responsibilities.' He looked up, mouthing: '_Cleanse us, O Scylla_.'
Chenille, Hammerstone, and even Urus dutifully repeated, 'Cleanse us, O
Scylla.'
Bored, Oreb had flown up to grip a rough stone protrusion in his
red claws. He could see farther even than Hammerstone through
the yellow-green twilight that filled the tunnel, and clinging thus to
the ceiling, his vantage point was higher; but look as he might, he
saw neither Auk or Silk. Abandoning the search, he peered hungrily
at Dace's corpse; its half-open eyes tempted him, though he felt sure
he would be chased away.
Below, the black human droned on: 'Behold us, fair Phaea, _lady
of the larder_. Behold our love and our need for thee. _Feed_ us, O
Phaea! Famished we wander in need of your nurture.' All the
humans squawked, 'Feed us, O Phaea!'
'Talk talk,' Oreb muttered to himself; he could talk as well as
they, but it seemed to him that talking was of small benefit in such
situations.
'Behold us, fierce Sphigx, _woman of war_. Behold our love and
our need for thee. _Lead_ us, O Sphigx! We are lost and dismayed, O
Sphigx, hemmed _all about_ by danger. Lead us in the ways we should
go.' And all the humans, 'Lead us, O Sphigx!'
The black one said, 'Let us now, with heads bowed, put ourselves
in _personal communion_ with the Nine.' He and the green one and
the red one looked down, and the dirty one got up, stepped over the
dead one, and trotted softly away.
'Man go,' Oreb muttered, congratulating himself on having hit on
the right words; and because he liked announcing things, he
repeated more loudly, 'Man go!'
The result was gratifying. The green one sprang to his feet and
dashed after the dirty one. The black one shrieked and fluttered
after the green one, and the red one jiggled after them both, faster
than the black one but not as fast as the first two. For as long as it
might have taken one of his feathers to float to the tunnel floor,
Oreb preened, weighing the significance of these events.
He had liked Auk and had felt that if he remained with Auk, Auk
would lead him to Silk. But Auk was gone, and the others were not
looking for him any more.
Oreb glided down to a convenient perch on Dace's face and
dined, keeping a wary eye out. One never knew. Good came of bad,
and bad of good. Humans were both, and changeable in the
extreme, sleeping by day yet catching fish whose best parts they
generously shared.
And--so on. His crop filled, Oreb meditated on these points
while cleaning his newly-bright bill with his feet.
The dead one had been good. There could be no doubt about
that. Friendly in the reserved fashion Oreb preferred alive, and
delicious, dead. There was another one back there, but he was no
longer hungry. It was time to find Silk in earnest. Not just look.
Really find him. To leave this green hole and its living and dead humans.
Vaguely, he recalled the night sky, the gleaming upside-down
country over his head, and the proper country below.
The wind in trees. Drifting along with it looking for things of
interest. It was where Silk would be, and where he could be found.
Where a bird could fly high, see everything, and find Silk.
Flying was not as easy as riding the red one's launcher, but flying
downwind through the tunnel permitted rests in which he had only
to keep his wings wide and sail along. There were twinges at times,
reminding him of the blue thing that had been there. He had never
understood what it was or why it had stuck to him.
Downwind along this hole and that, through a little hole (he
landed and peered into it cautiously before venturing in himself)
and into a big one where dirty humans stretched on the ground or
prowled like cats, a hole lidded like a pot with the remembered sky
of night.
Sword in hand, Master Xiphias stood at the window looking at the
dark and empty street. Go home. That was what they'd told him.
Go home, though it had not been quite so bluntly worded. That
dunce Bison, a fool who couldn't hold a sword correctly! That dunce
Bison, who seemed in charge of everything, had come by while he
was arguing with that imbecile Scale. Had smiled like friend and
admired his sword, and had only pretended--pretended!--to
believe him when he had stated (not boasting, just supplying a plain,
straightforward answer in response to direct, uninvited questions)
that he had killed five troopers in armor in Cage Street.
Then Bison had--the old fencing master grinned gleefully--had
gaped like a carp when he, Xiphias, had parted a thumbthick rope
dangling from his, Bison's, hand. Had admired his sword and waved
it around like the ignorant boy he was, and had the gall to say in
many sweet words, go home like Scale says, old man. We don't need
you tonight, old man. Go home and eat, old man. Go home and
sleep. Get some rest, old man, you've had a big day.
Bison's sweet words had faded and blown away, lighter and more
fragile than the leaves that whirled up the empty street. Their
import, bitter as gall, remained. He had been fighting--had been a
famous fighting man--when Bison was in diapers. Had been fighting
before Scale's mother had escaped her kennel to bump tails with
some filthy garbage-eating cur.
Xiphias turned his back to the window and sat on the sill, his head
in his hands, his sword at his feet. He was no longer what he had
been thirty years ago, perhaps. No longer what he had been before
he lost his leg. But there wasn't a man in the city--not one!--who
dared cross blades with him.
A knock at the front door, floating up the narrow stair from the
floor below.
There would be no students tonight; his students would be
fighting on one side or the other; yet somebody wanted to see him.
Possibly Bison had realized the gravity of his error and come to
implore him to undertake some almost suicidal mission. He'd go,
