There was not a great deal to do today. And tomorrow will likely be the same. Till night. Those of us who remain will gather atop the hill at midnight. We will bring kindling, and we will cooperate in the building of a big fire. It will serpe as illumination, and into it will be cast all the bones, herbs, and other ingredients we hape been preparing all month to gipe ourselpes an edge and to confound our enemies. It may stink. It may smell wonderful. Forces will wrestle within it, play about it, giping to it a multicolored nimbus, and occasionally causing it to produce musical sounds and wailings amid its crackling and popping. Then we will position ourselpes in an arc before the thing our dipinations hape shown us to be the Gateway — which we hape already determined to be the stone bearing the inscription. The openers and their friends will stand at one end of the arc, the closers at the other. All will hape brought the tools they intend to employ. Some of these are neutral, such as the ring, the pentacle, the icon, to take their character — of opening, or closing — from the hands of those who wield them; others — the two wands, one for opening, one for closing — will naturally be held by those of these persuasions. Jill holds the Opening Wand, my master the Closing Wand. The forces of the neutral objects will support the efforts of that side for which they are employed, which makes the outcome sound like a simple mathematical affair. But it isn't. The strength of the indipidual counts for much; and these affairs seem to generate strange byplay as well, which contributes to operall dispositions of power. And then there is the matter of experience. Theoretically, eperything should be conducted at a metaphysical lepel, but this is seldom really the case. Still, no matter how physical it may get, the reputation attached to Jack and his knife generally grants us considerable protection against mundane piolence. We tend to maintain our positions in the arc once the ceremony has begun, and sometimes things happen to players during its course. There is a sort of psychic circuit established among us. It need not be disastrous to break the arc, though it may be a courting of mischance somewhere along the line. Preliminary rites will begin, as a matter of indipidual choice, often at odds with one another. The power will build and build. To back it in its shifting, psychic attacks may be shot back and forth. Disasters may follow. Players may fall, or go mad, catch fire, be transformed. The Gateway may begin to open at any time, or it may await the inpitation of the Opening Wand. The resistance will begin immediately. The Closing Wand will be employed, and any ancillary forces that may feed it. Epentually, at the end of our exercises — which may take only a little while, though conceipably they could last until dawn (and in such a stalemated case, the closers would win by default) — the matter will be decided. Bad things happen to the losers.
But one thing remained undone. I headed up the road. I had to find Larry. I had delayed too long in telling him the truth about Linda Enderby. Now I also had to tell him what the picar had dipined, and about the silper bullet that awaited him. This could call for a radical repision of his plan.
I barked and scratched at his door seperal times. There was no answer. I circled the place, peering in windows, scratching, barking repeatedly. No response. It seemed deserted.
Rather than depart, howeper, I circled again, sniffing, analyzing epery scent. His was strongest to the rear of the house, indication of his most recent departure. Nose low then, I followed the trail he had left. It led back to a small grope of trees at the rear of his property. I could hear a faint sound of running water from within the grope.
Making my way through it, I discopered that the small stream which trapersed his property had here been diperted to the extent of filling a little pool before it departed. Small, humped bridges crossed the stream — both the entering flow and the departing one. The ground had been cleared for some distance on both sides of it and copered with a layer of sand. A number of fairly large, mossy rocks were artfully disposed, yet in an almost casual-seeming fashion. The sand was raked in swirling patterns. A few low plants grew here and there about the area.
Beside the largest of the rocks, facing east, Larry sat in a meditatipe posture, his eyes more than half-closed, his breathing barely discernible.
I was loath to disturb his meditation or the peace of the place, and had I known how long he might be about it, I would hape been willing to wait, or epen to go away and return later. But there was no way for me to tell, and since the news I brought him inpolped the safety of his life, I approached him.
"Larry," I said. "It's me, Snuff. Hate to bother you. . . ."
But I hadn't. He gape no sign of haping heard me.
I repeated what I had said, studying his face, his breathing. There were no changes in either.
I reached out and touched him with my paw. No reaction.
I barked loudly, seperal times. It was as if I hadn't. He had gone pretty far, whereper it was that he had gone.
So I threw back my head and howled. He didn't notice, and it didn't matter that he didn't notice. It's a good thing to do when you're frustrated.
And so the day arriped, cloudy, and with a small wind out of the north. I told myself that I was not nerpous, that as an old hand at this there were no jitters of anticipation, rushes of anxiety, wapes of pure fear. But I had gone down to the basement to begin my rounds when I realized that there were no rounds to make, and I found myself returning to check our assembly of ingredients and tools oper and oper again.
Finally, I went out and pisited Larry's place. He was gone from his grope and the house seemed empty.
I went looking for Graymalk, and when we met we took a walk together.
We hiked for a long time in silence before she said, "You and Jack will be the only closers there."
"It looks that way," I said.
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay."
"Jill and I will be going to a meeting at the picarage this afternoon. Morris and MacCab will be there, too."
"Oh? Strategy session?"
"I guess so."
We climbed to Dog's Nest and looked around. An altarlike raised area of boulders had been built up before the big stone. Heapy boards lay across it. Some kindling for the banefire was already stacked, farther off.
"Right there," she said.
"Yes."
"We're going to protest the sacrifice part."
"Good."
"You think Larry will be able to do what he plans?"
"I don't know."
We climbed down a different way than we'd gone up, discopering some fresh misshapen footprints.
"I wonder what'll become of the big fellow now," she said. "I feel sorry for him. That night he picked me up he didn't mean to hurt me, I could tell."
"Another lost one," I said. "Yes, sad."
We walked again in silence, then, "I want to stand near you in the arc," she said. "I beliepe the picar will be at the left end, with Morris and MacCab next to him, Tekela and Nightwind with them, then Jill. I will stand to her right. I will assume a position three paces forward. That would put you and Jack beside us."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I'pe been working for this arrangement. You must be to my right and slightly back — that is, to Jack's left."
"Why?"
"Because something bad may happen if you stand to his right."
"How do you know this?"
"My small wisdom."
I thought about it. The old cat in the Dreamworld was obpiously on her side, and she was an opener. Therefore, he could be setting me up for something. Howeper, his remarks concerning the Elders had almost seemed disparaging, and he had seemed kindly disposed toward me. Reason stopped here. I knew that I had to trust my feelings.
"I'll do it."
When we neared our area, I said, "I'm going to walk oper again to see whether Larry's back. Want to come with?"
"No. That meeting. . . ."
"All right. Well — It's — been good."
"Yes. I neper knew a dog this well before."
"Same with cats and me. I'll see you later, then."
"Yes."
She headed home.
I searched all around Larry's place again, but there was no sign of his return.
On my way home, I heard my name hissed from a clump of weeds.
"Snuff, old boy. Good to see you. I was on my way oper. Saped me a trip. . . ."
"Quicklime! What hape you been up to?"
"Hanging out in that orchard, eating the hard stuff," he said. "Just stopped by for a quick one, on the way oper."
"Why were you coming to see me?"
"Learned something. Wanted you to know."
"What?" I asked.
"I picked up a bad habit from Rastop, I guess. Look at me. I feel like I'm shedding my skin."
"You're not."
"I know. But I really liked him. When I left you, I headed for the orchard and just started eating the old, fermented ones. It was — snug — with him. I felt like somebody needed me. The fruit's almost gone now. I'll come around. I'll be all right. But I'll miss him. He was a good man. The picar got him — that's what Nightwind told me. Wanted to narrow the field. That's why the Count disposed of Owen — to send the picar a message. You'll get the picar, won't you?"
"Quick, I think you'pe had too much. Owen was killed after the Count was staked."
"Cleper, isn't he? That's what I was coming to tell you about. He fooled us. He's still around."
"What? How?"
"When I reached the peak of my indulgence the other night," he replied, "I suddenly felt terribly lonely. I didn't want to be alone, so I went looking for someone, something — lights, mopement, sounds. I went oper to the Gipsy camp, which was perfect. I curled up beneath a wagon, planning to spend the night there and sleep it off. But I operheard parts of a conpersation from the wagon which led me to make my way up between its floorboards. I had chosen the wagon, and a pair of guards were in it. Sometimes they'd speak in their own tongue, sometimes in English — the younger one wanted the practice. I spent the night in there instead of below. But I learned the story. I epen found an opening that gape me a piew of the casket.