"Aye, or in withal. Had they who seek thy soon demise invested her with deeper skills, thou hadst not fared so well.” The little man chuckled. “The recitation was most gamely done! It wanted something in smoothness of phrasing, methinks, but ‘twas furnished well in vehemence. Hal himself could not have seasoned the lines with greater spice."
He stepped over to the bed and peered down at Edward with an intent expression on his puckish, wrinkled face. He brought a strange odor of mothballs with him. “The pain in thy leg is not beyond thy strength to bear."
"Er. No, it's not too bad.” Edward panted a few times. “Amazingly good, considering.” It was not what he would describe as comfortable. He did not need a bullet to bite on, but he was making his teeth work hard.
"It needs suffice for the nonce. Compose thyself a moment. I shall return betimes."
With that Mr. Oldcastle laid his hat and cane carefully on the bed and bustled over to the door. Edward caught a brief glimpse of his tiny, stooped shape against the light, and he had gone.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend me!” he muttered, as this seemed to be Shakespeare night. “What in the name of glory is going on here?” His heartbeat was gradually returning to normal. He was definitely awake and not dreaming. Feathers and water and sparkles of glass on the lino—and splatters of blood also, so he must have scored a hit, perhaps with the tumbler.
And certainly an antique hat and stick lay on the bed, so Mr. Jonathan Oldcastle had really been present and did intend to return. Perhaps he had popped over to Druids Close, the town that received mail and did not exist? Steady, old chap! We'll have no hysterics here.
Strangest of all—why was the hospital not in chaotic uproar? The racket should have wakened every patient on the floor and brought every nurse for miles. Edward thought about trying the bell and then decided to wait for his mysterious guardian to come back.
That did not take long. The little man minced in with a pale garment over his shoulder, carrying a pair of crutches almost as long as himself. His stoop and the forward thrust of his head made him seem to be hurrying even when he was not.
"Thy baggage waits without, Master Exeter.” He uttered the little cackling chuckle that was now starting to sound very familiar. “And thy breakage must wait within! Do don this Oxford.” He handed Edward a recognizable left shoe and threw down a dressing gown across his chest.
"Hold a minute, sir! I can't walk on this leg!"
"Indeed you will have to make like the wounded plover, dangling a limb to lure the plunderer from the nest. Be speedy, my brave, for worse monsters than the harlot may soon snuff thy scent, such as may overtop my wilted powers.” Mr. Oldcastle proceeded to fumble with the tackle that held Edward's leg in traction.
"But running away is an admission of guilt!"
"Staying will be a demonstration of mortality."
Edward's response was stifled by a searing jolt of pain as the leg settled on the bed. He glared up at the old man until he had caught his breath and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.
The puckish face frowned. “Ah, my young butty, dost not know that dragons of war are now full awakened? Beacon fires shall become funeral pyres and flames will consume a generation. Horror soon bestrides the world."
"Yes, but what has that to do—"
"Master Edward, those same elements that spawned this evil dissonance can now turn satisfied from that labor and address their intent to destroying thee. Until now they minded more those weightier matters particular to their desires. Thee they gave but little thought, for you are a mere favor they perform for other parties—who shall shortly be discovered to you. Thus thy foes dispatched to your dispatch only that demented trollop who has thrice ineptly sought to undo thee. Now at greater leisure they will loose such grievous raptors to contrive thy demise that thou surely will not see another dawn unless you now take urgent flight."
In other words: Beat it!
Absurd as it sounded, his convoluted speech carried conviction. There was no arguing with his obvious sincerity—after all, he had undoubtedly saved Edward's life a few moments ago. Edward pulled up his left leg and struggled into the shoe.
The next few minutes were a stroll on the cobbles of Hell. He made the distance, but only because he chose to regard it as a test of manhood. He sat up and donned the dressing gown. His right foot was lowered to the floor with much help from Mr. Oldcastle, and he pushed himself up to stand on the left. Then he was on his crutches, heading across the litter of feathers to the door. To hold his right leg up was agony; to let it touch the ground was infinitely worse.
It wasn't going to work, of course. The nurses would see him and take him back. They would telephone the police. But he had no breath to argue, and he sweated every step in silence along the wide, dim corridor, wobbling on his crutches with Mr. Oldcastle at his side. The little man had recovered his hat and silver-topped walking stick, and seemed to be fighting back a case of fidgets at the cripple's tortoise pace.
The duty desk was deserted. His old battered suitcase stood beside it, his boater resting on top. Mr. Oldcastle placed this on his head for him at a jaunty angle and took charge of the case. Then he went ahead and opened the door to the stairs.
Edward tried to say, “There's a lift,” but he had his teeth so tightly clenched that the words would not come out. Mr. Oldcastle might think that the rackety old cage would bring nurses and orderlies running, or perhaps he did not understand modern machinery. Edward went down three flights of stairs on one foot, one crutch, and a white hand gripping the rail. Mr. Oldcastle carried the other crutch. From the way he managed the suitcase, he must be much stronger than he looked.
There was no one about, no one even tending the admittance desk by the front door. Edward reeled out of the hospital into the cool night air, wondering if he had left a trail of sweat all the way from his bed.
30
"WOSOK!” GIM COMMANDED FIRMLY, BUT NOTHING happened. Starlight had his head down, buried in T'lin Dragontrader's loving embrace, and was purring so hard he could not hear the order.
"Wosok!” T'lin murmured. The dragon sank down on his belly, still nuzzling his owner and purring loud enough to waken the neighborhood.
There could be few places in cramped Narsh where a dragon might be hidden, but a sculptor's yard was one of them. Even so, Starlight was squeezed in between blocks of stone and half-completed monuments, and the space was hardly enough. A man with a lantern had just closed the gates.
Eleal swung a leg hastily over the pommel plate and slid to the ground in an undignified rush, wincing as her bare feet struck gravel. She had barely rearranged her robe when Gim landed beside her, stumbled, and pitched over with a shrill oath. That was not a very dignified descent for a noble hero on what must surely be his first chivalrous exploit. He scrambled up, muttering and sucking an injured palm.
Eleal had taken two unsteady steps toward T'lin when a portly woman came rushing out of the house with another lantern.
"My dear! You must be frozen! Come inside quickly.” She propelled Eleal bodily over the sharp gravel and into a cozy, fragrant kitchen, brightened by no less than four candles. Swathed in llama wool blankets, Eleal was tucked into a chair close to the big iron range. The woman swung the door open and clattered a poker in among the glowing coals. Then she began stoking it with big lumps of coal from a shiny brass scuttle, using brass tongs. Shiny copper pans hung on one wall. There was a tasseled rug on the floor; painted china plates stood along a shelf so the pictures on them were visible. Gim's family might not live in a palace like the king of Jurg, but they were wealthy compared with a troupe of actors.