7

A council of war was held in Dido's bedroom at the Sydney Hotel. The participating members were Lieutenant Windward, Mr. Multiple, Dido, Plum, and Noah Gusset. Mr. Holystone had fallen into a high fever; the doctor was perplexed by his condition, which did not respond to treatment.

"All we can do is wait," he said, not too happily or confidently. "I am afraid the air of Bath does not agree with your friend."

"You mean to tell me this old girl believes she's King Arthur's widow?" Mr. Multiple incredulously demanded of the two who had visited the palace. "Round Table King Arthur? That one?"

"That's what she said. Didn't she, Miss Twite? Seemed to believe it, too. She's clean gone in her wits, of course; rats in the garret. But the thing is, what are we going to do? She's got Cap'n Hughes in the lock-up; for all we know, she's liable to chop his head off, or have it shrunk, like those ones in the waiting room, if we don't keep her sweet."

"Yes," said Multiple very doubtfully, "but even if Miss Twite goes to this King Mabon, and lets on to be his daughter, how do we know that'll help the cap'n? It sounds to me like a tottyheaded scheme. First, Miss Twite doesn't look like any princess—axing your pardon, Miss Twite."

"Oh, call me Dido, can't you," said Dido impatiently. "0' course I don't look like a princess."

"So it's odds but King Mabon'd twig our wheedle right from the start. And then we'll be rolled up too. Probably thrown into jail in Lyonesse. And he won't give back the old lady's lake."

"Supposing he did steal it," said the lieutenant skeptically.

Dido thought of the mysterious procession she had seen through the captain's telescope—all those loaded llamas slowly making their way over the mountaintops with their heavy burdens. But wait, she said to herself, I saw that after Cap'n Hughes had the message about the theft. Still, maybe llamas travel very slowly—specially with a heavy load, and maybe going only at night. Maybe it would take them two, three weeks to go from New Cumbria to Lyonesse?

"I reckon the lake was stolen," she said slowly.

"If it was stole, then King Mabon oughta return it," said Noah Gusset with stolid justice.

Plum, surprising everybody, said, "Mayhap she do be King Arthur's widow!"

They all stared at him, and he turned brick-red, but went on, "When I were a boy, in Usk, my gramma'd be telling us about King Arthur. Come back one day, she said he would, no matter how long. Sleeping in the mountain, him, till his time be come, with his knights around him. An' when his time be come, he'll pull his sword outa the rock again, an' put on his golden crown."

"Oh, flummery!" said Lieutenant Windward irritably. "Anyway—even if that were so—how could his widow survive him for thirteen hundred years?"

"The old medico Cap'n Hughes fetched in for Mr. Holystone said the climate up here was supposed to be devilish healthy," said Mr. Multiple.

"Not for poor Holystone it ain't!"

"Nor for all the young gels as gets took by the aurocs," said Dido. Then she stopped short. A perfectly horrible idea had come into her head. It was so strange, and so frightening, that she did not like to utter it aloud. Instead she said slowly, "I've had a kind of a notion. I believe I know where King Mabon's daughter might be."

They all stared at her in amazement.

"You do?" said Mr. Multiple. "How can that be?"

"I better not say here." Dido glanced round the room. "I don't trust this place above half." She looked under the bed. "What happened to the cat?" she asked Mr. Multiple.

"It dashed out when I opened the door."

"I reckon we'd better play along with the old lady a bit," Dido went on in a very low tone. "Say we'll go visit this King Mabon. That can't do no harm. Then we'll get a pass from the grand whatshisname, saying we're allowed to climb Mount Dammyache and Mount Catelonde and the other one."

Mount Arrabe, she thought.

Captain Hughes was thrust into a smallish stone-walled room, and the door slammed to behind him. He heard the rattle of bolts. For a moment or two he stood blinking (his head had been thrust into a black bag during his removal from Bath Palace); when he recovered his sight, he recognized a familiar figure in the small, plump man sitting dolefully on the floor by the window, with his buttons undone, his hair disheveled, and his cravat hanging in a loose tangle. He did not look up at the captain's unceremonious entry, but continued staring miserably at his own outspread fingers.

"Mr. Brandywinde! Upon my soul! I had thought you were upon the high seas! Do you mean to tell me that that hag of a queen imprisoned you too?"

"I don't mean to tell you anything," retorted Mr. Brandywinde moodily. "What's the use of talking? Oh, my hands, my poor hands!"

And he hunched his shoulders, turning his back rudely on the captain, who felt justifiably irritated. He had enough troubles of his own without being snubbed by this wretched little twopenny-halfpenny fellow.

Ignoring Mr. Brandywinde's sulks, Captain Hughes inspected the room, walked across to the window, and glanced out indifferently at the magnificent prospect of Bath encircled in its ring of volcanoes (the window was very high; they were at the top of the Wen Pendragon tower, which, in its turn, was at the top of Beechen Cliff). Then, discovering a second door, which stood ajar, the captain went through it into a second room, where he found a large loom, already strung with the warp for a carpet or a piece of tapestry. A door beyond the loom led on, and he discovered a circular suite of rooms, all interconnected and furnished with various materials for indoor occupation: a piano, a kiln and quantity of clay, paints, canvas, wool and needles, mathematical instruments, sewing equipment, canes, rushes, pipes, flutes; there was even a harp. What the captain did not find was any other exit apart from the bolted door through which he had been thrust by his captors.

"What the deuce is this place—a college?" he demanded, returning through a door opposite that from which he had started. "Or does Queen Ginevra propose to keep her prisoners at work weaving carpets?"

The British agent looked up at him with dismal bloodshot eyes.

"Oh, no," said Brandywinde. "She don't give a rap what happens to us. Unless we're some use to her. No, this ain't a college. It's a prison. But it's also King Arthur's castle. Where he's supposed to be residing till he's healed of his wound."

Forgetting his sulks, he imparted this information in a tone of condescension.

"Oh, what fustian!" exclaimed the captain irritably. "He is not really dwelling here, I collect?"

"O' course he ain't! But a good few o' the townspeople believe he is, an' that suits the queen's book an' keeps them contented. Every month or so she buys another set o' flutes or some wool and a crochet hook 'just to keep His Majesty diverted during his illness.' That's what all that clobber is in the other rooms."

"The jailors know it's not so."

"Ay, but they're all dumb."

"Why does she keep up the pretense?" asked the captain, shivering despite himself. "Does she really believe it herself?"

"Not that he is here.... Oh, who knows what she believes?" said Mr. Brandywinde morosely. "But whether she believes it herself or not, the rumor that he's in here is enough to keep King Mabon, or Ccaedmon of Hy Brasil, from invading and snapping up New Cumbria for themselves. A sick king is better than none."

"Oh. Ha. Hum. I see. Why the deuce didn't you tell me all this on the Thrush?" demanded the captain.

"Eh? Oh—well ... I never thought you'd get as far as Bath Regis," Mr. Brandywinde said evasively. "And—and—about to set sail myself ... preoccupied with plans for departure..."

"So why did you not embark? Why are you here in prison? And where are your wife and child?"

At these questions, to Captain Hughes's horror, his companion began to whimper distressingly. Tears coursed down his cheeks; he rocked himself to and fro.

"Oh, I am a wicked, wicked wretch!" he lamented in a thin, reedy voice. "I did wrong—dreadfully wrong—and now I'm being punished for it. And what's worst of all, I didn't even benefit from my wrongdoing. On the contrary! Oh, my hands! My poor hands!"

"Why, what the devil did you do?" inquired the captain without much sympathy.

"I sold that child of yours—Twitkin, Tweetkin, whatever the name is—to Lady Ettarde, for our passage money. Five hundred gold bezants."

"Sold Miss Twite to Lady Ettarde?!" exclaimed the captain in wrath and astonishment. "As a slave, do you mean? How can you have sold her? She was not yours to sell!"

"Oh, I shouldn't have done it, I know!" blubbered Brandywinde. "And anyway it didn't do me a particle of good—because those two cursed witches, Morgan and Vavasour, swore they never got their hands on the brat—the little monster escaped—they wouldn't give me the ready after all, the cheating harridans! So the boat sailed without us, and my wife and child are lost forever, and worst of all—"

"What became of your wife and child?"

But at this question Mr. Brandywinde went wholly to pieces, rocking, gulping, and gibbering. The only words Captain Hughes could distinguish among those he gasped out were, "Hunted to death—to death!"

A grisly thought flashed into the captain's mind.

"Hunted? Good God, you can't mean that hunt in the forest...?"

"If she can't get 'em by other means, she'll send her hell hounds after them!"

Captain Hughes shuddered. He said, uncertainly, "Do, pray, man, pull yourself together." He had not the heart to ask any more questions; the subject was too dreadful. And no more sense could be got from Mr. Brandywinde for the time; the little agent wept and trembled and shivered, moaned that he wished he were dead, and then in the next breath voiced a longing to get his hands round the throat of Lady Ettarde and strangle her. "Only how could I?" he wailed. "My hands don't work anymore!"

"How do you mean?" demanded the captain, exasperated after an hour or so of these continual lamentations. "Your hands do not appear to be injured or crippled? I can see nothing amiss with them."

"But there is! She overlooked them. She was angry—said she would teach me to cheat her—not that I had any intention of cheating her—indeed, indeed I didn't! She blew on my fingers, she said, 'From now on they will be as soft as paintbrushes; that will teach you not to bamboozle me'—and they are, they are—look at them! I cannot even tie my cravat."

"Oh, fiddlestick, man. This must be moonshine! A mere disorder of the senses. Let me see you tie your neckcloth."

But if it was a delusion, it was a very deep-seated one. Mr. Brandywinde fumbled limply and hopelessly with the linen neckpiece, as if his fingers had lost the power of obeying his will; and later, when one of the guards opened the door and thrust a basin of thin soup into the room, Captain Hughes was obliged, with disgusted reluctance, to feed his fellow captive like a baby, while Mr. Brandywinde whimpered and sobbed and snuffled, repeating that he was a wicked, wicked wretch and he wished that he were dead.

Early next morning Mr. Windward was informed that a letter had come from Her Mercy for Miss Dido Twite.

"Fancy her remembering my name!" said Dido, impressed, and she opened the note. It was an engraved card, bidding her present herself at the palace between the hours of four and five that afternoon.

"Humph!" said Windward suspiciously. "I hope there isn't anything skimble-skamble about this. What do you think Dido had best do?" he said to the others. They were all assembled, shivering, in the cactus gardens behind the Sydney Hotel.

"Tell you one thing—if I go, I ain't a-going to put on that fancy court rig again," said Dido. "I was perishing well frozen in it yesterday, except jist in the palace, an' it's turned a lot colder today, and I felt a fool in it. I'll jist wear my breeks and duffel jacket."

"Multiple and I had best come with you."

Somehow, without further discussion, it had been accepted by all of them that Dido had better keep the appointment. Lieutenant Windward went on, "Plum and Gusset can stay to keep an eye on poor Holystone."

"Let's take a dekko at that big map of Cumbria that hangs in the hotel lobby," said Dido. "Try and see how long it'll take us to get to King Mabon's place, if we go."

"What about the grand inquisitor, though?" said Mr. Multiple. "You say he didn't want us to go to Mabon."

"I don't trust him," said Lieutenant Windward. "He looked about as straightforward as an adder. I reckon he has his own ax to grind."

"So we diddle him too? Pretend we're just pretending to visit Mabon?"

"Just so's we don't get into a mux ourselves, about what we're a-going to do," said Dido.

"I think maybe we should visit Mabon," said Mr. Multiple. "Maybe he's a right 'un. There must be some good coves somewhere in these frampold parts. All we know about Mabon is, he took the lake because he had his daughter stole. You can't blame him for that."

The trio that set out for the palace that afternoon (they went by streetcar, in order to save money) were in very poor spirits. Dido was worried about Mr. Holystone, whose fever had somewhat abated, but who remained alarmingly pale and comatose. The other two were troubled about the fate of the captain. And who was to say that this unpredictable queen might not today take offense and throw the rest of them into jail?

Moreover, the air, as evening approached in this upland region, became icily, bitterly cold, and thinner than ever, so that they were continually obliged to gasp for breath as they crossed the palace yard; Mr. Multiple could not stop coughing, and Dido had a stitch in her side. They stopped in the middle of the big cobbled square while she clutched her chest with both hands, panting like a flounder. A black-cloaked, wooden-legged man, observing their predicament, advised Mr. Multiple to buy some rumirumi lilies. " Cavendo tutus," he remarked.

"What the blazes are rumirumis?" coughed Multiple, drawing a long, difficult breath.

Without replying, the lame man (who wore such a high-piled stack of hats pulled low over his brow that his face was invisible) went to one of a row of flower stalls along the side of the square and purchased a handful of large, dark-pink trumpet-shaped blossoms with deeper splotches of color in the calyx and fibrous, spiny leaves. "You sniff those," he said, returning to the three travelers, "you soon better, sic itur ad cura."

His remedy, indeed, proved remarkably efficacious. After sniffing at the big, velvety, potently scented trumpets for a few minutes, all three gringos found themselves able to breathe more easily.

"Must have oxygen in 'em," remarked the lieutenant. "Mighty useful kind of plant. Best take some with us up the mountains. Thank you indeed, sir," he said to the Cumbrian, who had started to limp away. "Pray allow me to reimburse you."

"It is nothing—nihil, nihil," the man called back. " Mens sana in corpore sano!" His voice sounded familiar to Dido, who suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe it was that Bran again! Did you notice a white bird peering out o' one of his hats?"

But Bran, if it was he, had already vanished down a side street.

The glassy palace shone green and iridescent in the cold evening light. The sun was about to set behind the black cone of Mount Damyake, and the palace, slowly revolving on its islet, caught the last flash of the descending orb.

Lieutenant Windward, who had been studying Mr. Multiple's guidebook, informed them, "The palace is properly known as Caer Sisi."

"That just means Spinning Castle," said Mr. Multiple, who had studied the book, too.

They had to wait for a complete revolution of the palace to get in, and were half frozen by the time the bronze door with its whirling panels came round to face them.

"Quick!" said Windward, and they all hurled themselves through.

But once they were inside, Dido's escorts were not allowed to proceed any farther. They were firmly shown into the waiting room with the shrunken heads, and only Dido was permitted to climb the stair and continue into the great throne room where Queen Ginevra reclined on her daybed.

"Dearest child!" Her Majesty greeted Dido with a wide but languid smile. Like many of her subjects, Queen Ginevra had a set of silver teeth. "So kind of you to come so quickly in answer to my summons," she added, swallowing a handful of pills.

"I only come when you said," Dido replied matter-of-factly.

"Touchingly considerate. You guessed I might be feeling lonely. Ah, no one can guess, though, the depth of my loneliness. Yet people are so kind to me! They all indulge me—my dear, dear subjects!" The queen threw up her eyes in roguish amazement. Dido stood looking at her silently.

"Do take a seat, my dear. Ah ... the steps ... a trifle hard.... Let's see ... perhaps a cushion..."

Groping feebly among her draperies, Queen Ginevra at length found a small gray bolster. Using as little energy as possible, she nudged it over the edge of the couch, so that it rolled down the steps and landed at Dido's feet. It appeared to be made of cobwebs. Rather gingerly, Dido sat on it.

"Now we can have a lovely gossip," said the queen. "I want to hear all about you."

What she really meant was that she wanted to talk about herself; she embarked on a long and rambling history of her childhood. "My father was a darling man—utterly devoted to me; but what chance did he have? None. Mother saw to it that he spent all his time at the Saxon wars, and he died when I was only seven. And she—I'm sorry to have to say it, but she had a really hateful nature. She could be a perfect fiend! I've always been sorry that Quondam—that's my pet name for Arthur, you know— and I didn't have any children. I longed for a child, to make up to her for all I had to suffer....

"However, when my darling rex futurus comes back again, then perhaps..."

Her voice trailed away dreamily. Dido, staring at the queen, thought she seemed much too old to have children; although her skin was strangely smooth, as if constantly anointed with nourishing creams, there were deep, deep wrinkles round her eyes, and her puffy hands were spotted like two pale toads. There was something even odder about her today than on the previous visit—hazy, disjointed; Dido wondered if she was a trifle bosky.

"Do you think the king will come soon?" Dido inquired politely.

"I'm sure he will, dear; as soon as you get back my stolen lake for me, sweet child! And then we shall all be so happy! I hope you will stay with us and be our dear little guest. But in the meantime I want you to be a real friend to me; I can see how very perceptive you are, my love, and that is so rare! I have had various little friends among the Cumbrian children, but their intelligence is not of a high order."

"There don't seem to be many kids at all in this country," said Dido, wondering if this was why Queen Ginevra's army was depleted, and if the queen would say anything about aurocs, and if it would be wise to mention the safe-conduct across the frontier.

"Unfortunately ... no ... that is so. But when my dear Quondam returns, all will be different. Meanwhile, we have to count our little blessings as best we can," said Queen Ginevra, receiving a silver bowl of gruel from Dr. Jones, who handed it to her with a deep, ceremonious bow, casting a sharp glance at Dido as he did so. "My evening collation," the queen explained graciously to Dido. "It is such a treat to chat to a young friend while I partake of it; nothing is quite so tedious as to eat a nuncheon alone."

She dipped a spoon into the gruel, which was of a very thick consistency, and perfectly white.

"Bone porridge, dear," she informed Dido. "Prescribed by my doctor. When you have a life as full of trials and sorrows as mine, your meals must be light, but very sustaining."

The porridge (though it looked exceedingly nasty) reminded Dido that she was hungry, too.

"Your Royalty," she said, having glanced round to make sure that Dr. Jones was out of earshot (but who knew how many listeners were hiding behind the curtains?), "I reckon I will go on that errand to King Mabon—that is, if you still wants me to? So—if you'd jist give me that travel permit you said as how—"

The queen looked for a moment almost disappointed. What might have been a flash of irritation passed over her face.

"Permit?" she replied vaguely. "Permit, child?"

"To climb Mount Damyake and see where the lake was pinched from. And then," said Dido doggedly, "go on to King Mabon, like you said."

"You are sure you want to do that? It is so enjoyable," said the queen, "to have you here and get to know you. One so seldom gets to know anyone really well. A person that she knows well," she added obscurely, "can do one so much more good than a stranger."

This queen, thought Dido, is as nutty as old Great-Aunt Bella. Only thing to do is to humor her. Like Aunt Bella used to shout, "The end is coming!" on Battersea Bridge, and the only way to get her home was to agree.

"I can come back and see you again," she said. "After King Mabon's sent back your lake."

"Ah," said the queen. "True. But I wonder," she murmured to herself, "I wonder if I am being practical? Will Mabon return the lake? Or should I keep the bird in hand—two birds in hand—should I forget about Arianrod? But then, my dear Quondam—sweet Quondam—how could I be sure of his return?

"When you have waited a very long time for someone," she said, fixing Dido with a glassy eye, "your mind becomes tired—perplexed—you hardly know what to do for the best."

Dido, remembering nutty old Aunt Bella, became a little sorry for the queen.

"Don't you worry, ma'am," she said kindly. "I daresay he'll turn up all right and tight."

Suddenly the queen's face became suffused with dusky color, turned to a mask of rage.

"You expect he will turn up!" she hissed. "Who are you to predict when the Pendragon will see fit to return? Here! Take this!" And she contemptuously tossed down her silver porringer, which, more or less by chance, Dido caught. When she looked up again, she saw that the queen had put on a pair of goldrimmed spectacles, through which, to judge by the angle of her face, she was staring at Dido. Dido could not be sure, because the lenses were like two small mirrors; they threw back reflections of the gray-curtained room, but the queen's eyes could not be seen behind them. One-way glass, Dido thought; what a naffy notion!

"Now I will show you what you are worth," said the queen bitingly. "Look at yourself in the side of that dish."

The silver bowl was highly polished; yet, rather to her surprise, Dido could not find her own reflection in its curved side, either upside down or the right way up.

"Not there?" Ginevra's voice was mocking now. "Nor in my glasses?" She leaned toward Dido, who peered warily at the two shining discs. "Not there either? How about in this?" She passed Dido a small hand mirror, its silver back and frame encrusted with diamonds. That, too, showed the long shadowy room with its cobweb hangings, but no Dido.

"Rum lot o' looking glasses you got round here," said Dido firmly, to cover a most uncomfortable feeling inside her.

"Blockhead! The glass is not at fault. I have destroyed your image, don't you see? And I can do the same with you yourself. It only—"

Perhaps fortunately, a voice was heard at this moment, calling, "Make way there, make way, for the queen's mistress of the robes!"

Queen Ginevra calmed down. Her freckled hands, which had been shaking, relaxed; two red spots disappeared from her cheeks; she began to smile again and tucked her chin, what there was of it, among her draperies.

"Dear me! Talking politics!" she said. "That will never do." Looking over Dido's shoulder, she remarked, "Dearest Ettarde! Just when I need you, as ever. Advise me."

Turning round, Dido saw, without joy, that the dressmaker was approaching, accompanied, at a respectful distance, by her two assistants. All three were dressed very elegantly, in spangled lace gowns over silk petticoats, with feathers in their high coiffures, and silver-embroidered velvet cloaks. The two assistants still wore their black loo-masks. All three curtsyed deeply. Lady Ettarde, tiny and hunchbacked, looked grotesque, like some overdressed doll. She clambered up the steps of the dais.

"Your Royal Mercy," she said. "How can I help you?"

"Counsel me about this child," said the queen. "Should I send her off to Mabon and get the lake back? Or—or keep her here?"

Lady Ettarde turned and stared at Dido disparagingly, from brogans to threadbare jacket. Dido, trying to look nonchalant, stuck her hands (one of them holding the little mirror) into her pockets. It was some comfort, at this moment, to remember that she still had the cat's whiskers knotted round her index finger.

"You said as how if I went to King Mabon you'd let out Cap'n Hughes," she began.

The ladies ignored this.

"Madam," said the dressmaker, "you would be well advised not to keep her here. The child is a troublemaker. She has a bad horoscope. Send her where she can be of use. What need to keep a sparrow when you have a bird of paradise?"

"Blister me!" muttered Dido. Nobody heeded her.

"Besides, dear lady! Think! Only this year—according to the astrologers' predictions, this very year—if all go well—your noble Quondam lord will be restored to you."

"They predicted other years as well. If I could be sure..." murmured the queen.

"Then—Your Royal Highness will have no further need of—birds. His presence will restore you—like the sun's rays on a growing plant."

"Perhaps you are right." But still the queen looked at Dido; as if she found it hard to let her go. It was a covetous, greedy stare; it made Dido quite fidgety.

"If I could jist have that permit, Your Royalship," she said politely, "I'd be on my way."

"Permit? What permit?" demanded Ettarde sharply. "You would not send the child by the pass—"

But now there came another interruption: shouts of "Make way, make way there, for the queen's soothsayer!"

To Dido's amazement, who should come walking forward but Bran.

He had changed from the shabby clothes in which Dido had last seen him to a stiff taffeta gabardine gown, striped in red and black, richly lined with fur. His long white hair flowed smoothly back over the collar; on his high, thoughtful brow he wore a square black cap. The white bird sat motionless on his shoulder. Both of them looked extremely dignified.

But, as he approached the queen, Bran surprisingly burst into song, and caroled, in a manner that seemed highly inappropriate and carefree:

"Eating a nuncheon
All by myself
Isn't much fun;
But when it's with you
Any old stew,
Any ragout
Would do!
When it's with you, it's a whiz
Who cares a fig what it is?

Going upstairs
All on my own
Isn't much fun;
But when it's with you
Any venue
Would do!
Just name a rendezvous ...
When it's with you, it's a treat
Who gives a hoot where we meet?"

The queen, Dido observed, looked quite startled, even alarmed, at these words; in fact her expression, as Bran approached, seemed a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, as if he were a much-respected teacher who was almost certain to find fault with her, but who was able to tell her secrets that she could find out nowhere else.

Lady Ettarde, on the other hand, seemed wholly put out at Bran's arrival; her brow grew dark and she muttered something furious under her breath. As for the two assistants, they let out faint whimpers of distress and slipped away into the shadows.

The queen greeted Bran in a rallying tone as he bowed slightly.

"Well, my soothsayer? Why have you been absent from our presence for so long? Where did you go, and what have you been doing?"

"Oh," he answered rather vaguely, "I have been wandering here and there about Your Grace's dominions, to and fro, up and down. Today I was in the silver mines; I brought this for you," and from a pouch slung at his girdle he produced a great chunk of rough sapphire, as large as a brick. Even Lady Ettarde let out a squeak of admiration.

"You could make yourself an hourglass from it, or some such thing," Bran said carelessly.

The lump was so heavy that the queen could only just hold it in her weak, puffy hands. After turning it about to catch the blue gleams of light, she let it roll to the ground. "Why should I want an hourglass?" she demanded pettishly. "The hours go slowly enough as it is. Tell me a story, Bran, to while away the time."

"I should have thought your time passed pleasantly enough," observed Bran. "You have company."

His eyes rested on Dido, but she was surprised to see that he gave no hint of recognition. On the point of greeting him, she changed her mind.

"Company? Oh yes," said the queen coolly. "But your stories are better than all. Because one day you will tell me that the king has returned, and it will be true."

"Meanwhile I will tell you a story that I heard in the silver mines."

The queen settled herself comfortably to listen. Lady Ettarde, like a monkey, hopped up on to the couch, and began carefully brushing Ginevra's hair with a silver brush.

"There was once a poet who worked in the silver mines," said Bran. "He kept a cockatoo, which he daily left in his house while he was working in the pit." Bran stroked the white bird that sat so still on his shoulder.

"But one night the poet dreamed that the bird had picked up his heart—which he took out every night before he went to sleep, and hung on a stand by his bed—the bird had taken his heart in its claws, and flown up the chimney, carrying his heart with it. Next morning, when the poet woke up, sure enough, the bird was up the chimney, and he had to go to work in the mine leaving it there. He told his dream to the companion who worked in the same gallery with him. But that afternoon the gallery roof caved in, and the poet was killed. His mate escaped. But now, the miners say, nobody will live in the poet's empty cottage, because his dream is still up the chimney."

"His dream, or the bird with his heart?" asked the queen.

"His dream, his bird, his heart; they are all the same."

"What does the story mean, soothsayer?"

"It is a true story; so you may choose your own meaning for it, ma'am. Now, are you going to give that child her permit to climb Mount Damyake and go to Lyonesse?" Bran asked without any change of tone. Dido was very much startled.

"Oh—do you really think I should? Very well—very well; in a minute or two; there's no hurry," said the queen petulantly, jerking her head, so that Lady Ettarde gave a smothered exclamation and nearly dropped the hairbrush.

"Bran—dear Bran," the queen went on, "can't you give me any news? Any hope? No matter how faint? How far distant?"

"All I can tell you, lady, is that it will be this year. When I know more—more shall be told you. If there weren't such a lot of cobwebs and shrunken heads in this palace," Bran said—his tone was not critical, merely matter-of-fact—"I might be able to see further."

The queen appeared to ignore this remark. After a moment or two she said, "Well ... another story, then!"

Bran sighed a little, as if he found the request tiresome, but he thought for a minute and then said rapidly, "A man called Ianto was walking across the town to his place of work when, looking down, he saw a gold and diamond necklace lying on the cobbles. That cannot be real gold, he thought. It must be worthless, or someone else would have picked it up already. And so he left it lying and went on. But when he was halfway across the town, waiting to cross a busy street, he looked down and saw the same necklace, or one just like it, lying in the roadway. The civil guard are laying police traps for me, he thought. If I pick it up, one of them is sure to jump out of a doorway and accuse me of intending to steal it. So he left the necklace lying where it was, and crossed the street. But when he came to his place of work, there, in front of the entrance, he saw what appeared to be the selfsame necklace, lying in the dust. Well, thought Ianto, now I know it must be meant for me. It is my destiny to have this necklace. So he picked it up. And it turned into a snake and bit him."

"Well, really!" exclaimed the queen indignantly. "What kind of a story is that! What are we to make of such a tale? Did the man die?"

"He was a doctor," Bran said, "and his place of work was a hospital, so he was able to treat himself with snake antidote. He was ill, but he did not die. And from his adventure he learned that if life has a necklace for you, or a snake, you may as well take it the first time, for it is sure to come back sooner or later."

So saying, Bran presented the queen with a gold and diamond necklace which he drew from his pouch. She accepted it, half laughing, half nervous.

"Will it turn into a snake and bite me?"

"No, ma'am. It is only dust—yellow dust and sparkling dust. A snake would be worth much more."

"Why?" demanded the queen, as Lady Ettarde clasped the chain round her throat.

"A snake is alive. Each live creature is unique. Take its life, and something is gone forever. But stones have no life, no identity. You cannot kill a stone."

An odd silence followed Bran's words. After quite a long pause the queen said irritably, "But if he had picked up the necklace the first time, his life might not have been saved.... What was it that you wanted me to do? Oh, I recall—a permit for the girl. Where are my tablets? Asclabor!"

A chamberlain came forward, bowed, and offered her writing materials. She scribbled on a scrap of parchment; the attendant dropped hot wax on it; then the queen pressed her signet ring on the wax.

"There you are, child! I am sure I do not know what all this fuss is about. Run along—be off—make yourself scarce. Gracious knows why you have been bothering me for so long."

Dido took the signed and sealed parchment. She would have liked to make some retort, but prudence withheld her. She curtsyed and turned to go, noticing that Lady Ettarde's assistants, halfway along the hall, were moving unobtrusively toward the entrance.

"I will escort the child to her companions," said Bran.

"No! Stay and tell me more tales!" said the queen.

"In a moment, Highness; I will tell you the story of the sailor who dropped his anchor down a well. In one moment I will return."

With two rapid limping steps Bran overtook Dido, and walked beside her down the length of the hall and round the curving gallery. Dido noticed that all the officials they met bowed to Bran very respectfully. None of them approached him.

"I liked that story about the bird, mister," said Dido. "Did it happen to you?"

"Why should you think so?"

He began levering himself down the stairs by the marble handrail.

"Because—I dunno! I just thought it might! Hey, there's Lieutenant Windward and Mr. Mully. I thought they mighta got tired o' waiting and gone home." Dido flourished the ribboned permit joyfully at her companions and called, "I got it, all right and tight!"

"Took long enough!" remarked the lieutenant. "Did she—?" He was evidently about to say, "Did she give much trouble?" but checked himself, seeing Dido's escort.

"This here's Mr. Bran, the queen's soothsayer," said Dido.

"I say, sir, do you think there's any chance that Her Majesty will change her mind and let Cap'n Hughes out of jail?" Lieutenant Windward asked. But the soothsayer shook his head.

"She will not let him out. But he will not be in prison for very long." Then he glanced at the revolving door, which was stationary. Apparently it began to move only when it was in the correct position for people to use it. "You have another five minutes to wait," Bran said.

"When do the big doors open?" asked Dido. "The ones that the whirling door's set into?"

"Not until the return of the king. On that day, and that day only, they will be opened."

"I say, sir, isn't that a load of moonshine?" suggested Lieutenant Windward diffidently. "I mean, about the king's return?"

"Moonshine? No indeed. All the omens predict that his return is close at hand."

Mr. Multiple, overjoyed to find someone both knowledgeable and prepared to answer questions, burst out with one that had been bothering him. "I beg your pardon, sir, but—those heads! The ones on the waiting room wall, you know—are they real?"

"Certainly they are real." Bran turned to glance through the waiting room door at the rows of shiny, shrunken objects. "There are tribes in the forest of Broceliande who make them. It is an ancient skill. They extract the skull, insert a hot stone, then sew up the lips and the slit through which the skull was removed. The head is then hung upside down for a year, to appease the owner's spirit."

"Wouldn't appease me," said Dido.

"Foreign travelers buy many of them; they are one of Cumbria's principal exports."

"I call that a bit much," grunted Lieutenant Windward. "I mean—for the queen to have them in her palace..."

"She wishes to encourage native crafts," said Bran. His face was quite devoid of expression. "Now the door will start to revolve," he added. "You can tell, because it begins to make that humming sound." In a lower tone, covered by the hum of the door, he went on, "Make all possible haste to leave Bath. And take your sick companion with you. Bath is excessively dangerous for any person suffering from a disorder of the consciousness. Or for children."

"How did you know about Mr. Holy?" Dido asked.

But he had already turned and was beginning to ascend the great staircase.

The revolving door began to spin, and they hurried through it.

"I wish he could come with us," said Dido, when they were outside.

"Him? Climb mountains with a wooden leg? Are you dicked in the nob?" said Mr. Multiple.

"I say, don't the mountains look queersome, though," said Dido. For the ring of great peaks, some of them spouting lurid smoke threaded with sparks, now stood silhouetted against the pale sunset sky, like a stony crown encircling the twilit town.

"We will start at dawn tomorrow," decided Lieutenant Windward. "I'll ask the hotel to provide us with a guide, and provisions for the journey. Now we had best go back and study the map."