distract attention from his face – a face which is a horrorworks of welted burn tissue.
The singing came from the stairway at the western end of the Hall of Time. It signaled the arrival of Yubi Das Finger, who lit his own entrance into the Hall of Time with two lanterns swinging from the bablobrokmadorni stick he carried over his shoulder.
Yubi Das Finger sang as he walked the length of the Hall of Time, a hundred paces from the head of the western stairs to the foot of the eastern stairs. As he drew close, Guest recognized him from their first encounter earlier that night, for there was no mistaking that extraordinary figure.
When he was within smelling distance of the Weaponmaster,
Yubi snapped at him with his green-dragon glove puppet. Guest flinched, more from fear of injury to his dignity than of injury to his flesh – though he still remembered the exceptional needle brightness of that puppet's teeth.
'So-ho, Guest!' said Yubi, greeting the Weaponmaster. 'So-ho, Sken-Pitilkin!'
'Do I know you?' said Sken-Pitilkin, who had no recollection of meeting the motley-clad clown.
'Historically?' said Yubi. 'I doubt it.'
Then he skipped past the jade-green flanks of the demon Icaria-Scaria Iva-Italis, climbed a few steps up the eastern stairway, then paused, looked back and grinned. His teeth gleamed green, reflecting the light which glowed from the demon.
'Well, Guest?' said Yubi, with a mocking devilishness. 'Are you coming with me to the sky?'
Yubi spoke the Galish, and spoke it with such a piercing clarity one might have thought him to be singing even then.
'Where a clown can go, so I,' said Guest.
For the boy had had enough of mystery for one night. He had been tempted and taunted too long – argued at, argued over, teased, flirted with, seduced. He wanted a finalization for once – he wanted to shove for the answer, to be done with the preliminaries and to thrust for the truth. Something was up there, up in the secret region overhead, up in the abditory.
And Guest was going to find out.
Driven by such determination, the boy dared himself into biting distance of the demon Icaria Scaria Iva- Italis.
'Halt,' said Iva-Italis. 'That's far enough.'
Waiting on the stairs, Yubi Das Finger grinned green. If a man says he is going to jump off a cliff, there are some people who will turn away, some who will try to dissuade him, and some who will watch.
Yubi chose to watch.
And Guest dared another step.
Something hit him. It struck – too fast to see. Down he went!
Thrown to the ground, bruised down to the skull-pattern tiles. He crunched down at the foot of the demon. It loomed above him, cold, cold, colder than needles, colder than ice. It was as green as the tallest of stars, and as high. Its monolithic slab sided height stretched upwards for a day and forever.
Then it growled.
The demon Iva-Italis growled long and low, making a sound like thunder trapped in a rock, like an enormous bumble bee locked in a block of iron.
Then Sken-Pitilkin saved the day. He saved it with the country crook which served him as a staff of power.
Did Sken-Pitilkin stand upon the tallness of his hind legs and call out great Words of power? No. Did he summon forth invisible grappling hooks to drag the boy to safety? No.
Instead -Sken-Pitilkin reached out with his country crook, hooked Guest Gulkan by the sword belt and dragged the boy to safety.
Doubtless this resolution is somewhat lacking in drama, and many will find it a disappointment – for it is acknowledged truth that many of those who read histories which feature one or more wizards do so largely to spectate at the spectacular.
But there is less of spectacle in a wizard's life than outsiders commonly believe, since a wizard's life is largely given over to Meditation; and study; and memorization; and diligent practice of the irregular verbs; and the darning of socks and the watering of pot plants.
For a wizard's powers are gathered with such effort that they are never expended lightly – for once having expended his power a wizard will be defenseless for days. Consequently, wizards do not exercise their powers except under circumstances of the gravest need; and, when faced with practical problems, they always first seek a practical solution.
Since Sken-Pitilkin was a wizard of Skatzabratzumon, he could in theory have used his levitational powers to grease Guest Gulkan's escape from the base of the demon. But it was more economical simply to drag the boy clear with a hooked stick – and just as fast, and just as effective.
With Guest dragged clear, Sken-Pitilkin supported him as he tottered the length of the Hall of Time to seat himself in his armchair, which was where the Guardian Hrothgar found him when that worthy came to relieve him in the gray of dawn.
By then, Sken-Pitilkin was long gone, thinking Guest safe.
But Guest was not safe at all, for the rigors of the night had brought about a relapse, and Guest was huddled in his armchair in a state not far from delirium, wet with sweat and shuddering with fever.
Hrothgar arrived in the company of the Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite and the dwarf Glambrax, both of whom were alight with anticipation at the thought of serving Guest his breakfast. These friends of his were bearing gifts – a pot of mulled wine spiked with mustard, and a hot and steaming fish-meat pie with biting hot red peppers. The master-chef Pelagius Zozimus had conspired with them in the preparation of this special wake-up breakfast, but all went to waste, for Guest was in no condition to be sampling anything.
If Hrothgar was any judge – and, having seen a great many of his friends and colleagues die of influenza, he thought himself well-qualified to judge – then Guest was direly ill.
So nothing would serve but that the Weaponmaster should be evacuated from the Grand Palace – as the mainrock Pinnacle was commonly known to many – and returned to Hrothgar's house in the adjacent city of Molothair, there to be nursed anew by Horthgar's wife Una.
When Guest was somewhat recovered, Sken-Pitilkin visited him, and asked him how he felt.
'Not so bad,' said Guest, affecting nonchalance. 'I suppose the chill of the night was bad for me. If memory serves… why, I seem to remember an abominably long bout of standing about, of stamping my feet… though my memory is soggy | | '
'Hmmm,' said Sken-Pitilkin, saying nothing more lest he provoke the boy to the needless effort of further clumsy lies.
'Here. I've got something for you. It's a letter.'
'A letter?' said Guest.
'From Gendormargensis,' said Sken-Pitilkin.
'From my father?' said Guest, brightening.
'No,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'From Bao Gahai.'
'Bao Gahai!' said Guest, in patent dismay. 'What would I want with a letter from Bao Gahai?'
'Read it,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'It may have news of your brothers.'
'So it may,' said Guest.
Then broke the seals on the letter and scanned it through, learning that Morsh Bataar was on the mend and that Eljuk Zala was diligently prosecuting his study of the irregular verbs in the absence of Sken-Pitilkin. Eljuk had prevailed upon his father to provide him with a new tutor, who was a text-master named Eldegen Terzanagel.
'Eljuk's scholarly passions are such,' read Guest, quoting Bao Gahai, 'that one fears him possessed of a secret ambition to be a wizard.'
'Really,' said Sken-Pitilkin, in neutral tones.
'Bao Gahai is quite deranged!' said Guest, ceasing to quote as he threw down the letter. 'My brother Eljuk? A wizard?! Dogs will first sing down the stars and pigs become pigeons.'
'Pigs will become pigeons?' said Sken-Pitilkin.
