Nightside the Long Sun

With a last look at the injured bird, Crane rose. “So they really do teach you people something besides all that garbage.”

Silk nodded. “It’s called logic.”

“So it is.” Crane smiled, and Silk discovered to his own surprise that he liked him. “Well, if I’m going to look in on this sick girl of yours, I’d better scoot. What’s the matter with her? Fever?”

“Her skin felt cold to me, but you’re a better judge of diseases than I.”

“I should hope so.” Crane picked up his bag. “Let’s see—through the front room there for Sun Street, isn’t it? Maybe we can talk a little more on our way to Orchid’s place.”

“Look at the back of her neck,” Silk said.

Crane paused in the doorway, shot him a questioning glance, then hurried out.

Murmuring a prayer for Teasel under his breath, Silk went into the sellaria and shut and bolted the Sun Street door, which Crane had left standing open. As he passed a window, he caught sight of Crane’s litter. Maytera Marble reclined beside the bearded physician, her intent metal face straining ahead as though she alone were urging the litter forward by sheer force of thought. While Silk watched, its bearers broke into a trot and it vanished behind the window frame.

He tried to recall whether there was a rule prohibiting a sibyl from riding in a man’s litter; it seemed likely that there was, but he could not bring a particular stricture to mind; as a practical matter, he could see little reason to object as long as the curtains were up.

The lioness-headed walking stick lay beside the chair in which he had sat for Crane’s examination. Absently, he picked it up and flourished it. For as long as the wrapping functioned he would not need it, or at least would need it very little. He decided that he would keep it near at hand anyway; it might be useful, particularly when the wrapping required restoration. He leaned it against the Sun Street door, so that he could not forget it when he and Crane left for the yellow house.

A few experimental steps demonstrated once again that with Crane’s wrapping in place he could walk almost as well as ever. There seemed to be no good reason for him not to carry a basin of warm water upstairs and shave as he usually did. He re-entered the kitchen.

Still on the table, the night chough cocked its head at him inquiringly. “Pet hungry,” it said.

“So am I,” he told it. “But I won’t eat again until after midday.”

“Noon now.”

“I suppose it is.” Silk lifted a stove lid and peered into the firebox; for once a few embers still glowed there. He breathed upon them gently and added a handful of broken twigs from the ruined cage, reflecting that the night chough was clearly more intelligent than he had imagined.

“Bird hungry.”

Flames were flickering above the twigs. He debated the need for real firewood and decided against it. “Do you like cheese?”

“Like cheese.”

Silk found his washbasin and put it under the nozzle of the pump. “It’s hard, I warn you. If you’re expecting nice, soft cheese, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Like cheese!”

“All right, you can have it.” A great many vigorous strokes of the pump handle were required before the first trickle of water appeared; but Silk half filled his basin and set it on the stove, and as an afterthought replenished the night chough’s cup.

“Cheese now?” the night chough inquired. “Fish heads?”

“No fish heads—I haven’t got any.” He got out the cheese, which was mostly rind, and set it next to the cup. “You’d better watch out for rats while I’m away. They like cheese too.”

“Like rats.” The night chough clacked its crimson beak and pecked experimentally at the cheese.

“Then you won’t be lonely.” The water on the stove was scarcely warm, the twigs beneath it nearly out. Silk picked up the basin and started for the stair.

“Where rats?”

He paused and turned to look back at the night chough. “Do you mean you like them to eat?”

“Yes, yes!”

“I see. I suppose you might kill a rat at that, if it wasn’t too big. What’s your name?”

“No name.” The night chough returned its attention to the cheese.

“That was supposed to be my lunch, you know. Now I’ll have to find lunch somewhere or go hungry.”

“You Silk?”

“Yes, that’s my name. You heard Doctor Crane use it, I suppose. But we need a name for you.” He considered the matter. “I believe I’ll call you Oreb—that’s a raven in the Writings, and you seem to be some sort of raven. How do you like that name?”

“Oreb.”

“That’s right. Musk named his bird after a god, which was very wrong of him, but I don’t believe that there could be any objection to a name from the Writings if it weren’t a divine name, particularly when it’s a bird’s name there. So Oreb it is.”