but I will try not to offend your grief."
She nodded, her face still averted. "I am glad to treat this as a... problem. Something that needs, and has, a solution."
As opposed to grief and death, Morlock supposed, which had none. He nodded.
"I was going to say..."
"About the Strigae," he prompted.
"About the Blessed Sisterhood (I name them not!). They... There are many of them among the townspeople."
"Oh?"
"Yes. In the day, they walk even as we do. In the night . . . They will surely come tonight, in some numbers. The people nearby—"
"Will be Strigae themselves."
"They
"No one will intervene against the Strigae."
"It's too dangerous. The Gentle Sisters (who hear me not; who see me not) will not harm us if we let them be. And they are so powerful that we couldn't stop them even if we tried."
Morlock grunted. "You could leave. Strigae tend to be pretty territorial."
The widow nodded slowly. "But this is my home. It is the only place I know."
Morlock knew many places, but he could never go again to the place he considered home. He shrugged his crooked shoulders and turned away to inspect the walls, floor and ceiling of the corpse-house. There were many cracks in the mortar that had been hastily patched. Several sections of roof were loose; Morlock could swing them back like shutters on a skylight. There were brown streaky stains on the wall that were probably blood. The floor was beaten earth with a definite slope from north to south; several rat holes had been plugged with plaster. The place stank like the devil, but that's what you'd expect from a corpse-house.
"You don't think I will make it, do you?" he said to the widow.
"I hope you will," she said earnestly. "If, during the night, you have to flee the. . . flee here, I will understand."
"Will you understand so far as to pay me the crow-coin?"
Her jaw tightened. "No. I'm sorry."
"Me, too." He shook his head. "I will need a couple of barrels of water."
"What?"
"I'll need a couple of barrels of water."
"You—"
"Need a couple of barrels of water. Soon, if both Thelyphron and I are to make it through the night intact."
"It's just — I thought you were going to say something else, I suppose. I will get you what you need. I doubt you will want to eat in here. But do you want anything to drink, besides water? A mug of beer or wine?"
Morlock shrugged. If someone had had the decency to offer him a drink an hour or two ago, he'd be well on his way to oblivion by now. And likely to wake up with his nose and ears chewed off by a Striga. "No," he said. "I never drink while I'm working."
"You are a man of principle."
"Hmph," Morlock said dryly, in a double sense, and turned back to inspect the wall.
Morlock was almost done digging his channel around the walls of the corpse house when the widow returned with two barrels of water. The barrels were carried in, one at a time, by a burly young man the widow introduced as her son, Zatchlas.
"I am called Myrrhina," the widow added, and glanced significantly at Morlock.
He didn't like the way she'd put that. It was almost as if her real name was something else, and she had reason to keep it secret. Sorcerers did that sometimes. "My name is Morlock," he said flatly.
"Oh," Myrrhina said distantly. "What in the world is that you're working on?"
"A ditch," Morlock said, descending to technicality. He nodded at the barrels being lugged into the corpse house by the sweating, rather softly muscled Zatchlas. "Strigae cannot cross running water, you know."
"Er, yes. But surely the water will not run uphill?"
Morlock shrugged and said, "Can you get me a lantern or some candles? There's nothing here and I'll need light for my watch."
"Of course. Zatchlas will bring them, won't you, dear?"
From the expression on his heavy features, Zatchlas seemed aggrieved rather than grieving, and he rolled his eyes at his mother's request. But he gruffly admitted he'd be passing that way later.
"Good luck to you, Morlock," Myrrhina whispered as they left.
"Do not spend that coin," he replied, and turned back to his digging. By the time Zatchlas returned, perhaps a half hour before sunset, the channel was complete, the mirror-gates were set at the high and low point of the stream, and he was pouring in the water from one of the barrels.
He felt Zatchlas' heavy presence behind him as he poured, but said nothing until Zatchlas said, "You really think that will work?"
"It might," Morlock replied, and stood the barrel upright.
The water ran down the channel and through the mirror gate. From there it turned upward, along the square lines of the corpse-house, until it reached the upper mirror-gate. When it passed through that it turned downward once more. The corpse-house was now a fortress against Strigae, defended by its odd rectangular river-moat.
"Magic!" Zatchlas whispered.
Morlock shrugged. He never knew what to say to that. "Anyone can do it, if they know how," he said this time. "That's the trick; knowing how."
"How is it done?" Zatchlas asked.
"The mirror convinces the water that gravity works differently on either side of the gate; the water behaves accordingly."
"You can't convince soulless matter of something that's not true."
Morlock shrugged. "Water isn't quite soulless, not the way a rock is (and even then it depends on the rock). Water is also quite gullible, in small amounts."
"I can't believe it!"
"You I'm not trying to convince. Did you bring the lamp?"
"Eh? Oh, I have a bundle of candles here. Wax candles, not tallow. Mother said you would know why."
Morlock did. Tallow candles were made from the fat of dead animals, and were relatively easy to infect with hostile magic. He'd have felt better if his employer were unaware of this.
"And this," Zatchlas said with some relish, handing over that candles, and a large covered mug.
"What's 'this'?" Morlock demanded.
"A long drink of wine. It'll be a pretty cold night; mother thought it might help."
Morlock snorted, but accepted both the candles and the wine-cup.
"I will stop by sometime after dark," Zatchlas added. "Not as a relief, you understand."
"Yes."
"Just to see how you are doing."
"Thanks."
Zatchlas left and Morlock was left glaring at the wine cup.
Morlock hadn't always been a drunk — everybody has to start somewhere. But by now he was a fairly experienced one. He didn't think a single cup of wine, no matter how tall, was going to incapacitate him. But he knew that something started when he began to drink; he switched from one mind, almost, to another. That, of course, was the point: his undrunk mind was a burden to him and drink was an escape. But undrunk Morlock, as annoying as he was in some ways, was more a more reliable person than drunk Morlock. Drunk Morlock forgot things; drunk Morlock wandered away from tasks; drunk Morlock reacted to potential dangers too slowly and
