Miphon finished his meal, such as it was, and picked up his bow, which was one of many – the red bottle, packed with siege dust, water and weapons, must have been built to house an army. Comedo had sometimes visited Miphon at the portcullis, but Miphon's most strenuous diplomacies – pleas, threats, cajoleries – had achieved nothing. Now he was going to try murder.
The bowstring was slightly sticky with preservative grease that had protected it… for how long? It was difficult to bend the bow to string it.
There: it was done.
He was on the third level of the red bottle, with all the room he needed for target practice. He nocked an arrow, drew the bow and aimed at one of the faceless helmets that hung around the walls. He loosed the arrow.
The bowstring vibrated, stinging his thumb. The arrow clattered into a rack of throwing spears. The next one went wide, and the third caroomed off the ceiling. Miphon swore.
He had always thought of himself as a practical person, particularly since the months on the Salt Road when he had dealt with tasks of tending fires, finding food for the donkey and cooking. But those were routine tasks which he had learnt – however painfully -years ago. Archery was a new skill which he would have to master, and no amount of intellectual analysis would make the labour shorter.
To be trapped in the bottle where magic was useless was like being crippled. He had not realised he had relied so heavily on magic.
He fired another arrow. It slammed into a helmet -the wrong helmet.
– In a green bottle.
– In a green bottle…
– In a green bottle in a country where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard. The wizard had a red bottle but he was trapped in a greenbottle, greenbottle redbottle, no sun no wind no rain and never never never so much as to hear or see a bluebottle… – In a green bottle…
Miphon had for years thought of himself as a hunter because of his love of the chase, of the moment of mastery when the wing high in flight hesitates, circles, then dips. However, he lacked the hunter's patience. Now, waiting in the shadows behind the portcullis, with arrow nocked, he suffered.
He knew Hearst or Gorn or Alish would have been patient as death, despite creaking knees, aching backs, stiff necks and rumbling stomachs. They would have waited. Could a wizard do less?
This wizard, lulled by the unvarying green glow of the bottle, caught himself falling asleep. That would never do. If Comedo came sniffing down those stairs and saw Miphon asleep behind the portcullis with bow and arrow at the ready, he would never come back.
Miphon would only have one chance. He would have to kill with the first shot. Then drag Comedo's body to the portcullis so he could take the ring from Comedo's finger. That would be easy enough to do: tie a rope to a spear then hurl the spear into the corpse.
But what if Comedo was not wearing the ring?
Of course he would be wearing the ring. He always brought it with him to gloat. Miphon would kill him. And get the ring. But what if, escaping from the green bottle, he found himself – well, he might find himself anywhere. Even, perhaps, in a dungeon in Stronghold Handfast, a prisoner of the wizard Heenmor. There was no way to say it was impossible.
Footsteps!
Miphon started. Trembling with excitement, he readied the bow and arrow. The footsteps came closer: and there was Comedo, in full view. Comedo saw him! He screamed in panic, and turned to run – too late! Miphon's arrow slammed home. Slammed into Come do's shoulder. Comedo fell face-first to the stones. Miphon nocked another arrow, but by then Comedo had made it to safety.
'You'll pay for this!' he screamed. 'You'll pay. I'll have you eating glass before I'm through!'
'My prince,' said Miphon in desperation, dragging a little package from beneath his jerkin. 'Look what I've found! A surgeon's kit! Needles, thread, knives, bandages! I can heal you! You need me now!'
Miphon had indeed found a very beautiful surgeon's kit in the red bottle. But Comedo, unimpressed, was only provoked into showing further disrespect for the medical profession: 'You slime-licking pox doctor!' he howled. 'By the syphillis sore you were suckled on, I'll see you pay for this. I'll have you, by the balls of the tenth demon, I'll tear your head from your shoulders and shit on it. What a coward's trick. By the knives, the lice in the slit between your legs have got more courage that you have. Don't think you'll catch me again. If you want to speak to me, yes, if you want an audience – '
Miphon would listen no more. He retreated down the stairs, back to the lower levels, and then into the red bottle. Water and siege dust, siege dust and water: it could keep him alive forever.
– In a red bottle in a green bottle in a country far, far away, where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard who was four thousand years old…
It could keep him alive forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
'There it is,' said Garash.
From a high ridge, they had a view across bleak and broken country. Far off, about seven leagues distant, loomed the uprearing vertigo of Stronghold Handfast. impressive, yes?' said Garash.
'Some think so,' said Hearst. 'Saba Yavendar always used to think it was ugly.'
'Really,' said Garash.
'Yes,' said Hearst.
And saw Garash looking at him oddly. Of course, the memory was not Hearst's, but a stray recollection inherited from the wizard Phyphor.
'What do you know of Saba Yavendar?' said Garash.
'His poems are famous.'
'Yes, but the man – '
'Don't you recognise a joke when you hear it?' said Hearst.
'A joke, hey? Does that count as humour where you come from? Don't bother me with any more of your jokes.'
'As you wish,' said Hearst.
Garash again looked at him suspiciously: that was not the way Rovac warriors talked. As you wish. As you please. If it suits your convenience…
'We're on the skyline,' said Blackwood.
'No matter,' said Elkor Alish, buoyed up by excitement at the sight of Stronghold Handfast.
'Blackwood's right,' said Hearst. 'We'd better get off the ridge.'
Hearst did not share Alish's excitement.
As they scrambled down the other side of the ridge, Hearst thought about Saba Yavendar. He remembered him quite clearly: a short man with a big ugly nose, a quick grin, and broken blood vessels mottling his face where years of drinking had done their damage. Phyphor had known him well.
Blackwood halted amidst jagged uprisings of rock and clutches of boulders which would shelter them from scrutiny but still allow them a clear view of the landscape ahead.
'What do you think?' said Blackwood. 'Shall we camp here?'
'It's not far now,' said Alish.
'We won't get there today,' said Hearst. 'It would be foolish to try. Let's just go down into the valley and camp for the night.'
'We can go further than that,' said Alish.
'The sky looks like snow,' said Hearst. 'I want to make camp early. I don't want night to catch us
