the extended fingers. When he stood again, there was something of a salute in his manner, and under his cloak the Prince bowed, acknowledging it.
The room was distinctly colder, the fire glowed sad red rather than lively orange, and the spilled Gravamen smelled more sour after the Duke flung his long scarlet cloak about his shoulders, pulled the broad brim of his plumed hat low over his face, and strode out into the sleet. He was gone up Wend toward the Carpenter's Square in an instant.
"Time remains in the hour," Slitgizzard said, "and I prefer we keep all of it—but I will remain."
"And I," Calliope said.
Prince Amatus sat back down, carefully making sure that his cloak concealed the absence of his left side as much as anything could. What had come over him in that moment with the Duke? It had felt right and good, but now that it was gone, he felt tired and young.
"We will stay out the hour," he said softly. "And I would like to hear any song as long as it is of love and spring, and not spilled blood and night, and most especially as long as it is not 'Penna Pike.'"
Golias bent to his palanquin and plucked away at "The Codwalloper's Daughter," but though his voice was deep and true and the poetry as beautiful as the subject was bawdy, some of the color was gone from the Gray Weasel, and the sleet outside spattered harder in a nasty cold tattoo that mocked but never matched the tempo of the alchemist's strumming.
All the same, the Prince did not call for it to stop, but looked around as if drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could while the last of the sand in the hourglass ran out, and even felt in his throat the words that would cry out for a few more minutes, or one more song, or one more glass . . . he fought them down, because he knew they would come in a boy's breaking voice, but it was a fight, and he knew, too, that he only won it because the boy inside him wanted to be fought down.
Just as the last strains of "The Codwalloper's Daughter" were bouncing around in the rafters, and Calliope pulled her boots off the table, and Sir John wetted his lips to speak, there was an all but unbearable moment when Amatus wanted more than ever to say, "One more dance of the shadows on the wall, one more merry tune, one more hoisted glass—"
And at that moment three figures, disguised, entered the taboret, and were recognized instantly, for even in long cloaks and many garments and veils, there was no mistaking the tall, thin woman whose skin was covered with scales and pale blue, or the huge, lumpy misshapenness of the man, and given that much, who else could the dark-haired, soft-faced youth in page's clothing beside him be but Psyche? The other three Companions had come, punctual at the time, and though Amatus could still feel the longing for this to be any other night, he knew now that it was time to go, and the dull ache of anticipated nostalgia no longer had any power over him. He rose silently, drawing his cloak tighter about him, and Sir John, Calliope, and Golias did as well, and then the seven of them were out in the icy, damp, windy streets, headed down toward the faint fishy foulness of the river.
If any saw them pass, it was only by peeking through the slats of shutters, and no one would have had even one slat open if it could be helped, on such a night. They passed out of the Hektarian Quarter and on down Wend past the sweeping arches and pinnacles of the houses of the Vulgarians and among the little stupors where on pleasant summer days they had often stopped for tea. Following torches held aloft by Golias, Sir John, and the Twisted Man, at last they came to the place in the riverside walls where the city sewers poured into the Long River below them.
"It so happens," Golias said, "that I brought a rope along, although when I brought it I did not know what for."
The Twisted Man went first, handing his torch to Calliope and climbing down into the near-complete darkness, and Amatus was never
The room was distinctly colder, the fire glowed sad red rather than lively orange, and the spilled Gravamen smelled more sour after the Duke flung his long scarlet cloak about his shoulders, pulled the broad brim of his plumed hat low over his face, and strode out into the sleet. He was gone up Wend toward the Carpenter's Square in an instant.
"Time remains in the hour," Slitgizzard said, "and I prefer we keep all of it—but I will remain."
"And I," Calliope said.
Prince Amatus sat back down, carefully making sure that his cloak concealed the absence of his left side as much as anything could. What had come over him in that moment with the Duke? It had felt right and good, but now that it was gone, he felt tired and young.
"We will stay out the hour," he said softly. "And I would like to hear any song as long as it is of love and spring, and not spilled blood and night, and most especially as long as it is not 'Penna Pike.'"
Golias bent to his palanquin and plucked away at "The Codwalloper's Daughter," but though his voice was deep and true and the poetry as beautiful as the subject was bawdy, some of the color was gone from the Gray Weasel, and the sleet outside spattered harder in a nasty cold tattoo that mocked but never matched the tempo of the alchemist's strumming.
All the same, the Prince did not call for it to stop, but looked around as if drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could while the last of the sand in the hourglass ran out, and even felt in his throat the words that would cry out for a few more minutes, or one more song, or one more glass . . . he fought them down, because he knew they would come in a boy's breaking voice, but it was a fight, and he knew, too, that he only won it because the boy inside him wanted to be fought down.
Just as the last strains of "The Codwalloper's Daughter" were bouncing around in the rafters, and Calliope pulled her boots off the table, and Sir John wetted his lips to speak, there was an all but unbearable moment when Amatus wanted more than ever to say, "One more dance of the shadows on the wall, one more merry tune, one more hoisted glass—"
And at that moment three figures, disguised, entered the taboret, and were recognized instantly, for even in long cloaks and many garments and veils, there was no mistaking the tall, thin woman whose skin was covered with scales and pale blue, or the huge, lumpy misshapenness of the man, and given that much, who else could the dark-haired, soft-faced youth in page's clothing beside him be but Psyche? The other three Companions had come, punctual at the time, and though Amatus could still feel the longing for this to be any other night, he knew now that it was time to go, and the dull ache of anticipated nostalgia no longer had any power over him. He rose silently, drawing his cloak tighter about him, and Sir John, Calliope, and Golias did as well, and then the seven of them were out in the icy, damp, windy streets, headed down toward the faint fishy foulness of the river.
If any saw them pass, it was only by peeking through the slats of shutters, and no one would have had even one slat open if it could be helped, on such a night. They passed out of the Hektarian Quarter and on down Wend past the sweeping arches and pinnacles of the houses of the Vulgarians and among the little stupors where on pleasant summer days they had often stopped for tea. Following torches held aloft by Golias, Sir John, and the Twisted Man, at last they came to the place in the riverside walls where the city sewers poured into the Long River below them.
"It so happens," Golias said, "that I brought a rope along, although when I brought it I did not know what for."
The Twisted Man went first, handing his torch to Calliope and climbing down into the near-complete darkness, and Amatus was never
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