Beau shook his head and said, 'Wait'll you use mine, bucco; then you'll see.'
They trudged out to an ornamental garden behind the mansion and gathered up chill pebbles amid the melting snow, then walked to an open space along the city wall.
'All right, bucco, here's what Phais taught me: first you've got to adjust the loop 'round your thumb: too tight, you cut off the blood; too loose, and you'll hurl the sling away with the bullet. And speaking of bullets, the best are not perfectly round, but elongated instead: they fit the sling pocket better for a better throw and seem more deadly when they strike. And another thing…'
Thus did Beau begin teaching Tip all he knew about slings and bullets and deadly casting, underhand and overhand and sidearm and backhand, for one never knew just where one might be when it came time to throw-on a cliff or hanging onto a tree trunk or peering over a wall or standing still or running or riding a pony or horse-at targets left and right, near and far, high and low, at stationary targets and moving ones, big and little both, speaking of the best places to strike the foe to bring him down or kill him outright. Although Tip was a quick learner, there was much more to slinging than he had ever suspected.
The following day, Valk and his remaining warriors prepared to set out for Kachar, and the Mages of Black Mountain for distant Pellar. As to Phais and Loric, they would not leave for a time to come, yet hoping to turn King Agron away from his mission to Gron and toward Pellar instead. Bekki though was of a mind to remain at Tipper- ton's side, for although his pledge to see the Waeran safely to Dendor had been fulfilled, still he felt an obligation to the wee Chak-Sol; besides, what better place to find Grg to kill than in the wastes of Gron.
Long were the farewells, Tip, Beau, Phais, Loric, and Bekki saying good-bye to Valk and the Mages. Imongar came limping to Tipperton and embraced the buccan and whispered her thanks to him in spite of his having stabbed her in the leg with one of his very sharp arrows.
And as they rode away, the Dwarves to the north, the Mages to the south, clarions called from the walls of Dendor, announcing to one and all that on this day heroes now rode across the plains of Aven.
It was on the third day of sling practice, when Beau frowned at something afar. 'I say, Tip, what's that? It's the fourth one I've seen today.'
Tip turned and looked. A white wagon, its driver in white, made its way down the cobbled side street. 'Oh, it's a wagon for the sick, Beau, heading for the prison.'
'Prison?'
'Aye. There's a dark disease in the city. Modru caused. When he had the corpses cast over the city walls-'
'Dark disease?'
Tip nodded, his face grim. 'Awful. Pus-running boils. Dark rin-'
'Black nodules under the armpits, the groin?' broke in Beau. 'Fever?'
'Well I don't know about nodules, but fever, yes, and dark rings about sunken eyes.'
'Oh my,' said Beau. 'It sounds like the plague.'
'Plague? But I thought a plague was something widespread, whereas this is not extensive. Just those who bore the corpses to the fires seem-'
'Perhaps it's not widespread yet,' declared Beau, gathering up his jacket and cloak, 'but if it's what I think it is, it'll bring down the entire city if it's not stopped.'
'Where are you going?'
'To this prison, wherever it is. I've got to see for myself. Besides, they can use my help.'
Tip began donning his own jacket. 'I'll take you there, but as far as helping them, I dunno, Beau. The healer I talked to acted as if not many would survive.'
'Oh my, but I was hoping I would never see this day,' said Beau, the look on his face grim.
'Then it is the plague?' asked Tip.
Beau nodded. 'Even though I've never seen it before, it fits all the descriptions I've ever read, particularly the one in my red healer's book.'
Phais glanced at Loric. 'Our help will be needed, chier.'
Loric nodded in silent reply.
Beau sighed. 'They've silverroot aplenty but none of the golden mint.'
Bekki looked up from his plate of food. 'Golden mint?'
'Yes. Gwynthyme. I've thought a tisane of golden mint mixed with silverroot might aid in curing the plague, yet I have no gwynthyme left. Do you know where there is some?'
Bekki shrugged. 'Mayhap. Once when I was prospecting in the Grimwall above Nordlake I saw quite a lot of a golden mint growing in cracks and crevices along the face of the steeps. But whether this is what you are seeking, I cannot say.'
'Quite a lot? Oh my, just what we need, if gwynthyme it is.' Beau jumped down from the bench at the table. 'Hold on, I'll show you a picture of it.'
Moments later the buccan was back, his thin, faded-red-leather healer's book in hand. Riffling through the pages, quickly Beau found the one he sought. 'Here it is.' He showed the drawing to Bekki.
The Dwarf grunted and looked up from the picture. 'Perhaps it is what I saw.' He glanced again at the page and then frowned in puzzlement. 'These words, I cannot read them.'
'The book, it's written in a simple code,' said Beau. 'Here, I'll read it for you.' Beau took the book back and, his brow furrowing in concentration, read, ' 'Gwynthyme: a trefoil with serrated trifoliate aromatic leaves and nearly regular pale yellow flowers.' ' Beau looked up to see Bekki yet frowning.
'The yellow flowers I understand,' grumbled Bekki. 'But the rest of it…' Bekki shrugged.
'Delgar writes like that, Bekki: jaw-breaking words and all. It took me awhile to learn what they meant.'
Bekki raised an eyebrow. 'Delgar?'
Beau nodded and tapped the red book. 'The Mage who gave me this.'
'Ah. Mage talk. I see,' growled Bekki. 'What is he really trying to say about gwynthyme?'
Beau gestured at the sketch. 'Think of it as an ordinary mint, Bekki, but with three jagged-edged leaves at each stem, golden in color with a minty odor. Is that what you saw?'
Bekki looked again at the picture and then nodded. 'Aye, as near as I can remember.'
'Oh my. Oh my,' said Beau. 'Then that's just what we need, I think. This place where you saw the mint, can you find it again?'
Bekki scowled at the Warrow. 'Did I not tell you I am Chakka, wee one, and cannot lose my feet?'
'Oh, right.'
'Look,' said Tip, 'Agron's muster isn't until November, nearly eight months from now, so I should be able to go along. What do we harvest, the flowers or the leaves?'
'The leaves, Tip. The flowers are gone by the time the mint turns golden.'
'And when is this? Now? In the springtime? Oh, Beau, what I'm really trying to ask is when do we harvest it? When do we have to be at Nordlake?'
Beau glanced at his red book, and then his face fell and he groaned. 'Oh, barn rats, I had forgotten.'
'Forgotten what?' asked Tip.
'One of the reasons gwynthyme is rare is that it only flourishes between the moons of August and September, and by then the plague may have a death grip on this city.'
'Even so'-Tip looked at Bekki-'that's well before Agron's muster in November. We should go after the mint, can we get there and back ere then. When are these moons?'
'The moon of August occurs on the tenth,' said Loric. 'The one in September shines full on the ninth.'
'Well,' said Beau, looking at his book, 'according to this, the mint turns golden on the full moon of September following the August full moon, and it must be harvested before the following dark of the moon occurs.'
'The dark following the September full moon?' asked Tip, shaking his head, slightly confused.
Beau nodded.
Tip turned to Loric, the Alor answering his question ere it was asked, saying, 'The dark of the moon falls on the twenty-fourth.'
Tip looked to Beau. 'So we've got between the ninth of September and the twenty-fourth to harvest it?'
Beau looked up from his book. 'Right, for on the dark of the moon it turns brown and becomes deadly poison.'
'Elwydd,' exclaimed Bekki, 'ruin and rescue in one?'
