Wizard and Glass

'I don't want to go up there, sai Thorin,' Sheemie said. An unusual expression had creased his normally smooth face—a troubled and fearful frown. 'She's a scary lady. Scary as a beary, she is. Got a wart on her nose, right here.' He thumbed the tip of his own nose, which was small and smooth and well molded.

Coral, who might have bitten his head off for such hesitation only yesterday, was unusually patient today. 'So true,' she said. 'But Sheemie, she asked for ye special, and she tips. Ye know she does, and well.'

'Won't help if she turns me into a beetle,' Sheemie said morosely. 'Beetles can't spend coppers.'

Nevertheless, he let himself be led to where Caprichoso, the inn's pack-mule, was tied. Barkie had loaded two small tuns over the mule's back. One, filled with sand, was just there for balance. The other held a fresh pressing of the graf Rhea had a taste for.

'Fair-Day's coming,' Coral said brightly. 'Why, it's not three weeks now.'

'Aye.' Sheemie looked happier at this. He loved Fair-Days passionately—the lights, the firecrackers, the dancing, the games, the laughter. When Fair-Day came, everyone was happy and no one spoke mean.

'A young man with coppers in his pocket is sure to have a good time at the Fair,' Coral said.

'That's true, sai Thorin.' Sheemie looked like someone who has just discovered one of life's great principles. 'Aye, truey-true, so it is.'

Coral put Caprichoso's rope halter into Sheemie's palm and closed the fingers over it. 'Have a nice trip, lad. Be polite to the old crow, bow yer best bow .. . and make sure ye're back down the hill before dark.'

'Long before, aye,' Sheemie said, shivering at the very thought of still being up in the Coos after nightfall. 'Long before, sure as loaves 'n fishes.'

'Good lad.' Coral watched him off, his pink sombrero now clapped on his head, leading the grumpy old pack-mule by its rope. And, as he disappeared over the brow of the first mild hill, she said it again: 'Good lad.'

3

Jonas waited on the flank of a ridge, belly-down in the tall grass, until the brats were an hour gone from the Bar K. He then rode to the ridgetop and picked them out, three dots four miles away on the brown slope. Off to do their daily duty. No sign they suspected anything. They were smarter than he had at first given them credit for … but nowhere near as smart as they thought they were.

He rode to within a quarter mile of the Bar K—except for the bunk-house and stable, a burned-out hulk in the bright sunlight of this early autumn day—and tethered his horse in a copse of cottonwoods that grew around the ranch house spring. Here the boys had left some washing to dry. Jonas stripped the pants and shirts off the low branches upon which they had been hung, made a pile of them, pissed on them, and then went back to his horse.

The animal stamped the ground emphatically when Jonas pulled the dog's tail from one of his saddlebags, as if saying he was glad to be rid of it. Jonas would be glad to be rid of it, too. It had begun giving off an unmistakable aroma. From the other saddlebag he took a small glass jar of red paint, and a brush. These he had obtained from Brian Hockey's eldest son, who was minding the livery stable today. Sai Hookey himself would be out to Citgo by now, no doubt.

Jonas walked to the bunkhouse with no effort at concealment . . . not that there was much in the way of concealment to be had out here. And no one to hide from, anyway, now that the boys were gone.

One of them had left an actual book— Mercer's Homilies and Meditations- on the seat of a rocking chair on the porch. Books were things of exquisite rarity in Mid-World, especially as one travelled out from the center. This was the first one, except for the few kept in Seafront, that Jonas had seen since coming to Mejis. He opened it. In a firm woman's hand he read: To my dearest son, from his loving MOTHER. Jonas tore j (Ins page out, opened his jar of paint, and dipped the tips of his last two lingers inside. He blotted out the word MOTHER with the pad of his third linger, then, using the nail of his pinky as a makeshift pen, printed CUNT above MOTHER. He poked this sheet on a rusty nailhead where it was sure to be seen, then tore the book up and stamped on the pieces. Which boy had it belonged to? He hoped it was Dearborn's, but it didn't really matter.

The first thing Jonas noticed when he went inside was the pigeons, cooing in their cages. He had thought they might be using a helio to send (heir messages, but pigeons! My! That was ever so much more trig!

'I'll get to you in a few minutes,' he said. 'Be patient, darlings; peck and shit while you still can.'

He looked around with some curiosity, the soft coo of the pigeons soothing in his ears. Lads or lords? Roy had asked the old man in Ritzy. The old man had said maybe both. Neat lads, at the very least, from the way they kept their quarters, Jonas thought. Well trained. Three bunks, all made. Three piles of goods at the foot of each, stacked up just as neat. In each pile he found a picture of a mother—oh, such good fellows they were—and in one he found a picture of both parents. He had hoped for names, possibly documents of some kind (even love letters from the girl, mayhap), but there was nothing like that. Lads or lords, they were careful enough. Jonas removed the pictures from their frames and shredded them. The goods he scattered to all points of the compass, destroying as much as he could in the limited time he had. When he found a linen handkerchief in the pocket of a pair of dress pants, he blew his nose on it and then spread it carefully on the toes of the boy's dress boots, so that the green splat would show to good advantage. What could be more aggravating— more unsettling— than to come home after a hard day spent tallying stock and find some stranger's snot on one of your personals?

The pigeons were upset now; they were incapable of scolding like jays or rooks, but they tried to flutter away from him when he opened their cages. It did no good, of course. He caught them one by one and twisted their heads off. That much accomplished, Jonas popped one bird beneath the strawtick pillow of each boy.

Beneath one of these pillows he found a small bonus: paper strips and a storage-pen, undoubtedly kept for the composition of messages. He broke the pen and flung it across the room. The strips he put in his own pocket. Paper always came in handy.

With the pigeons seen to, he could hear better. He began walking slowly back and forth on the board floor, head cocked, listening.

4

When Alain came riding up to him at a gallop, Roland ignored the boy's strained white face and burning, frightened eyes. 'I make it thirty-one on my side,' he said, 'all with the Barony brand, crown and shield. You?'

'We have to go back,' Alain said. 'Something's wrong. It's the touch. I've never felt it so clear.'

'Your count?' Roland asked again. There were times, such as now, when he found Alain's ability to use the touch more annoying than helpful.

'Forty. Or forty-one, I forget. And what does it matter? They've moved what they don't want us to count. Roland, didn't you hear me? We have to go back! Something's wrong! Something's wrong at our place /'

Roland glanced toward Bert, riding peaceably some five hundred yards away. Then he looked back at Alain, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

'Bert? He's numb to the touch and always has been—you know it. I'm not. You know I'm not! Roland, please! Whoever it is will see the pigeons! Maybe find our guns!' The normally phlegmatic Alain was nearly crying in his excitement and dismay. 'If you won't go back with me, give me leave to go back by myself! Give me leave, Roland, for your father's sake!'

'For your father's sake, I give you none,' Roland said. 'My count is thirty-one. Yours is forty. Yes, we'll say forty. Forty's a good number— good as any, I wot. Now we'll change sides and count again.'

'What's wrong with you?' Alain almost whispered. He was looking at Roland as if Roland had gone mad.

'Nothing.'

'You knew! You knew when we left this morning!'

'Oh, I might have seen something,' Roland said. 'A reflection, perhaps, but … do you trust me, Al? That's what matters, I think. Do you trust me, or do you think I lost my wits when I lost my heart? As he does?' He jerked his head in Cuthbert's direction. Roland was looking at Alain with a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes were ruthless and distant it was Roland's over-the-horizon look. Alain wondered if Susan Delgado had seen that expression yet, and if she had, what she made of it.