never come again. Dennis listened earnestly, and when Peyna demanded that he repeat the instructions back, Dennis was able to do it quite neatly. Good, Peyna said. Very, very good. Im glad Ive pleased you, sir. Nothing about this business pleases me, Dennis. Nothing at all. If Ben Staad is with those unfortunate outcasts in the Far Forests, I mean to send him away from relative safety and into danger because he may be of some use to King Peter. Im sending you back to the castle because my heart tells me theres something about those napkins he asked for . . . and the dollhouse . . . something. Sometimes I think I almost have it, and then it dances out of my grasp again. He did not ask for those things idly, Dennis. Id wager my life on that. But I dont know. Peyna abruptly slammed his fist down on his leg in frustration. I am putting two fine young men into terrible danger, and my heart tells me I am doing the right thing, but I . . . dont . . . know . . . WHY! And inside the man who had in his heart once condemned a boy because of that boys tears, the stranger laughed and laughed and laughed. 88 The two old men parted from Dennis. They shook hands all around; then Dennis kissed the Judges ring, which bore the Great Seal of Delain on its face. Peyna had given up his JudgeGenerals bench, but had not been able to part with the ring, which to him summed up all the goodness of the law. He knew he had made mistakes from time to time, but he had not allowed them to break his heart. Even over this last and greatest of mistakes, his heart did not break. He knew as well as we in our own world do that the road to hell is paved with good intentionsbut he also knew that, for human beings, good intentions are sometimes all there are. Angels may be safe from damnation, but human beings are less fortunate things, and for them hell is always close. He protested Denniss act of kissing his ring, but Dennis insisted. Then Arlen shook Denniss hand and wished him speed o the gods. Smiling (but Peyna could still see the fear lurking in Denniss eyes), Dennis wished them the same. Then the young butler turned east, toward the castle, and the two old men headed west, toward the farmstead of one Charles Reechul. Reechul, who raised Anduan huskies for a living, paid the grinding taxes the King had imposed without complaint, and was thus considered loyal . . . but Peyna knew that Reechul was sympathetic to the exiles encamped in the Far Forests, and had helped others reach them. Peyna had never expected to need Reechuls services himself, but the time had come. The farmers eldest daughter, Naomi, drove Peyna and Arlen north on a sled pulled by twelve of the doggers 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, evilsmelling cigar she had been smoking into the fire. Two more days 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 daythe fourth since Peyna and Arlen had parted from Dennisthey reached the small huddle of tents and makeshift wooden huts for which Flagg had searched in vain. Ho! Who comes, and can you say the password? a voice called. It was strong, sturdy, cheerful, and unafraid. Peyna recognized it. Its Naomi Reechul, the girl called, and the password two weeks ago was tripos. If its not that now, Ben Staad, then put an arrow through me and Ill come back and haunt you! Ben appeared from behind a rock, laughing. Id not dare meet you as a ghost, Naomiyoure fearsome enough alive! Ignoring this, she turned to Peyna. Weve come, she said. Yes, Peyna said. So I see. And I believe its 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 twentyone feet. He knew that he would be wiser by far to go on with his rope for another four monthseven 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 roundotheclock, 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 Peters feeling that he must now hurry was much stronger. Once Peyna would have snorted at the idea that feelings could be more trustworthy than logic . . . but now he might have been less sure. Peter had been having a dreamfor almost a week running now it had played over and over, gradually becoming more distinct. In it, he saw Flagg, bent over some bright and glowing objectit lit the magicians face a sickly greenishyellow. In this dream, there always came a point when Flaggs eyes first widened, as if in surprise, and then narrowed to cruel slits. His brows pulled down; his forehead darkened; a grimace as bitter as a crescent moon twisted his mouth. In this expression, the dreaming Peter read one thing and one thing only death. Flagg said only one word as he leaned forward and blew upon the brightly glowing object, which whiffed out like a candle when the magicians breath touched it. Only one word, but one was enough. The word from Flaggs mouth was Peters own name, uttered in tones of angry discovery. The night before, Saturday night, there had been a fairyring 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. Ill make my try under cover of darkness and under cover of storm, he thought. Therell even be a bit of snow to cushion my fall. He had to grin at that ideathree 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 wouldnt. 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 instancehave long since been driven from the castle keep . . . from the very Kingdom itself for all you know. He would trust to luck, then. Kings luck. It was a thing his father had often talked about. There are lucky Kings and unlucky. But youll be your own King and youll have your own luck. Mself I think youll be very lucky. He had been King of Delainat least in his own heartfor five years now, and he thought his luck had been the kind which the Staad family, with its famous bad luck, would have understood. But perhaps tonight would make up for all. His rope, his legs, his luck. Either all would hold or all would break, quite possibly at the same time. No matter. Poor as it had been, he would trust to his luck. Tonight, he murmured, turning from the window . . . but something happened at supper which changed his mind. 90 It took Peyna and Arlen all day Tuesday to make the ten miles to the Reechul farm, and they were nearly done in when they arrived. Castle Delain was twice as far, but Dennis probably could have been knocking at the West Gateif he had actually been mad enough to do such a thingby two that afternoon, in spite of his long walk the day before. Such is the difference, of course, between young men and old men. But what he could have done really didnt matter, because Peyna had been very clear in his instructions (especially for a man who claimed not to have the slightest idea of what he was doing), and Dennis meant to follow them to the letter. As a result, it would be some time yet before he entered the castle. After covering not quite half the distance, he began to look for a place where he could hole up for the next few days. So far he had met no one on the road, but noon had passed and soon there would be people returning from the castle market. Dennis wanted no one to see him and mark him. He was, after all, supposed to be home, sick in bed. He did not have to look long before he found a place that suited him well enough. It was a deserted farmstead, once well kept but now beginning to fall into ruin. Thanks to Thomas the TaxBringer, there were many such places on the roads leading to the castle keep. Dennis remained there until late Saturday afternoonfour days in all. Ben Staad and Naomi were already on their way back from the Far Forests to Peynas farm by then, Naomi pushing her team of huskies for all they were worth. The knowledge would have eased Dennis a bit if he had knownbut of course he did not, and he was lonely. There was no food at all upstairs, but in the cellar he found a few potatoes and a handful of turnips. He ate the potatoes (Dennis hated turnips, always had, and always would), using his knife to cut out the rotten placeswhich meant he cut away threefourths of every potato. He was left with a handful of white globes the size of pigeons eggs. He ate a few, looked toward the turnips in the vegetable bin, and sighed. Like them (he didnt) or hate them (he did), he supposed he would be reduced to eating them by Friday or so. If Im hungry enough, Dennis thought hopefully, maybe theyll taste good. Maybe Ill just gobble those old turnips up and beg for more! He finally did have to eat a number of them, although he managed to hold out until Saturday noon. By then, they actually had begun to look good, but as hungry as he was, they still tasted terrible. Dennis, who suspected the days ahead might be very hard, ate them anyway.


91 Dennis also found an old pair of snowshoes in the basement. The straps were far too large, but he had plenty of time to shorten them. The lacings had begun to rot, and there was nothing Dennis could do about that, but he thought they would serve the purpose. He wouldnt need them for long. He slept in the cellar, fearing surprise, but during the daylight hours of those four long days, Dennis spent most of his time in the parlor of the deserted farmstead, watching the traffic pass to and frowhat little there was began around three o the clock and had mostly ceased by five, when earlywinter shadows began to cover the land. The parlor was a sad, empty place. Once it had been a cheery spot in which the family had gathered to discuss the day just done. Now it belonged only to the mice . . . and to Dennis, of course. Peyna, after hearing Dennis declare that he could read and write pretty well for a fellow in service and seeing him draw his Great Letters (this had been over breakfast on Tuesdaythe last real meal Dennis had had since his own lunch on Monday, a meal he looked back on with understandable nostalgia), had provided him with several sheets of paper and a lead pencil. And during most of the hours he spent in the deserted house, Dennis labored earnestly over a note. He wrote, scratched out, rewrote, frowned horribly as he reread, scratched his head, resharpened his pencil with his knife, and wrote again. He was ashamed of his spelling, and terrified he would forget some crucial thing Peyna had told him to put in. There were several times, times when his poor frazzled brain could make no more progress, when he wished Peyna had stayed up an hour longer on the night Dennis had come and written his own damned note, or called it aloud to Arlen. Most times, however, he was glad of the job. He had worked hard his whole life, and idleness made him nervous and uneasy. He would rather have worked his sturdy young mans body than his notsosturdy young mans brains, but work was work, and he was glad to have it. By Saturday noon, he had a letter he was pretty well satisfied with (which was good, since he had worked his way down to the final two sheets of notepaper). He looked at it with some admiration. It covered both sides of the paper, and was by far the longest thing he had ever written. He folded it to the size of a medicine tablet, and then peeked out the sittingroom window, waiting impatiently for it to be dark enough to leave. Peter saw the gathering clouds from his own poor sitting room atop the Needle, Dennis from the sitting room of this deserted house; but both had been taught by their fathersone a King and the other a butter to that Kingto read the sky, and Dennis also thought there would be snow tomorrow. By four, the long, blue shadow of the house had begun to creep out from the foundations, and Dennis no longer felt so eager to go. It was danger ahead . . . deadly danger. He was to go where Flagg was perhaps even now brooding long over his infernal magics, perhaps even now checking upon a certain sick butler. But how he felt did not really matter, and he knew itthe time had come to do his duty, and as every butler in his family line had done for centuries and centuries, Dennis would do his best. He left the house in the bleak sunset hour, donned the snowshoes, and struck off across the field on a direct line toward the castle keep. The idea of wolves occurred to his uneasy mind, and he could only hope there would be none, and if there were, that they would leave him alone. He hadnt the slightest idea that Peter had decided to make his dangerous escape attempt the following night, but like Peynaand Peter himselfhe felt a need to hurry; it seemed to him that there were mackerelscale clouds laid across his heart as well as the sky. As he trudged through the snowdesolate fields, Denniss thoughts turned to how he might enter the castle without being seen and challenged. He thought he knew how it could be done . . . if, that was, Flagg did not smell him. He had no more than thought the magicians name when a wolf howled somewhere out in the still white wastes. In a dark room below the castle, Flaggs own sitting room, the magician sat bolt upright suddenly in his chair, where he had fallen asleep with a book of arcane lore open on his stomach. Who speaks the name of Flagg? the magician whispered, and the twoheaded parrot shrieked. Standing in the center of a long and desolate field of white, Dennis heard that voice, as dry and scabrous as a spiders scuttle, in his own head. He paused, his breath indrawn and held. When he finally let it go, it plumed frosty from his mouth. He was cold all over, but hot drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. From his feet he heard dry snapping noisesPouck! Pouck! Pouck!as several of the snowshoes rotted crosslacings let go. The wolf howled in the silence. It was a hungry, heartless sound. No one, Flagg muttered in the sitting room of his dark apartments. He was rarely sickcould remember being sick only three or four times in all of his long lifebut he had caught a bad cold in the north, sleeping on the frozen ground, and although he was improving, he was still not well. No one. A dream. Thats all. He took the book from his lap, closed it, and set it on a side tablethe surface of this table had been handsomely dressed in human skinand settled back in his chair. Soon he slept again. In the snowy fields west of the castle, Dennis slowly relaxed. A single drop of stinging sweat ran into his eye and he wiped it away absently. He had thought of Flagg . . . and somehow Flagg had heard him. But now the dark shadow of the magicians thought had passed over him, as the shadow of a hawk may pass over a crouching rabbit. Dennis let out a long, shaky sigh. His legs felt weak. He would tryoh, with all his heart he would tryto think of the magician no more. But as the night came on and the moon with its ghostly fairyring rose in the sky, that was a thing easier resolved upon than done. 92 At eight of the clock, Dennis left the fields and entered the Kings Preserves. He knew them well enough. He had been a squireen for Brandon when his da buttled the old King in the fields of the hunt, and Roland had come here often, even in his old age. Thomas came less often, but on the few occasions when the boy King did come, Dennis had, of course, been required to come with him. Soon he struck on a trail he knew, and just before midnight he reached the verge of this toy forest. He stood behind a tree, looking out at the castle wall. It was half a mile away over open, snowcovered ground. The moon was still shining, and Dennis was all too aware of the sentries who walked the castle parapet. He would have to wait until Prince Ailon had driven his silvery chariot over the edge of the world before crossing that open space. Even then he would be horribly exposed. He had known from the first that this would be the riskiest part of the whole adventure. Parting from Peyna and Arlen, with the good sun shining down, the risk had seemed acceptable. Now it seemed utterly mad. Go back, a cowardly voice inside him begged, but Dennis knew he couldnt. His father had laid a charge on him, and if the gods meant him to die trying to fulfill it, then he would die. Faint and yet clear, like a voice heard in a dream, came the call of the Crier, drifting out to him from the castles central tower Twelve oclock and alls well. . . . Nothings well, Dennis thought miserably. Not one single thing. He drew his thin coat more tightly around him and began the long job of waiting down the moon. Eventually it left the sky, and Dennis knew he had to move. Time had grown short. He stood, said a brief prayer to his gods, and began to walk across the open space as rapidly as he could, expecting a hail of Who goes there? from the castle walls at every moment. The hail did not come. The clouds had thickened across the night sky. All below the castle wall was one dark shadow. In less than ten minutes, Dennis had reached the edge of the moat. He sat on its low bank, the snow crunching under his bottom, and took the snowshoes off. He slid down onto the moat itself, which was frozen and covered with more snow. Denniss thundering heart slowed down. He was in the shadow of the bulking castle wall now, and would not be seen unless a sentry happened to look straight down, and most probably not even then. Dennis was careful not to go all the way across the moatnot yetbecause the ice close to the castle wall would be rotted and thin. He knew why this was so; the reason for the thin ice and the unpleasant smell here and the mossy wetness on the huge stones of the outer wall was his hope of entering the castle secretly. He moved carefully to the left, ears listening for the noise of running water. At last he heard it, and looked up. There, at eye height, was a round black hole in the solid castle wall. Fluid ran from it in listless streams. It was a sewer outflow pipe. Now for it, Dennis muttered. He drew back five paces, ran, and leaped. As he did, he felt the ice, rotted by the constant outflow of warm waste from the pipe, give under his feet. Then he was clinging to the mossy lip of the pipe. It was slick, and he had to clutch hard to keep from falling. He pulled himself up, digging for purchase with his feet, and finally yanked himself inside. He paused for a moment, trying to get his breath back, then began to crawl along the pipe, which slanted steadily upward. He and several of his playmates had found these pipes when they were children, and had been quickly warned off by their parents, partly because they might become lost, mostly because of the sewer rats. Still, Dennis thought he knew where he would come out. An hour later, in a deserted corridor of the castles east wing, a sewer grating movedwas stillthen moved again. It was shoved partway aside, and a few moments later a very dirty (and very smelly) butler named Dennis pulled himself out of a hole in the floor and lay panting on the cold cobbles. He could have used a longer rest, but someone might come along, even at this unearthly hour. So he replaced the grating and looked around. He did not recognize the hallway at once, but this in no way upset him. He started down it toward the Tintersection at the far end. At least, he reflected, there had been no rats in the warren of sewer pipes below the castle. That had been a great relief. He had been prepared for them, not just because of the gruesome tales his da had told him, but because there had been rats on a few occasions when he and his mates had ventured with fearful screeches of laughter down into the pipes as childrenthe rats had been part of the scary, dareyou adventure of it. Probably there were just a few mice, and your memorys exaggerated them into rats, Dennis thought now. This was not the truth, but Dennis would never know it. His memory of the rats in the sewers was a true one. The pipes had been infested with great, diseasebearing rodents since time out of mind. It had only been for the last five years that they had ceased to teem in the sewers. They had been wiped out by Flagg. The magician had rid himself of both a piece of stone and his own dagger by means of a sewer grating similar to the one from which Dennis had emerged on this early Sunday morning. He had rid himself of them, of course, because there were a few flecks of the deadly green Dragon Sand on each. The fumes from those few grains had killed the rats, burning many of them alive even as they paddled through the scummy water in the pipes, suffocating all the others before they could flee. Five years later, the rats had still not come back, although most of the poisonous fumes had dissipated. Most, but not all. If Dennis had entered one of the sewer pipes a bit closer to Flaggs apartments, he might well have died himself. Perhaps it was luck that saved him, or fate, or those gods he prayed to; Ill not take a stand on the matter. I tell tales, not tea leaves, and on the subject of Denniss survival, I leave you to your own conclusions. 93 He reached the junction, peered around the corner, and saw a sleepy young Guard o the Watch passing farther up the way. Dennis pulled back. His heart was thumping hard again, but he was satisfiedhe knew where he was. When he looked back, the guard was gone. Dennis moved quickly, up this corridor, down that flight of stairs, across tother gallery. He moved with speedy surefootedness, for he had spent his whole life in the castle. He knew it well enough, certainly, to find his way from the east wing, where he had come out of the sewers, to the lower west wing, where the napkins were stored. But because he dared not be seennot by anyoneDennis went by the most obscure corridors he knew, and at the sound of every footfall (either real or imagined, and I do think quite a few of them were imagined), he withdrew into the nearest cranny or niche. In the end, it took him over an hour. He thought he had never been so hungry in his life. Never mind your cussed belly now, Dennistake care of your master first, your belly later. He was standing far back in a shadowy doorway. Faintly, he heard the Crier call four oclock. He was about to move forward when slow, echoing footfalls came down the hallway . . . a clank of steelandscabbarda creak of leather leggings. Dennis pushed himself farther back into the shadows, sweating. A Guard o the Watch paused just in front of the thinly shadowed doorway where Dennis hid. The fellow stood for a moment rooting in his nose with his little finger, and then leaned over to blow a stream of snot between his knuckles. Dennis could have reached out and touched him, and felt certain that any moment the guard would turn . . . his eyes would widen . . . he would draw his shortsword . . . and that would be the end of Dennis, son of Brandon. Please, Denniss frozen mind whispered. Please, oh, please He could smell the guard, could smell the old wine and burned meat on his breath, and the sour sweat coming out of his skin. The guard started to move on . . . Dennis began to relax . . . then the guard stopped and began rooting in his nose again. Dennis could have screamed. I have a girrul name of MarchyMarchyMelda, the guard began to sing in a lowpitched, droning voice, rooting in his nose all the while. He produced a large green something, examined it thoughtfully, and flicked it onto the wall. Splat. Shes got a sister named Esamerelda. . . . I would sail the seven seas . . . Just to kiss her dimply knees! Tootiesingtay, singtiy, and pass me a bucketda wine. Something exceedingly horrible was now happening to Dennis. His nose had begun to itch and tickle in a way which was unmistakable. Very soon he would sneeze. Go! he screamed in his mind. Oh, why dont you go, you stupid fool? But the guard seemed to have no intentions of going. He had apparently struck a rich lode up in the left nostril, and he meant to mine it. I have a girrul name of DarchyDarchyDarla. . . . Shes got a sister named Red Headed Carla. . . . I would take a thousand sips . . . From her pretty pretty lips. . . . Tootiesingtay, singtiy, and pass me a bucketda wine. Ill hit you over the HEAD with a bucket of wine, you fool! Dennis thought. Move ON!! The itch in his nose grew steadily worse, but he did not dare even touch it, for fear the guard would see the movement from the corner of his eye. The guard frowned, bent over, blew his nose between his knuckles again, and finally moved on, still singing his droning song. He was barely out of sight before Dennis threw his arm over his own nose and mouth and sneezed into the crook of his elbow. He waited for the clash of metal as the guard drew his sword and whirled back, but the fellow was half asleep, and still half drunk from whatever party he had been at before his tour of duty commenced. Once, Dennis knew, such a slovenly creature would have been quickly discovered and sent to the farthest reaches of the Kingdom, but times had changed. There was a click of a latch, the screeeeee of hinges as a door was drawn open, and then it boomed closed, cutting off the guards song just as he reached the chorus again. Dennis sagged back in his niche for a moment, eyes closed, cheeks and forehead on fire, his feet twin blocks of ice. For a few minutes there I didnt think of my belly at all! he thought, and then had to slam both hands over his mouth to stifle a giggle. He peeked out of his hiding place, saw no one about, and moved to a doorway down the corridor and on his right. He knew this doorway very well, although the empty rocker and needlework case outside it were new to him. The door led to the room where all of those napkins had been stored since the time of Kyla the Good. It had never been locked before, and was not now. Old napkins were apparently not considered worth locking up. He peered inside, hoping that his answer to Peynas key question still held true. Standing there in the road on that bright morning five days ago, Peyna had asked him this Do you know when they take fresh stores of napkins to the Needle, Dennis? This seemed like a simple question indeed to Dennis, but you may have noticed that all questions seem simple if you know the answers, and most horribly difficult if you dont. That Dennis knew the answer to this one was a testament to his honesty and honor, although those traits were so deeply ingrained in his character that he would have been surprised if someone had told him this. He had taken moneyAnders Peynas money, in factfrom Ben Staad to make sure those napkins were delivered. Only a guilder, true, but money was money and pay was pay. He had felt honorbound to make sure, from time to time, that the service was continuing. He told Peyna about the big storeroom (Peyna was flabbergasted to hear of it) and how each Saturday night around seven oclock, a maid took twentyone napkins, shook them, ironed them, folded them, and set them in a stack on a small wheeled cart. This cart stood just inside the rooms doorway. Early on Sunday morningat six o the clock, less than two hours from right nowa servant boy would pull the cart to the Plaza of the Needle. He would rap at the bolted door at the base of the ugly stone tower, and one of the Lesser Warders would pull the cart inside and place the napkins on a table, where they would be doled out, meal by meal, through the week. Peyna had been satisfied. Dennis now hurried forward, feeling inside his shirt for the note he had written at the farmhouse. He had a bad moment or two when he couldnt find it, but then his fingers closed over it and he sighed with relief. It had only slipped a little to one side. He lifted the Sunday breakfast napkin. Sunday lunch. For a moment he almost passed over Sunday supper as well, and if he had done that, my tale would have had a very different endingbetter or worse I cannot say, but surely different. In the end, however, Dennis decided three napkins deep was safe enough. He had found a pin in a crack between two boards in the farmhouse living room and had nipped it into one shoulder strap of the rough linsey camisole he wore as underwear (and if he had been thinking a little better, he would have nipped the note to his underwear with it in the bargain, and spared himself that bad moment, but as I may have told you, Denniss brains were sometimes a little lacking). Now he retrieved the pin and carefully attached the note to an inner fold of the napkin. Let it find you, Peter, he murmured in the ghostly silence of that storeroom, piled high with napkins made in another age. Let it find you, my King. Dennis knew he must lie low now. The castle would be waking up soon; stableboys would be stumbling out to the barns, washerwomen would be moving to the laundries, cooks apprentices would be stumbling puffyeyed and sleepy to their fires (thinking of the kitchens made Denniss belly rumble anewby now even the hateful turnips would have tasted quite nicebut food, he reckoned, would have to wait). He worked his way farther back into the big room. The stacks were so high, the ways so zigzagging and irregular, that it was like working his way into a maze. The napkins gave off a sweet, dry, cottony smell. He finally reached one of the far corners, and here he reckoned he would be safe. He overspilled a stack of the napkins, spread them out, and took another handful for a pillow. It was by far the most luxurious mattress he had ever lain upon, and, hungry as he was, he needed sleep much more than food after his long walk and the frights of the night. He was asleep in no time at all, and he was troubled by no dreams. We will leave him now, with the first part of his job well and bravely accomplished. We will leave him turned upon his side, right hand curled under his right cheek, sleeping on a bed of royal napkins. And I would like to make a wish for you, Readerthat your sleep this night be as sweet and as blameless as his was all that day. 94 On Saturday night, as Dennis was standing in the horror of that wolfs howl and feeling the shade of Flaggs thought pass over him, Ben Staad and Naomi Reechul were encamped in a snowy hollow thirty miles north of Peynas farm . . . or what had been Peynas farm before Dennis showed up with his story of a King who walked and talked in his sleep. They had made the sort of rough camp people make when they mean to spend only a few hours and then push on. Naomi had seen to her beloved huskies while Ben put up a small tent and built a roaring fire. Shortly, Naomi joined him at the fire and cooked deer meat. They ate in silence, and then Naomi went to check the dogs again. All were sleeping except for Frisky, her favorite. Frisky looked at her with almost human eyes, and licked her hand. A good pull today, mdear, Naomi said. Sleep, now. Catch a moon rabbit. Frisky obediently put her head down on her paws. Naomi smiled and went back to the fire. Ben sat before it, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms around them. His face was somber and thoughtful. Snows coming. I can read the clouds as well as you, Ben Staad. And the fairies have made a ring around Prince Ailons head. Ben glanced at the moon and nodded. Then he looked back at the fire. Im worried. Ive had dreams of . . . well, dreams of one its better not to name. She lit a cigar. She offered the little package, which was wrapped in muslin to prevent drying, to Ben, who shook his head. Ive had the same dreams, I think, she said. She tried to make her voice casual, but was betrayed by a slight tremor. He stared around at her, eyes wide. Aye, she said, as if he had asked. In them, he looks into some bright glowing thing and speaks Peters name. Ive never been one of your skittish little girls who screeches at the sight of a mouse or a spider in its web, but I wake from that dream wanting to scream aloud. She looked both ashamed and defiant. How many nights have you had it? Two. Ive had it four arunning. Mines just the same as yours. And you neednt look like Im going to laugh at you or call you Little Nell Weeping at the Well. I also wake up wanting to scream. This bright thing . . . at the end of my dreams, he seems to blow it out. Is it a candle, do you think? No. You know its not. She nodded. Ben considered. Something far more dangerous than a candle, I think . . . Ill take that cigar you offered, if I may. She gave him one. He lit it from the fire. They sat a while in silence, watching the sparks rise toward the dark wind which trawled nets of powdery field snow through the sky. Like the light in the dream theyd shared, the sparks blew out. The night seemed very black. Ben could smell snow in that wind. A great deal of snow, he thought. Naomi seemed to read his thought. I think such a storm as the old folks tell about may be on the way. What do you think? The same. With a hesitation utterly unlike her usual forthright manner, Naomi asked What does the dream mean, Ben? He shook his head. I cant tell. Danger to Peter, that much is clear. If it means anything elseanything I can kenits that we must hurry. He looked at her with an urgent directness that made her heart speed up. Can we reach Peynas farm tomorrow, do you think? We should be able to. No one but the gods can say that a dog wont break a leg or that a killer bear who cant sleep his winter sleep wont come out of the woods and kill us all, but aye . . . we should be able to. ! exchanged all the dogs I used on the run up, except for Frisky, and Friskys almost tireless. If the snow comes early itll slow us down, but I think it will hold off . . . and off . . . and for every hour it does, itll be that much worse when it finally comes. Or so I think. But if it does hold off, and if we take turns jumping off the sledge and running alongside, I think we can make it. But what can we do except sit there, unless your friend the butler returns? I dont know. Ben sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. What good, indeed? Whatever it was the dreams foretold, it would happen at the castle, not at the farm. Peyna had sent Dennis to the castle, but how did Dennis mean to get in? Ben didnt know, because Dennis hadnt told Peyna. And if Dennis did gain entry undetected, where would he hide? There were a thousand possible places. Except . . . Ben! What? Jerked out of his thoughts, he turned to her. What did you think of just now? Nothing. Yes, something. Your eyes gleamed. Did they? I must have been thinking of pies. Its time you and I turned in. Well want to be off at first light. But in the tent, Ben Staad lay awake long after Naomi had gone to sleep. There were a thousand places in the castle to hide, yes. But he could think of two rather special ones. He thought he might well find Dennis in one . . . or the other. At last he fell asleep . . . . . . and dreamed of Flagg. 95 Peter began that Sunday as he always did, with his exercises and a prayer. He had awakened feeling fresh and ready. After a quick look at the sky to gauge the progress of the coming storm, he ate his breakfast. And, of course, he used his napkin. 96 By Sunday noon, everyone in Delain had come out of his or her house at least once to look worriedly toward the north. Everyone agreed that the storm, when it came, would be one to tell stories about in later years. The clouds rolling in were a dull gray, the color of wolf pelts. Temperatures rose until the icicles hanging beneath the eaves of the alleys began to drip for the first time in weeks, but the oldtimers told each other (and anyone else who would listen) that they were not fooled. The temperature would plummet quickly, and hours laterperhaps two, perhaps fourthe snow would begin. And, they said, it might fall for days. By three oclock that afternoon, those farmers of the Inner Baronies fortunate enough to still have livestock to watch out for had gotten their animals into the barns. The cows went mooing their displeasure; the snow had melted enough for them to crop last falls dry grasses for the first time in months. Yosef, older, grayer, but still lively enough at seventytwo, saw that all the Kings horses were stabled. Presumably there was someone else to take care of all the Kings men. Wives took advantage of the mild temperatures to attempt to dry sheets which otherwise simply would have frozen on the lines, and then took them in as the daylight lowered toward an early, stormcolored dark. They were disappointed; their washing had not dried. There was too much moisture in the air. Animals were skittish. People were nervous. Wise meadhouse keepers would not open their doors. They had observed the falling mercury in their barometric glasses, and long experience had taught them that low air pressure makes men quick to fight. Delain battened down for the coming storm, and everyone waited. 97 Ben and Naomi took turns running beside the sledge. They reached the Peyna farm at two oclock that Sunday afternoonat about the same time Dennis was stirring awake on his mattress of royal napkins and Peter was beginning his meager lunch. Naomi looked beautiful indeedthe flush of her exercise had colored her tanned cheeks the pretty dusky red of autumn roses. As the sledge pulled into Peynas yard, the dogs barking wildly, she turned her laughing face to Ben. A record run, by the gods! she cried. Weve made it threeno, four!hours earlier than I would have believed when we left! And not one dog has burst its heart! Aiy, Frisky! Aiy! Good dog! Frisky, a huge blackandwhite Anduan husky with graygreen eyes, was at the head of the tether. She was jumping in the air, straining against the traces. Naomi unhooked her and danced with her in the snow. It was a curious waltz, both graceful and barbaric. Dog and mistress seemed to laugh at each other in a powerful shared affection. Some of the other dogs were lying down on their sides now, panting hard, obviously exhausted, but neither Frisky nor Naomi seemed even slightly winded. Aiy, Frisky! Aiy, my love! Good dog! Youve led a famous chase! But for what? Ben asked glumly. She released Friskys paws and turned to him, angry . . . but the dejection on his face robbed her of her anger. He was looking toward the house. She followed his gaze and understood. They were here, yes, but where was here? An empty farmhouse, that was all. What in the world had they come so far and so fast for? The house would have been just as empty an hour . . . two hours . . . four hours from now. Peyna and Aden were in the north, Dennis somewhere in the depths of the castle. Or in a prison cell or a coffin awaiting burial, if he had been caught. She went to Ben and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Dont feel so bad, she said. Weve done all we could do. Have we? he asked. I wonder. He paused, and sighed deeply. He had taken off his knitted cap and his golden hair gleamed mellowly in the dull afternoon light. Im sorry, Naomi. I dont mean to snap at you. You and your dogs have done wonders. Its just that I feel were very far from where we could give any real aid. I feel helpless. She looked at him, sighed, and nodded. Well, he said, lets go in. Maybe therell be some sign of what were to do next. Well at least be out of the blow when it comes. There were no clues inside. It was just a big, drafty, empty farmhouse that had been quit in a hurry. Ben prowled restlessly from room to room and found nothing at all. After an hour, he collapsed unhappily beside Naomi in the sitting room . . . in the very chair where Anders Peyna had sat when he listened to Denniss incredible story. If only there was a way to track him, Ben said. He looked up to see her staring at him, her eyes bright and round and full of excitement. There might be! she said. If the snow holds off What are you talking about? Frisky! she cried. Dont you see? Frisky can track him! She has the keenest nose of any dog Ive ever known! The scent would be days old, he said, shaking his head. Even the greatest tracking dog that ever lived could not . . . Frisky may be the greatest tracking dog that ever lived, Naomi replied, laughing. And tracking in winters not like tracking in summer, Ben Staad. In summer, trace dies quickly . . . it rots, my da says, and there are a hundred other traces to cover the one the dog seeks. Not just of other people and other animals, but of grasses and warm winds, even the smells that come on running water. But in the winter, trace lasts. If we had something that belonged to this Dennis . . . something that carried his scent . . . What about the rest of your team? Ben asked. I should open the shed over thereshe pointed at itand leave my bedroll in it. If I show them where it is and then free them, theyll be able to forage for their own foodrabbits and suchand theyll also know where to come for shelter. They wont follow us? Not if theyre told not to. You can do that? He looked at her with some awe. No, Naomi said matteroffactly. I dont speak Dog.


Nor does Frisky speak Human, but she understands it. If I tell Frisky, shell tell the others. Theyll hunt what they need, but they wont range far enough to lose the scent of my bedroll, not with the storm coming. And when it starts, theyll go to shelter. It wont matter if their bellies are hungry or full. And if we had something that belonged to this boy Dennis, you really believe Frisky could track him? Aye. Ben looked at her long and thoughtfully. Dennis had left this farm on Tuesday; it was now Sunday. He didnt believe any scent could last that long. But there was something in the house which would bear Denniss scent, and perhaps even a fools errand would be better than only sitting here. It was the pointless sitting more than anything else that grated on him, the hours ahead when things of grave importance might be happening elsewhere, while they sat and twiddled their thumbs here. Under other circumstances, the possibility of being snowbound with a girl as beautiful as Naomi would have delighted him, but not while a kingdom might be won and lost twenty miles to the east . . . and his best friend might be living or dying with only that confounded butler to help him. Well? she asked eagerly. What do you think? I think its crazy, he said, but worth a try. She grinned. Do we have something with his scent strong upon it? We do, he said, getting up. Bring your dog in, Naomi, and lead her upstairs. To the attic. 98 Although most humans dont know it, scents are like colors to dogs. Faint scents have faint colors, like pastels washed out by time. Clear scents have clear colors. Some dogs have weak noses, and they read scents the way humans with poor eyes see colors, believing this delicate blue may actually be a gray, or that dark brown may actually be a black. Friskys nose, on the other hand, was like the eyesight of a man with the gaze of a hawk, and the scent in the attic where Dennis had slept was very strong and very clear (it may have helped that Dennis had been some days without a bath). Frisky sniffed the hay, then sniffed the blanket THE GIRL held for her. She scented Arlen upon it, but disregarded the scent; it was weaker, and not at all the scent she had found on the hay. Arlens smell was lemony and tired, and Frisky knew at once that it was the smell of an old man. Denniss smell was more exciting and vital. To Friskys nose, it was the electric blue of a summer lightning stroke. She barked to show that she knew this smell and had put it safely away in her library of scents. All right, good girl, THE TALL BOY said. Can you follow it? Shell follow it, THE GIRL said confidently. Lets go. Itll be dark in an hour. Thats so, THE GIRL said, and then grinned. When THE GIRL grinned that way, Frisky thought her heart might just burst with love of her. But it isnt her eyes that we want, is it? THE TALLBOY smiled. I guess not, he said. You know, I must be crazy, but I think were going to pick up these cards and play them. Course we are, she said. Come on, Ben. Lets use what little daylights leftitll be dark soon enough. Frisky, her nose full of that brightblue scent, barked eagerly. 99 Peters supper came promptly at six oclock that Sunday night. The storm clouds hung heavy over Delain and the temperature had begun to drop, but the winds hadnt yet begun to blow and not a snowflake had fallen. On the far side of the Plaza, shivering in stolen cookboys whites, Dennis stood anxiously, drawn back into the deepest shadow he could find, staring at the single square of paleyellow light at the top of the NeedlePeters candle. Peter, of course, knew nothing of Denniss vigilhe was filled with the wonder of the idea that, live or die, this would be the last meal he would ever eat in this damned prison cell. It was just more tough, salty meat, halfrotted potatoes, and watery ale, but he would eat it all. For the last three weeks he had eaten little and had spent all the waking time he did not spend working at the tiny loom exercising, readying his body. Today, however, he had eaten everything brought to him. He would need all his strength tonight. What will happen to me? he wondered again, sitting down at the little table and grasping the napkin that lay over his meal. Where exactly will I go? Who will take me in? Anyone? All men, its said, must trust in the gods . . . but Peter, you are trusting so much its ridiculous. Stop. Whatll be is whatll be. Now eat, and think no more of But that was where his restless thoughts broke off, because as he shook the napkin out, he felt a small stab, like the prick of a nettle. Frowning, he looked down and saw that a tiny bead of blood had seeped up on the ball of his right forefinger. Peters first thought was of Flagg. In the fairy tales, it was always a needle that bore the poison. Perhaps he had been poisoned now, by Flagg. That was his first thought, and not such a silly one, at that. After all, Flagg had used poison before. Peter picked the napkin up, saw a tiny folded object with black, smudgy marks on it . . . and flipped the napkin back down at once. His face remained calm and peaceful, giving away none of the wild excitement that had burst up inside him at the sight of the note pinned inside the napkin. He glanced casually toward the door, suddenly afraid he would see one of the Lesser Wardersor Beson himselfstaring suspiciously in at him. But there was no one. The prince had been a great object of curiosity when he first came to the Needle, stared at as avidly as a rare fish is stared at in a collectors tanksome of them had even smuggled their ladyloves up to look at the murdering monster (and they would have been imprisoned for it themselves, if they had been caught). But Peter was a model prisoner, and he had palled quickly. No one was looking at him now. Peter forced himself to eat his entire meal, although he no longer wanted it. He wanted to take not the slightest chance of rousing suspicionsnow more than ever. He had no idea who the note might be from, or what it might say, or why it had aroused such a fever in him. But for a note to come now, only hours before he planned to make his try to escape, seemed an omen. But of what? When his meal was finally eaten, he glanced toward the door again, made sure the spyhole was closed, and walked to his bedroom with his napkin still held casually in one hand, almost as if he had forgotten that he held it at all. In the bedroom, he unpinned the note (his hands were trembling so badly he pricked himself again) and unfolded it. It was written closely on both sides in letters which were rusty and a bit childish, but readable enough. His glance went first to the signature . . . and his eyes widened. The note was signed Dennisyour Friend and Servant ForEver. Dennis? Peter muttered, so flabbergasted he was unaware that he had whispered aloud. Dennis? He turned back then, and the letters opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King. 100 My King, As you may Noe, for the last 5 Yeres I have Buttled in Service to your Brother, Thomas. In just this last Week I have found out that You did not Murther you Father Roland the Good. I Noe who Did, and Thomas Noes as Well. You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. I went to Peyna. Peyna has gone to join the Exiles with his Butler, Orlon. He has commanded I come to the Castle, and Rite to you this note. Peyna says that the Exiles may soon become Rebels and this must not Be. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. He commands that I be of Service to You, and my Da commanded it too, before He Dyed, and my Heart commands it, for our Famly has always served the King and you are the Right King. If you have a Plan, I will aid you in Any Way I can, even if it means my Death. As you read this, I am across the Platza in the shadows looking at the Needle where you are Pent Up. If you have a Plan, come I pray You and stand at the Window. If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night. Wave twyce if you will try this idea. Your friend Ben is with the Exiles. Peyna said He would send Him. I Noe were He (Ben) will be. If You say I should fetch Him (Ben) I can, in a Day. Or perhaps Two if there is Snoe. I Noe that throwing down a Note might be Riskee, but I feel Time is short. Peyna feels the Same Way. I will be Watching and Praying. Dennis Your Friend and Servant ForEver 101 It was a long time before Peter could put his whirling thoughts in order. His mind kept circling back to one question What had Dennis seen to change his mind so radically and completely? What, in the names of all the gods, could it have been? Little by little he came to realize that it didnt matterDennis had seen something, and that was enough. Peyna. Dennis had gone to Peyna, and Peyna had sensed . . . well, the old fox had sensed something. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. Old fox indeed. He had not forgotten Peters request for the dollhouse, and the napkins. He hadnt known exactly what those things meant, but he had sensed something in the wind. Aye, well and truly. Then what was Peter to do? Part of hima very large partwanted to go ahead just as he had planned. He had worked his courage up to this desperate adventure; now it was hard to let it go for nothing but more waiting. And there were the dreams, urging him on, as well. You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. Peter knew just the same, of course, and it was that more than anything else that convinced him Dennis really had stumbled onto something. Peter felt that Flagg might soon awake to this new developmentand he wanted to be gone before that happened. Was a day too long to wait? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Peter was torn in an agony of indecision. Ben . . . Thomas . . . Flagg . . . Peyna . . . Dennis . . . they whirled in his brain like figures seen in a dream. What should he do? In the end, it was the appearance of the note itselfnot what was in itthat persuaded him. For it to come this way, pinned to a napkin on the very night he meant to try his rope made of napkins . . . it meant he should wait. But only for a night. Ben would not be able to help. Could Dennis help him, though? What could he do? And suddenly, in a flash of light, an idea came to him. Peter had been sitting on his bed, hunched over the note, his brows furrowed. Now he straightened up, his eyes alight. His eyes fell on the note again. If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night. Yes, of course, he had something to write on. Not the napkin itself, because it might be missed. Not Denniss note, either, because it was written on both sides, from side to side and top to bottom. But Valeras parchment was not. Peter went back into his sitting room. He glanced at the door and saw that the spyhole was closed. Dimly he could hear the warders at cards below. He crossed to the window and waved twice, hoping that Dennis was really out there somewhere, and could see him. He would just have to hope so. Peter went back to the bedroom, pulled up the loose stone, and after some reaching and fumbling, retrieved the locket and the parchment. He turned the parchment over to the blank side . . . but what was he to do for ink? After a moment the answer came to him. The same thing Valera had done, of course. Peter worked at his thin straw mattress, and after some tugging opened a seam. The stuffing was of straw, and before long, he had found a number of good long stalks that would serve as pens. Then he opened the locket. It was in the shape of a heart, and the point at the bottom was sharp. Peter closed his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer. Then he opened them and drew the point of the locket across his wrist. Blood welled up at oncemuch more than had come from the pinprick earlier. He dipped the first straw in his blood and began to write. 102 Standing in the cold darkness across the Plaza, Dennis saw Peters shape come to the small window at the top of the Needle. He saw Peter raise his arms over his head and cross them twice. There would be a message, then. It doubledno, trebledhis risk, but he was glad. He settled in to wait, feeling numbness slowly creep over his feet and kill the feeling in them. The wait seemed very long. The Crier called ten . . . then eleven . . . finally twelve o the clock. The clouds had hidden the moon, but the air seemed strangely lightanother sign of a coming storm. He was beginning to think that Peter must have forgotten him, or changed his mind, when that shape came to the window again. Dennis straightened up, wincing at a pain in his neck, which had been cocked upward for the last four hours. He thought he saw something arc out . . . and then Peters shape left the high window. A moment later, the light up there was extinguished. Dennis looked left and right, saw no one, took all of his courage in his hands, and ran out into the Plaza. He knew perfectly well that there might be someonea more alert Guard o the Watch than last nights tuneless singer, for instancewhom he hadnt seen, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was also gruesomely aware of all the men and women who had been beheaded not far from here. What if their ghosts were still around, lurking? But thinking about such things did no good, and so he tried to put them from his mind. Of more immediate concern was just finding the thing that Peter had thrown. The area at the foot of the Needle below Peters window was a featureless white snowfield. Feeling horribly exposed, Dennis began to cast about like an inept hunting dog. He wasnt sure what he had seen glimmering in the airit had been there only for a secondbut it had looked solid. That made sense; Peter would not have thrown a piece of paper, which might have fluttered anywhere. But what, and where was it? As the seconds ticked by, turning into minutes, Dennis began to feel more and more frantic. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl about, peering into footprints which had melted to the size of dragon prints earlier that day and which were now refreezing, hard and blue and shiny. Sweat coursed down his face. And he began to be deviled by a recurring ideathat a hand would fall on his shoulder, and when he turned he would see the grinning face of the Kings magician inside his dark cowl. A little late for hide and seek, isnt it, Dennis? Flagg would say, and although his grin would widen, his eyes would burn a baleful, hellish red. What have you lost? Can I help you find it? Dont think his name! For the gods sake, dont think his name! But it was hard to stop. Where was it? Oh, where was it? Back and forth Dennis crawled, his hands now as numb as his feet. Back and forth, back and forth. Where was it? Bad enough if he was unable to find it. Worse still if the snow held off until morning light and someone else did. Gods knew what it might say. Dimly, he heard the Crier call one o the clock. He was now covering ground he had already covered before, becoming more and more panicky. Stop, Dennis. Stop, boy. His das voice, too clear in his head to be mistaken. Dennis had been on his hands and knees, his nose almost on the ground. Now he straightened up a little. Youre not SEEING anything anymore, boy. Stop and close your eyes for a moment. And when you open em, look around. Really look around. Dennis closed his eyes tight and then opened them wide. This time, he looked around almost casually, scanning the whole snowy, tracked area around the foot of the Needle. Nothing. Nothing at Wait! There! Over there! Something glimmered. Dennis saw a curve of metal, barely poking half an inch out of the snow. Beside it, he could see a round track made by one of his kneeshe had almost crawled over the thing during his frantic hunt. He tried to pluck it from the snow and on his first try only pushed it farther in. His hand was almost too numb to close. Digging in the snow for the metal object, Dennis realized that if his knee had come down on it instead of beside it, he would have driven it more deeply into the snow without even feeling ithis knees were as numb as the rest of him. And then he never would have seen it at all. It would have remained buried until the spring thaws. He touched it, forced his fingers to close, and brought it out. He looked at it wonderingly. It was a tocketa locket which might be gold, in the shape of a heart. There was a fine chain attached to it. The locket was shutbut caught in its jaws was a folded piece of paper. Very old paper. Dennis pulled the note free, closed his hand gently over the old paper, and slipped the lockets chain over his head. He got creakily to his feet and ran back toward the shadows. That run was, in a way, the worst part of the whole business for him. He had never felt so exposed in his whole life. For every step he ran, the comforting shadows of the buildings on the far side of the Plaza seemed to recede a step. At last he reached comparative safety and stood in the shadows for a while, panting and shuddering. When he had gotten his breath, he returned to the castle, slinking along the Fourth Alley in the shadows and entering by Cooks Way. There was a Guard of the Watch at the doorway leading into the castle proper, but he was as sloppy about his duties as his mate had been the night before. Dennis waited, and eventually the guard wandered off. Dennis darted inside. Twenty minutes later, he was safely back in the storeroom of the napkins. Here he unfolded the note and looked at it. One side was closely writ in an archaic hand. The writer had used a strange rustcolored ink and Dennis could make nothing of it. He turned the note over and his eyes widened. He recognized the ink that had been used to write the short message on this side easily enough. Oh, King Peter, he moaned. The message was smeared and blurrythe ink had not been blottedbut he could read it. Meant to try Escape tonight. Will wait 1 night. Dare wait no longer. Dont go for Ben. No time. Too dangerous. I have a Rope. Thin. May break. Too short. Will be a drop in any case. 20 feet. Midnight tomorrow. Help me away if you can. Safe place. May be hurt. In the hands of the gods. I love you my good Dennis. King Peter. Dennis read this note three times and then burst into tearstears of joy. That light Peyna had sensed was now shining brightly in Denniss own heart. That was well, and soon all would be well. His eyes returned again and again to the tine I love you my good Dennis, written in the Kings own blood. He had not needed to add that for the message to make sense . . . and yet, he had. Peter, I would die a thousand deaths for you, Dennis thought. He put the note inside his jerkin, and lay down with the locket still around his neck. It was a very long time before sleep found him this time. And he had not slept long before he snapped wide awake. The door of the storeroom was openingthe low creak of its hinges seemed an inhuman shriek to Dennis. Before his sleepfuddled mind even had time to realize he had been found, a dark shadow with burning eyes swept down on him. 103 The snow began at around three o the clock that Monday morningBen Staad saw the first flakes go skating past his eyes as he and Naomi stood at the edge of the Kings Preserves, looking out toward the castle. Frisky sat on her haunches, panting. The humans were tired, and Frisky was tired as well, but she was eager to gothe scent had grown steadily fresher. She had led them easily from Peynas farm to the deserted house where Dennis had spent some four days, eating raw potatoes and thinking sour thoughts about turnips which turned out to be as sour as the thoughts themselves. In that empty Inner Baronies farmstead, the brightblue scent she had followed this far had been everywhereshe had barked excitedly, running from room to room, nose down, tail wagging cheerfully. Look, Naomi said. Our Dennis burnt something here. She was pointing at the fireplace. Ben came and looked, but he could make out nothingthere were only bundles of ash which fell apart when he poked at them. Of course, they were Denniss early tries at his note. Now what? Naomi asked. He went to the castle from here, thats clear. The question is, do we follow or spend the night here? It had then been six oclock. Outside it was already dark. I think we had better go on, Ben said slowly. After all, it was you who said we wanted Friskys nose, not her eyes . . . and I, for one, would testify before the throne of any King in creation that Frisky has a noble nose. Frisky, sitting in the doorway, barked as if to say she knew it. All right, Naomi said. He looked at her closely. It had been a long run from the camp of the exiles, with little rest for either of them. He knew they should stay . . . but he was nearly frantic with urgency. Can you go on? he asked. Dont say you can if you cant, Naomi Reechul She put her hands on her hips and looked at him haughtily. I could go on a hundred koner from the place where you dropped dead, Ben Staad. Ben grinned. You may get your chance to prove it, too, he said. But first well have a bite to eat. They ate quickly. When the meal was finished, Naomi knelt by Frisky and quietly told her that she must take up the scent again. Frisky didnt have to be asked twice. The three of them quit the farmhouse, Ben with a large pack on his back, Naomi with one only slightly smaller. To Frisky, Denniss scent was a blue mark in the night, as bright as a wire glowing with an electric charge. She began to follow at once, and was confused when THE GIRL called her back. Then it came to her; if Frisky had been human, she would have slapped her forehead and groaned. In her impatience to be off, she had started sniffing up Denniss backtrail. By midnight she would have had them back at Peynas farmhouse. Thats all right, Frisky, Naomi said. Take your time. Sure, Ben said. Take a week or two, Frisky. Take a month, if you want. Naomi cast a sour glance Bens way. Ben shut upprudently, perhaps. The two of them watched Frisky nose back and forth, first across the dooryard of the deserted farm, then across the road. Has she lost it? Ben asked. No, shell pick it up in a minute or two I think, Naomi didnt say aloud. Its just that shes found a whole tangle of scents in the road and she has to sort them out. Look! Ben said doubtfully. Shes off into the field there. That cant be right, can it? I dont know. Would he have taken the road to the castle? Ben Staad was human, and he did slap his forehead. No, of course not. Im a dolt. Naomi smiled sweetly and said nothing. In the field, Frisky had paused. She turned toward THE GIRL and THE TALLBOY and barked impatiently for them to follow. Anduan huskies were the tame descendants of the great white wolves the residents of the Northern Barony had feared in earlier times, but tame or not, they were hunters and trackers before they were anything else. Frisky had isolated that brightblue thread of scent again, and was in a fever to be off. Come on, Ben said. I just hope shes found the right scent. Of course she has! Look! She pointed, and Ben was just able to make out long, shallow tracks in the snow. Even in the dark Ben and Naomi knew the tracks for what they weresnowshoes. Frisky barked again. Lets hurry, Ben said. By midnight, as they began to draw close to the Kings Preserves, Naomi began to regret the crack shed made about how she could go on a hundred koner from the place where Ben dropped dead, because she had begun to feel as if that might soon happen to her. Dennis had made the trip in better time, but Dennis had set out after four days of rest, Dennis had had snowshoes, and Dennis had not been following a dog who sometimes lost the scent and had to cast about for it again. Naomis legs felt hot and rubbery. Her lungs burned. There was a stitch in her left side. She had taken a few mouthfuls of snow, but they could not slake her raging thirst. Frisky, who was not burdened by a pack and who could run lightly along the snow crust, was not tired at all. Naomi was able to walk on the crust for short distances, but then she would strike a rotten spot and plunge through the crust into soft snow up to her knees . . . and on several occasions, up to her hips. Once she plunged in waistdeep and floundered about in a tired fury until Ben worked his way over and pulled her out. Wish . . . sled, she panted now. . . . wishes . . . horses . . . beggarsd ride, he panted back, grinning in spite of his own weariness. Funny, she gasped. Haha. Ought to be a court jester, Ben Staad. Kings Preserves up there. Less snow . . . easier. He bent over, hands on his knees, and gasped for breath. Naomi suddenly felt that she had been selfish and unkind, thinking about how she herself felt, when Ben must be even closer to the point of exhaustionhe was much heavier than she, especially with the weight of the larger pack he carried added into the bargain. He had been breaking through the snow crust on almost every step, leaping through the long fields like a man running in deep water, and yet he had not complained or slowed. Ben, are you all right? No, he wheezed and grinned. But Ill make it, pretty child. I am not a child! she said angrily. But you are pretty, he said, and put his thumb to the tip of his nose. He wiggled his fingers at her. Oh, Ill get you for that Later, he panted. Race you to the woods. Come on. So they raced, with Frisky chasing along the scent ahead of them, and he beat her, and that made her madder than ever . . . but she admired him, too. 104 Now they stood looking across the seventy koner of open ground between the edge of the forest where King Roland had once slain a dragon and the walls of the castle where he had been slain himself. A few more snowflakes skirted down from the sky . . . and a few more . . . and suddenly, magically, the air was filled with snow. In spite of his weariness, Ben felt a moment of peace and joy. He looked at Naomi and smiled. She tried a scowl but it wouldnt fit her face and so she smiled, too. A moment later, she ran her tongue out and tried to catch a flake of snow. Ben laughed quietly. How did he get inside, if he did? Naomi asked. I dont know, Ben said. He had grown up on a farm, and knew nothing of the casdes sewer system. Probably every bit as well for him, you might say, and you would be right. Perhaps your champion dog can show us how he did it. You really think he did, dont you, Ben? Oh, aye, Ben said. What do you think, Frisky? At the sound of her name, Frisky got up, ranged along the scent for a few feet, and looked back at them. Naomi looked at Ben. Ben shook his head. Not yet, he said. Naomi called Frisky softly, and she came back, whining. If she could talk, shed tell you shes afraid of losing the scent. The snow will cover it. Well not wait long. Dennis had the snowshoes, but were going to have something he didnt, Naomi. Whats that? Cover. 105 In spite of Friskys growing restlessness at being checked on the scent, Ben made them wait fifteen minutes. By then the air had become a shifting cloud of white. Snow frosted Naomis brown hair and his own blond hair; Frisky wore a cold ermine stole. They could no longer see the castle walls ahead of them. All right, Ben said softly, lets go. They crossed the open ground behind Frisky. The big husky moved slowly now, her nose constantly at the snow, puffing it up every now and again in cold little bursts. The brightblue runner of scent was dimming, being covered by the white nosmell stuff from the sky. We may have waited too long, Naomi said quietly beside him. Ben said nothing. He knew it, and the knowledge gnawed at his heart like a rat. Now a dark bulk loomed out of the whitenessthe castle wall. Naomi had moved slightly ahead. Ben reached out and grabbed her arm. The moat, he said. Dont forget that. Its up here somewhere. Youll go over the side and land on the ice and break your ne He got just so far and then Naomis eyes blazed with alarm. She pulled out of his grip. Frisky! she hissed. Hai! Frisky! Danger! Dropoff! She darted after the dog. That girl is absolutely giddy bonkers, Ben thought with a certain admiration. Then he darted after her. Naomi neednt have worried. Frisky had stopped at the edge of the moat. Her nose was buried in the snow and her tail was wagging happily. Now she bit down on something and dragged it out of the loose powder. She turned to Naomi, eyes asking Now am I a good dog, or what? What do you think? Naomi laughed and hugged her dog. Ben glanced toward the castle wall. Hush! he whispered at her. If the guards hear you, were in the slatecracker for sure! Where do you think we are? Your back garden? Pooh! If they heard anything, theyd think it was snow sprites and run for their mommies. But she whispered, too. Then she buried her face in Friskys fur and told her again what a good dog she was. Ben scratched Friskys head. Because of the snow, neither of them had the horribly exposed sense Dennis had had when he had sat in the same place, taking off the snowshoes Frisky had now found. Nose of the gods, all right, Ben said. But what happened after he took off the snowshoes, Frisky? Did he grow wings and fly over Westrd Redan? Where did he go from here? As if in answer, Frisky broke away from both of them and went floundering and slipping down the steep bank to the frozen moat. Frisky! Naomi called, her voice low but alarmed. Frisky only stood on the ice looking up at them, hockdeep in new snow. Her tail was wagging slightly, and her eyes begged them to come. She did not bark; somehow she knew better, even though Naomi had not thought to warn her to silence. But she barked in her mind. The scent was still here, and she wanted to follow it before it disappeared completely, as it now would within minutes. Naomi looked questioningly at Ben. Yes, he said. Of course. We have to. Come on. But keep her to heeldont let her range ahead. Theres danger here. I feel it. He held out his hand. Naomi grasped it, and they slid down to the moat together. Frisky led them slowly across the ice toward the castle wall. She was now actually digging for the scent, her nose furrowing the snow. It had begun to be overlaid with a thick, unpleasant smelldirty, warm water, garbage, ordure. Dennis had known that the ice would begin to grow dangerously rotten as he got closer to the outflow pipe. Even if he hadnt known, he was able to see the three feet or so of open water next to the wall. Things werent so easy for Ben, Naomi, and Frisky. They had simply assumed that if the ice was thick along the moats outer bank, it must be thick all the way across. And their eyes were of little use to them in the thickly falling snow. Friskys eyes were the weakest of the three, and she was in the lead. Her ears were sharp enough, and she had heard the ice groaning beneath the new snow . . . but the scent was too much on her mind for her to take much notice of the faint creaks . . . until the ice gave way beneath her and she plunged into the moat with a splash. Frisky! Fr Ben clapped a hand over her mouth. She struggled to get away from him. Ben had now seen the danger, however, and held her fast. Naomi neednt have worried. Of course all dogs can swim, and with her thick, oily coat, Frisky was safer in the water than either of the humans would have been. She paddled almost to the castle wall amid chunks of rotted ice and whippedcream globs of snow that quickly turned into dark slush and disappeared. She raised her head, smelling, searching for the scent . . . and when she knew where it went, she turned and paddled back toward Ben and Naomi. She found the edge of the ice. Her paws broke it off, and she tried again. Naomi cried out. Be still, Naomi, or youll have us in the dungeons by dawn, Ben said. Hold my ankles.