"What can I offer you, Your Grace?" Okros asked.
"Some information, to be honest. May I assume you still have not heard anything from Chaven?"
He shook his head. "To my deep regret, no. There are so many things I would like to ask him. Taking on his duties has left me with many ques¬tions, many confusions. I miss his counsel-and his presence, too, of course. Our friendship goes back many years."
"Do you know anything about the moon?"
Okros looked a little startled by the apparent change of subject, but shrugged his slender shoulders. "It depends, I suppose. Do you mean the object that rides the skies above us at night and sometimes in the day-yes,
see, there it is now, pale as a seashell! Or the goddess Mesiya of the silver limbs? Or the moon's effect on women's courses and the ocean's tides?"
"Not any of those things," said Merolanna. "At least 1 don't think so. Have you ever heard of anything called the House of the Moon?"
He was silent for so long that Utta thought they had upset him some¬how, but when he spoke he sounded just as before. "Do you mean the palace of Khors? The old moon demon conquered by the Trigon? His palace is spoken of in some of the poems and stories of ancient days, called by that name, House of the Moon."
"It could be. Did Chaven ever own something that could be called a piece of the moon's house?"
Now he looked at her carefully, as though he hadn't. really noticed the duchess until just this moment-which was nonsense, of course. Utta knew it was her own nerves making her see phantoms.
"What makes you ask such a question?" he said at last. "I never thought to hear such dusty words of scholarship from you, Your Grace."
"Why shouldn't I?" Merolanna was annoyed. "I'm not a fool, am I?"
"Oh, no, Your Grace, no!" Okros laughed-a little anxiously, it seemed to Utta. "I meant no such thing. It's just that such old legends, such… trivial old stories… it surprises me to hear such things from you when I would more expect them from one of my brother scholars in the Eastmarch library." He bowed his head, thinking. "I remember nothing about Chaven and anything to do with the House of the Moon, but I will give it some thought, and perhaps even have a look at the letters Chaven sent to me over the years-it could be some investigation he had undertaken that I have forgotten." He paused, rubbing his chin. "May I ask what makes you in¬quire about this?"
"Just… something that I heard," Merolanna said. "Doubtless a mistake. Something I thought I remembered him saying once, that's all."
"And is it of importance to you, Your Grace? Is it something that I, with my humble scholarship and my friends at the academy, could help you to discover?"
"No, it's really nothing important," said Merolanna. "If you find anything about Chaven and this House of the Moon thing, perhaps we'll talk more. But don't worry yourself too much."
After Okros had taken his leave the women made their way across the Inner Keep toward the residence. Flurries of snow were in the air, but only a few powdery scatterings had collected on the cobbled paths. Still, the sky
was dark as burned pudding and Utta suspected there would be a lot more while on the ground by morning.
"I think that went rather well," said Merolanna, frowning. Her limp had become more distinct. "He seemed willing to be helpful."
"He knows something. Couldn't you see?"
"Yes, of course I could see." Merolanna's frown deepened in annoyance. "All these men, especially the scholars, think that such knowledge belongs to them alone. But he also knows now that he'll have to give something to get something."
"Did it ever occur to you such a game might be dangerous?"
Merolanna looked at Utta with surprise. "Do you mean Brother Okros? The castle is full of dangers, dear-just the Tollys alone are enough to give someone nightmares-but Brother Okros is as harmless as milk. Trust me."
"I'll have to, won't I?" said Utta, but she could not stay angry with her friend for more than a few moments. She took Merolanna's elbow, letting the older woman lean on her as they walked back through powdery snow in swiftly darkening afternoon.
Even with a dumb brute like this it will not be as easy as prying at unprotected thoughts, Gyir said. I must have silence just to bring him to the door of our cell.
Barrick was only too happy to comply. He was already regretting his in¬sistence. The memory of being trapped in the woodsprite's dull, hopeless thoughts, of handling corpses like they were discarded bits of clothing dropped on the floor, still roiled his stomach and made him light-headed.
A bestial, leathery face appeared in the grille, the brow so bony and low that Barrick could not even see the creature's eyes. It grunted and then snarled, angered by something, but was clearly compelled to remain where it was.
Gyir stood eye-to-eye with it for what seemed to Barrick like a terribly long time, in a silence broken only by the occasional pained cry of a pris¬oner in the other chamber. The guard-beast swayed but could not free it¬self from Gyir. The fairy stood almost motionless, but Barrick could sense a little of the tides of compulsion and resistance flowing back and forth be¬tween the two of them. At last the creature made a strange, rough-throated noise that could have been a gasp of pain. Gyir wiped sweat from his pale brow with his sleeve, then turned toward them.
/ have him, now.
Barrick stared at the guard, whose tiny eyes, rolled up behind half-open lids, had finally become visible as slivers of white. But if you've mastered him, couldn't he free us? Help us to escape?
He is only a minion-one who brings food. He has no keys for this inner cell. Only Ueni'ssoh has those. But this dull savage may yet give us better aid than any key. Sit down. I will show you something of his thoughts, his sight, as I send him on his way.
Even as Barrick settled himself on the hard stone floor, the guard turned and staggered away across the outer cell. Prisoners scurried to avoid him, but he walked past them as though they were invisible.
Gyir's presence pressed on Barrick's thoughts. He closed his eyes. At first he could see nothing but red darkness, then it slowly began to resolve into shapes he could recognize-a door swinging open, a corridor stretching out beyond.
Barrick could feel very little of the creature's own thoughts beyond the muted jumble of perceptions, of sight and sound, and he wondered whether that was because the guards were not much more than mindless beasts.
No. The fairy's voice came swiftly and clearly: Gyir truly had gained strength. Barrick could even feel Vansen's presence beside him in the beast's thoughts, like someone breathing at his own shoulder. He is not just an an¬imal, Gyir said. Even the animals are not just animals in the way you are think¬ing. But I have quashed his mind with my own as best I can, so that he will do what we like and not remember it afterward.
The guard-beast trudged down into the depths, a long journey that took him far beneath even the level of the corpse-room. Despite the odd gait forced on him by Gyir's awkward control of his movements, he was avoided by prisoners and the other guards barely seemed to acknowledge his exis¬tence. They might not be mere beasts, Barrick decided, but even among their own kind they showed little life. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe these large, apelike guards were, in their own way, prisoners just as he and his companions were.
Every few hundred paces something boomed and rumbled in the depths, a noise Barrick could feel more than hear through the creature's muffled perceptions.
What is that noise? It sounds like thunder-or cannons!
You are closer with the second. Gyir was silent for a moment as the creature
stumbled, then righted itself. it is Crooked's Fire, or at least so we Kill it. Your people call it gun-flour.
Then they truly are shooting off cannons down there?