And Peregrine heard himself saying, in a voice rather like the buzzing of bees (and he complimented himself, in his dream, for speaking thus, for it seemed to him at that time and in that state that this was the appropriate way for him to be speaking). “Well, and well do I now know that I have passed through either the Gate of Horn or the Gate of Ivory, but which one I know not, do you see?”
“None of that, now, that is not my concern: explain, explain, explain; what do you here and how came you here, to this place, called ‘the largest island in the Black Sea’, though not truly an island … and, for that matter, perhaps not even truly in the Black Sea … Explain. Last summons.”
Perry sensed that no more prevarications were in order. “I came here, then, sir, in the form of an hawk or falcon, to which state I was reduced by white witchery; and by white witchery was I restored to own my natural manhood after arriving.”
The sharp eyes scanned him. The sharp mouth pursed itself in more than mere words. “Well explained, and honestly. So. I have more to do, and many cares, and I think you need not be one of them. For now I shall leave you, but know that from time to time I shall check and attend to your presence and your movements and your doings. Sleep!”
Again the stick touched him, but now it was more like a caress, and the rough, stiff fleece and harsh blankets felt as smooth to his naked skin as silks and downs.
He awoke again, and properly this time, to see the grey dawnlight touched with pink. A thrall was blowing lustily upon the ember with a hollowed tube of wood and laying fresh fagots of wood upon it. An even lustier rumble of snores came from the adjacent heap of covers, whence protruded a pair of hairy feet belonging, presumably, to the King of Bertland. And crouching by his own side was Buck.
Who said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” said Perry, sitting up.
“You used to be a peregrine falcon and now you’re a peregrine man?” the younger boy asked.
“Yes. But don’t forget that I was a peregrine man before becoming a falcon. And let me thank you for the care and affection which you gave me when I was your hawk, Buck. I will try to replace myself… or replace the bird you’ve lost, but as I don’t know just when I can or how, even, best I make no promise.”
At this point the day got officially underway at Alfland Big House, and there entered the king himself, followed by the Lord High Great Steward, aged eight (who, having ignominiously failed his apprenticeship as kitchenboy by forgetting to turn the spit and allowing a pair of pullets to burn, had been demoted), carrying hot water and towels; the soft-soap, in a battered silver basin, being born by King Alf. He also bore an ostrich feather which had seen better days, and with this he ceremoniously tickled the feet of King Bert, whose snores ceased abruptly. The hot water and towels were set on a bench and the burnished tray set up in a convenient niche to serve as mirror. King Bert grunted greetings, took his sickle-shaped razor out of his ditty bag, and, seizing one wing of his mustache and pulling the adjacent skin out, began to shave.
“Buck,” said King of the Alves, “yer mum wants yer. Nar then, young Perry,” he said, “what I wants ter know is this: Haccording to the charm as our Ruby’s been and done unto yer, yer supposed to be the son of a king. Sometimes magic gets muddled, has we all knows, take for hinstance that time the Conqueror e says to iz wizard, ‘Conjur me up the ghost of Caesar,’ not specifying which Caesar e meant but hassuming e’d ave great Caesar’s ghost hand no hother, which e adn’t; the resultant confusion we needn’t go hinter. However, ‘Bring now for spouse the son of a king,’ says the charm, doesn’t say which king, do it, but meantersay: His you hor hisn’t you, a fair question, lad, give us a fair hanswer.”
This Peregrine felt the man was entitled to, but he was by no means delighted with the implications. “In a manner of speaking, Sir King,” he said, wiggling slightly - and then, reflecting, that the truth is more often the best than not, he added, “I am my father’s youngest bastard son, and he has three heirs male of his body lawfully begotten.”
King Alf digested this. It could almost be seen going down. “Well, then, we can homit Prince Peregrine, can we. Mmmm. Which means, Queen Pearl, we needn’t look forrert to that, neither. Er dowery ud be smaller, there’s a saving, right there. Nor she needn’t move far away, Lower Europe, meantersay, might’s well be Numidia for all the chance us’d ever get to visit. As a one or two by-blows meself. Fust one, wasn’t never sure was it by me or was it by a peddler as’d been by awking plaice; lad turned fifteen, stole a fishing smack one night and run wif it: I crossed is name horf the Royal Genealogical Chart hand ad a scribe write Denounciated hand Renounciated hafter it. ‘ Tother un was the spit and image of me Huncle Percy, long afore deceased; but this lad went to the bad just like tother one, hexcept e become a physician specializing in the infirmities of women, as yer might say, ope yer own da as ad better luck … “
His voice ended in a mumble, then plucked up again. “Now, no doubt yer da has enobled you, give yer some such title as it might be, say, Count of Cumtwaddle and Lord of the Three Creeks in the peerage of Sapodilla, hey?” he inquired, hopefully.
Peregrine sighed, shook his sleek head, informed the host-king that what his father had given him was his blessing, a month’s rations, three mules, a suit of the best second-rate armor, and a few other similar items; plus the ritual warning, established by law, that it would be Death for him to return either armed or at the head of an armed multitude.
King Alf grunted. “Well,” he said, tone halfway between disappointment and approbation, “spose that’s one way to preserve the loreful succession, makes sense, too bad, well, well,” he shook his head. The gesture seemed to indicate bafflement rather than a negative decision. Another grunt announced a fresh idea… or two.
“Well, be that as it may, Queen Clara sends her good wishes and says please to excuse as she needs back the tablecloth. Now, we can’t ave yer traipsing round in yer bare minimum, for folk ud larf hat us ha-keeping hup them hold-fashioned Grecian himfluences. So.” He displayed an armful of garments. “One o’ these is what’s left o’ what I’ve grew out of, but maybe it be still too large. And tother is for Buck ter grow into, maybe it be still too small. Only way to find out is to dive and try.”
Perry thanked him, dived and tried. The pair of trews, woven in a tessellated pattern according to the old Celtish style, and intended for Buck to grow into, fit him well enough; but the tunic was a bit tight across the chest and shoulders; the tunic which Buck’s father had grown out of, though an outsize round the waste, had exactly Perry’s sleeve length. The same lucky fit obtained with the sandals, formerly the property of King Baldy’s heir. “And here,” said the royal host, setting down a casket inlaid in ivory, “is the gear box, and you may poke around for clasps, buckles, fibulae, and such; please elp yerself. No urry, hexcept that betwixt dawn and noon we as a rightchual ceremony to hattend; like ter ave yer wiff us.”
The clepsydra at Alfland Big House had been for some time out of order, the king insisting with vigor that fixing it would constitute making plumbing repairs and thus an infringement on the High Royal Monopoly, the queen - for her part - insisting with equal vigor that the king was trying to cover up his ignorance of how to make the repairs. Be that as it may, the great water-clock remained unfixed, only now and then emitting a gurgle, a trickle, and a groan, rather like an elderly gentleman with kidney trouble. Be that as that may, at an hour approximately between dawn and noon, Peregrine, alerted by a minor clamor in the courtyard, made his way thither.