A man was peering in the window. It took her a moment to realize that it was T'lin Dragontrader in a straw hat and a drab-colored local smock. She had never seen him without his turban, and there was something odd about his beard.
"Only me!” He dropped a bundle over the sill. “Brought you something to wear. Up all night—expect you want to sleep now?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Just tell me how to find the Sacrarium."
Fogged by fatigue, Eleal regarded him blankly for a moment. He had apparently smeared his beard with charcoal, dulling its normal copper red. Why did Dragontrader want to be inconspicuous?
And why did he not just ask one of the locals to give him directions?
"You can't miss it,” she said. “Follow the main road north to the old bridge. It's east of the road, ‘bout half a mile. There's a sign, and a path."
"Oh. Good. Er ... anything you need before you kip?"
Eleal yawned and stretched divinely. “Can't keep my eyes open."
"Right.” T'lin eyed her with bright green suspicion. “If you do wake up when I'm not around ... Well, this isn't Narsh or Suss, remember. You stay here!"
Eleal walked over to her mattress and sat down, promising faithfully that she would go no farther from the hostelry than the dragons, which she could hear belching faintly.
"Just remember what happened at Filoby this morning,” T'lin said thoughtfully. “They catch bigfangs hereabouts sometimes, too."
She went on the offensive. “Are you trying to keep me away from something, T'lin Dragontrader?"
"No, no! You sleep well.” He disappeared.
Perhaps food had revived her. Perhaps it was only curiosity. Either way, she knew she could not sleep now. She rushed over to the bundle he had tossed in, discovering a smock and a pair of sandals. He would almost certainly hang around for a while and watch the window in case she tried to follow him. She changed quickly into the clean smock, grabbed up the sandals, and ran out the door. Slop slap slop slap...
39
EDWARD HAD NOT EXPECTED TO SLEEP, BUT HE DID. THE wagon was hot and noisy. From time to time he would become aware of snores, wheels rumbling, axles squeaking, and the clopping of hooves. Very rarely a lorry would go by or children would shout abuse at the hated Gypsies. Dogs barked hysterically. At such times his worries would surge in on him again and for a while he would stare at the painted slats above his nose while plot and counterplot raced around in his mind. What proof of age or identity would he need to enlist? He would not dare use his own name. His OTC Certificate would be useless and was unobtainable now anyway, back in Kensington, so he could not hope for early routing into officer training. Well, he would not mind the ranks. But how long could he conceal his identity? How long until word filtered back to Fallow and Greyfriars?
Sometime during the morning the caravan halted for a while. He did not bother to investigate the reason for the stoppage. He did not think it would be a police roadblock looking for him, but if it were, the Gypsies could handle it. They had centuries of practice at dealing with rozzers. Creighton continued to snore.
By now Alice must have heard of his disappearance. She would be worried crazy. On the other hand, he thought with much satisfaction of his uncle's reaction, wishing he could somehow take him to that hilltop grove and introduce him to Puck. He wondered how Head Office had contrived the Oldcastle sham for the last two years. A committee, Creighton had said, and yet all his letters had been answered in the same handwriting.
The wagon rolled again. He slept again.
He dreamed of his parents and awoke shaking.
In the dream they had been sitting on the veranda at Nyagatha, writing a letter together like a committee of two, and in the way of dreams he had known they were writing to him.
That Jumbo letter was what was bothering him. It tied in so well with what Creighton had told him! Without it, he probably would dismiss all of the colonel's story as rubbish—mended leg or no mended leg.
"I see you're awake at last.” Creighton was stripped to his undervest, shaving with a straight razor. “Was that the sleep of the just, or just sleep?"
"Yes, sir,” Edward said, with what he thought was admirable self-control. He felt limp and sweaty in the noon heat. There was no room for him to climb down. The wagon was still moving and he might jostle Creighton and make him cut his throat. The man was infuriatingly tight-lipped, but that would be going a bit far.
The wagon lurched as Creighton stooped to see in the looking glass, preparing a stroke. He cursed under his breath.
"Will you tell me where we are, sir?"
"Halfway to where we're going. We'll be there tonight."
"And where is that?"
"Stonehenge."
Edward sensed a leg-pull and then realized. “A node, of course?"
"The most powerful in Britain, so I'm told."
"And who do we meet there? Druids?"
"Druids? I suppose they would have used it, but I suspect it was ancient even in their time.” Creighton aimed another stroke at his neck. Apparently he was in a more informative mood now, for he carried on talking as he wiped the razor. “It has no resident genius now, so far as I know—so far as my friends in Head Office know. Nodes have another purpose, many of them. They can be used as portals."
He had just confirmed something Edward had been afraid of.
"Portals to where?"
"Various places. Most of the European ones connect with a territory known as the Vales, but that may just be a peculiarity of the keys we know—something to do with the languages or the cultural trends in rhythm. Try this.” He laid down his razor and beat a rapid tattoo on the table. “Can you do that?"
Edward reached up to the roof in front of his nose and repeated the beat.
Creighton whistled. “First time? That was perfect, I think. Do it again."
Edward did it again, wondering what the catch was.
"Let's see if you can do the whole thing then!” This time Creighton repeated the refrain and continued drumming. The whole thing was long and extremely complex, but obviously just a series of variations and syncopation. Edward played it back to him exactly.
"Exeter, you're a wonder! How the deuce did you manage that? I thought it would take you all afternoon to get it."
"I was raised in Africa. The natives have far more complicated beats than that. Try this one.” His fingers were rusty, and it really needed two drummers, but he managed a fair imitation of one of the simpler Embu rhythms.
Creighton listened in silence, and then suddenly laughed. It was the first real laugh Edward had heard him utter, a raucous bray. “I could never come close! Well, that takes care of one problem. How are you at learning stuff off by heart?"
"Average, I suppose."
"Modesty? You played the king in Henry V. That's a tough part."
"How did ... You read my letters to Mr. Oldcastle?"
"A summary of what you've been up to.” Creighton seemed to have forgotten that half his face was coated with soap. “Repeat this:
"What's it mean?"
"Lord knows. It's in no known language. Probably older than the pyramids. Try it."
That was tougher. It took him several tries and repeats.
"They go together, don't they?” he said. “What's the melody?” He began to sing the words to the beat.
"Stop!” Creighton barked. “Do not mix the ingredients until I say so!"