Thelily girl, pursuing him at a safe distance, even beheld him take the curve ofthe road which led eastward away from the village, and, more importantly, fromthe house with the tower.
Presentlythe road climbed up into some low hills. Beyond lay a rolling map of long,softly-pleated lands, tending first through dove pastels and then startlinggreens as the sun winged higher up the sky; eventually into the dream-like bluemasks of distance. That was the route he had been going, would be going on to.But not just yet. Not now.
Hesat on a slope where a colonnade of trees stalked, like furled plumes, backtoward the upland valley and the village. The trees gave colour, shade and apleasant noise of air swimming through leaves. He could see the village, quitesmall but very clear, below him. Also the switch of the road, leading aroundthe old house and up the mountain, which was a smooth marble cone by day.
Asthe morning matured, Dro saw the village come fully alive. Miniature figuresfilled the street, little toy animals were herded out to pasture. When the warmbreeze blew the right way, he could hear cows lowing, sheep which sounded morelike cats, dogs barking, a hammer striking on metal, the wheels of a cart.
Ashort while before noon, a party of men and women went along the street, ontothe road, and walked to the house with the tower. They stood about there forsome minutes. When the wind blew on this occasion, Parl Dro caught a far offcurdle of yells and what sounded like stones landing hard on wood.
Hewas not particularly in favour of this, nor did it worry him unduly. Just asCiddey’s beauty, insidious and not instantly apparent, had interested, but notspontaneously moved him.
Onthe return journey of the witch-hunting party to the village, Dro identifiedfor the first time the thief-musician’s varied regalia in their midst. As soonas they reached the juncture where the village thorough-fare branched off fromthe road, the musician swung aside. Some of the villagers appeared to bearguing with him, but it looked good-natured enough. After a moment or so, theminstrel moved on into the fields that lined the opposite side of the road. Drolost sight of the man cutting south through a strand of young wheat.
Afternoonstreamed over the landscape, tinting everything with its unmistakable changesof light.
Relaxed,yet unsleeping, Dro sat with his back to a tree, watching the village with along-lidded gaze. His mantle was laid aside, revealing that trousers, boots,shirt were also black, black as his eyes, though his hair had mellowed a shadeunder the sun. He looked exotic, foreign and dangerous. Only a fool would havestolen up on him from behind. It appeared the man prowling up the south side ofthe slope was not quite such a fool as that.
Thedrab green lost itself in the grass, the poppy red did not. If he had beenattempting surprise, the musician had obviously accepted his inadequacy at thegame. He emerged quite flamboyantly to Dro’s left, and stood studying him withfrank accusation.
“Isuppose you were expecting me,” he said.
Drolooked at him. The look was neither baleful nor encouraging.
“Youcould pretendto be astounded,” said the musician. “It wouldn’t kill you.”
“Itmight have killed you,” said Dro.
Themusician shrugged and trudged the rest of the way up the slope. When he stooddirectly over Dro, he produced the bag of pebbles he had thieved the previousnight. He threw it dramatically at Dro’s feet.
“Thatwas a nasty trick,” said the musician.
“Stealingisn’t particularly wholesome, either.”
“Youcould survive it. You’re famous. I’d never thieve from someone who couldn’tafford to lose a few coins. How was I supposed to pay for my supper? You thinkI had credit there? They wanted me to play songs and pay money too.”
ParlDro sat looking down the slope.
Themusician slung the musical instrument off his back on its frayed embroideredsling, and set it in the grass. He sat down about a foot from Dro.
“Inthe end,” he said, “I had to make up to some girl to get a bed for the night.And I was worn out, so that wasn’t a good idea. But I’dbetter stop. I can see I’ll have you in tears in a minute.”
Drowent on gazing at the village.
Themusician lay back in the grass and gazed at the leaves overhead, spotted sheergreen against sheer blue. His face, with its long nose and cap of darkly gildedhair, was basically a rather sad and very worried face, from some angles quiteordinary, from others extremely good-looking, from others still, simplymournful.
“Youprobably want to know why I’m here,” he said at length.
“Notespecially.”
“Allright. You want to know why I’m not clever enough to clear off.” The silencelasted. “All right,” said the minstrel, “I’ll tell you. We’re actually goingthe same way.”
“Whichway is that?”
“Oh,come on. The way any of your calling was bound to go, this year or next. Ofcourse, it may only be a legend. In which case, it’s still my business. I canstill make a song of it. I’m referring to Ghyste Mortua.”
“Someoneyou know,” said Parl Dro.
“Aplacewe bothknow. If it exists. I’ve been roaming up and down these parts quite a few days,trying to suss it out. Or find someone who knows the way. I’d take a gamble youdo.”
“Wouldyou?”
“Yousee, in my sort of career, you need a song to make your name. One unique,marvelous, never-to-be-successfully-plagiarized song. It came to me, one nightwhen I was really down—I mean really down—on my luck, that my songwas in Ghyste Mortua. Not that I’m one of these courageous idiots who’ll runhis neck into a noose for a two-penny piece. Myal Lemyal, which is me, is thecautious type. And I know when I need guidance. As for you, you might like somemusic on the road.”
“Andthen again,” said Dro softly, “I might not.”
“Andthen again you might not. Incidentally, about that girl in the old house, Iconsider the trouble you’ve caused her stinks. I went down there with some ofthem. They were bellowing that you’d gone, but they hadn’t, and they werethrowing stones at her door. You’re not a particularly splendid hero, are you?”
Drosmiled. “Compared with you?”
“Ohwell, if you’re going to be offensive.”
Idly,Myal Lemyal sat up and picked the
