“Look at the back of her neck,” Silk said.
Crane paused in the doorway, shot him a questioning glance, then hurried out.
Murmuring a prayer for Teasel under his breath, Silk went into the sellaria and shut and bolted the Sun Street door, which Crane had left standing open. As he passed a window, he caught sight of Crane’s litter. Maytera Marble reclined beside the bearded physician, her intent metal face straining ahead as though she alone were urging the litter forward by sheer force of thought. While Silk watched, its bearers broke into a trot and it vanished behind the window frame.
He tried to recall whether there was a rule prohibiting a sibyl from riding in a man’s litter; it seemed likely that there was, but he could not bring a particular stricture to mind; as a practical matter, he could see little reason to object as long as the curtains were up.
The lioness-headed walking stick lay beside the chair in which he had sat for Crane’s examination. Absently, he picked it up and flourished it. For as long as the wrapping functioned he would not need it, or at least would need it very little. He decided that he would keep it near at hand anyway; it might be useful, particularly when the wrapping required restoration. He leaned it against the Sun Street door, so that he could not forget it when he and Crane left for the yellow house.
A few experimental steps demonstrated once again that with Crane’s wrapping in place he could walk almost as well as ever. There seemed to be no good reason for him not to carry a basin of warm water upstairs and shave as he usually did. He re-entered the kitchen.
Still on the table, the night chough cocked its head at him inquiringly. “Pet hungry,” it said.
“So am I,” he told it. “But I won’t eat again until after midday.”
“Noon now.”
“I suppose it is.” Silk lifted a stove lid and peered into the firebox; for once a few embers still glowed there. He breathed upon them gently and added a handful of broken twigs from the ruined cage, reflecting that the night chough was clearly more intelligent than he had imagined.
“Bird hungry.”
Flames were flickering above the twigs. He debated the need for real firewood and decided against it. “Do you like cheese?”
“Like cheese.”
Silk found his washbasin and put it under the nozzle of the pump. “It’s hard, I warn you. If you’re expecting nice, soft cheese, you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Like cheese!”
“All right, you can have it.” A great many vigorous strokes of the pump handle were required before the first trickle of water appeared; but Silk half filled his basin and set it on the stove, and as an afterthought replenished the night chough’s cup.
“Cheese now?” the night chough inquired. “Fish heads?”
“No fish heads—I haven’t got any.” He got out the cheese, which was mostly rind, and set it next to the cup. “You’d better watch out for rats while I’m away. They like cheese too.”
“Like rats.” The night chough clacked its crimson beak and pecked experimentally at the cheese.
“Then you won’t be lonely.” The water on the stove was scarcely warm, the twigs beneath it nearly out. Silk picked up the basin and started for the stair.
“Where rats?”
He paused and turned to look back at the night chough. “Do you mean you like them to eat?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I see. I suppose you might kill a rat at that, if it wasn’t too big. What’s your name?”
“No name.” The night chough returned its attention to the cheese.
“That was supposed to be my lunch, you know. Now I’ll have to find lunch somewhere or go hungry.”
“You Silk?”
“Yes, that’s my name. You heard Doctor Crane use it, I suppose. But we need a name for you.” He considered the matter. “I believe I’ll call you Oreb—that’s a raven in the Writings, and you seem to be some sort of raven. How do you like that name?”
“Oreb.”
“That’s right. Musk named his bird after a god, which was very wrong of him, but I don’t believe that there could be any objection to a name from the Writings if it weren’t a divine name, particularly when it’s a bird’s name there. So Oreb it is.”
At his washstand upstairs, he stropped the big, bone-handled razor that had waited in his mother’s bureau until he was old enough to shave, lathered his face, and scraped away his reddish-blond beard. As he wiped the blade clean, it occurred to him, as it did at least once a week, that the razor had almost certainly been his father’s. As he had so many times before, he carried it to the window to look for some trace of ownership. There was no owner’s name and no monogram, not even a maker’s mark.
As often in this weather, Maytera Rose and Maytera Mint were enjoying their lunch at a table carried from the cenoby and set in the shade of the fig tree. When he had dried his face, Silk carried the basin back to the kitchen, poured out his shaving water, and joined the two sibyls in the garden.
By a gesture, Maytera Rose offered him the chair that would normally have been Maytera Marble’s. “Won’t you join us, Patera? We’ve more than enough here for three.”
It stung, as she had no doubt intended. Silk said, “No, but I ought to speak with you for a moment.”
