Bookweirdest Part 2

It would be easier with Malcolm at his side. The stoat king knew his way around a medieval siege. He could sneak into strongholds no human could penetrate, and he was deadly with a longbow. Norman's gut told him to find Malcolm first. He had promised to help Malcolm retrieve the treaty map from Jerome's library, although maybe his gut was just afraid to face the siege of San Savino and the machinations of Black John of Nantes alone. But where to start? Kit had brought Norman home to the Shrubberies. Did that mean he'd sent Malcolm home to Lochwarren?

The best place to start was with some paper. It was crucial to Norman's ingress. An ingress was how you got into a book. It was Uncle Kit who had taught Norman the word, and who had told him that his ingress was unique. Norman could get into any book. All he had to do was eat a page.

It wasn't an exact science. The bookweird had a mind of its own sometimes. It didn't like being messed with. When you altered a book, you altered the universe, and that sometimes affected other books. All too often, Norman woke up in the wrong book. He was getting better at it, or so he told himself. He had even been able to write his way back to reality. He'd written himself out of the siege of San Savino in The Secret in the Library after Black John had caught him, mistaking Norman for Jerome. The vengeful knight had left him tied him up in a tent while he commanded the siege. Norman had managed to scrawl a description of the Shrubberies on some borrowed paper and then had eaten that. The bookweird might not be predictable, but he felt safer with a stash of paper and a pen in his pocket.

When he judged it safe, he flicked the light back on and opened the drawer of his bedside table. There should have been a notebook in there. His mom had bought it for him to use as a travel journal. So far he had used it only to play dots and boxes and to draw pictures of castles, but he could put it to better use now ... if he could find it. The drawer was as cluttered as ever, but there was no notebook. Where had he left it?

He climbed out of bed as quietly as he could and began rummaging. The notebook was nowhere to be found. The backup plan would have to be to go into another book-back to George at Kelmsworth in the Intrepids series, maybe, or to Undergrowth to look for Malcolm-except that he couldn't find any books either. This was weird. He'd brought a couple of Undergrowth books with him on the trip, and his mom was always bringing new books from the town bookstore. Where were they now?

It finally dawned on him that the reason he couldn't find The Secret in the Library-the reason he couldn't find any book, and the reason the library was locked-was that Kit knew it was his escape route. Kit was trying to keep him trapped here. His crazy uncle had locked up the library and hidden every sc.r.a.p of paper in the house. It had taken Norman all day to realize it, but that's what was going on. The gaming system was supposed to distract him. Kit knew that a book would have done a better job, but he also knew that every book was an escape hatch for Norman.

It was hard to hate Uncle Kit more. He'd messed up a lot of books before, but to take all the books away ... well, that was low even for him. And to think that he'd believed Norman could be distracted with a gaming system. That was insulting.

The thought of the gaming system downstairs triggered a memory for Norman, and a triumphant grin began to spread across his face. This contest wasn't over yet. Uncle Kit hadn't thought of everything. He had made one mistake.

Norman didn't bother about the creaking step as he descended the stairs. Uncle Kit could say what he wanted if he caught him. If Kit wanted to admit that he was keeping them captive here, that was fine. Norman's mood became more defiant the closer he came to the dining room. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and he knew exactly where to find it. Uncle Kit's mistake had been to wrap his present.

The gaming system was sitting exactly where he'd left it, the main unit on the floor, the glove and goggles discarded on the table. The Styrofoam and plastic packing was still there in a pile beside the main unit. But the cardboard box that had held it all was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the brown wrapping paper that he'd shredded so enthusiastically for Kit's benefit. Did Kit actually clean up? Norman rushed to the kitchen to check the only garbage can he knew of. It was filled with pizza crusts and chocolate eclair leftovers. There wasn't a single pizza box or sc.r.a.p of wrapping paper to be seen. He circled the kitchen anxiously and racked his brain. Was there another garbage can, or even a recycling box? He circled the bottom floor, checking the pantry, the bathroom, the front foyer.

Maybe the sitting room. Why did he think he'd seen a pile of paper there? He padded to the sitting room, moving more quietly now that he wasn't so sure of his escape. When he saw the magazine rack there, beside the sofa, he realized what pile of paper he must have been thinking of. By the faint, blue-tinged light of the moon, he could tell that it was empty now. He scanned the room, looking for anywhere that Kit might have disposed of the wrapping paper. Nothing. Not a recycle bin or wastepaper basket, not the crumpled ball of brown paper that Norman now desperately needed.

His eyes tracked back to the fireplace. No one had used it since they arrived here, but now the fire shield had been moved aside and the grate was open. When he knelt in front he could feel no heat, but he could tell from the smell that there had been a fire there very recently. A small pile of black ashes was left on the hearth. Only fingernail-sized sc.r.a.ps of paper remained. They would be useless for writing on, but all the same he plucked one out using the tips of his fingers. It crumbled to ashes the moment he touched it. Uncle Kit had closed the escape route. He was trapped.

Walking in Circles.

It wasn't the easiest of sleeps. Visions of San Savino ablaze tortured him all night. It was as if he were still there, held captive in Black John's tent, watching helplessly while the siege engines lurched and hurled their fiery missiles into the undefended town. His dreams were filled with the sounds of whistling arrows and barked orders. He dreamt that Jerome was calling out to him from the library as the flames engulfed his hideout. It was one of those dreams where you try to speak but can't. He wanted to shout, to tell Jerome to get out, to tell him that he was coming back to save him, but somehow his voice wouldn't rise above a whisper.

In the morning his sheets were wrapped tightly around him as if he'd been rolled up in them. He didn't wake up rested, but he did wake up determined. Kit was not going to get away with this! His crazy uncle might be able to hide all the paper in the house, but he couldn't keep Norman from leaving.

There wasn't much in the kitchen worth taking, but Norman filled the canvas knapsack he'd borrowed from George Kelmsworth with granola bars and bottled water. It was warm out, but he kept George's sweater in there too. It made him feel better having something from inside a book. It rea.s.sured him that it was all still possible.

He had no idea how far he would have to go or how long he would be away. The nearest village was Summerside. His mother had taken him to the bookstore there. His pockets were weighed down with all the British money he was able to scrounge from around the house, mostly one- and twenty-pence pieces, and a few one- and two-pound coins. Uncle Kit had even hidden all the paper money. Norman hoped the coins in his pocket were enough to buy a book at the bookshop in Summerside. Something from the Undergrowth series would be perfect, but even a pad of paper would do.

Dora caught him just as he was sneaking out the kitchen door.

"Where are you going?" she asked absently as she opened the freezer and reached for the ice cream.

"For a walk," he replied cagily. He couldn't risk her ratting him out to Kit.

"Can I come?"

"Nope," he replied curtly. He'd learned long ago not to give excuses or reasons. It only gave her something to argue against.

Dora wasn't even bothering to get a bowl. She scooped ice cream directly from the tub. "You know, Raritan and I could catch up to you if we wanted to," she taunted.

He tried not to look worried, but a moment of doubt kept him there at the door. If Dora brought her pet unicorn to Summerside, things could get out of control. It was on his tongue to warn her, but he remembered his rule: Don't tell Dora not to do something. He managed a casual shrug. "Whatever," he said, and then ducked out the back door before she got even more curious.

He almost ran into Raritan as he fled. The unicorn stood on the garden path, much closer to the house than he'd been last night. Norman gasped and tripped as he stopped himself short. "Jeez, listen at doors much?" he asked, trying to cover up his embarra.s.sment. As usual there was no reply from Raritan. If possible, the unicorn seemed even taller this morning, more imposing. Norman tried to stare him down, but he couldn't hold the gaze of those unblinking eyes.

"Still no sign of my friend Malcolm, huh? About this high." He held his hand down around his knee. "Wicked bow shot, kind of a smart aleck?"

Raritan blinked a long blink as if considering the question, but Norman didn't really expect a reply. He was just being a smart aleck himself.

"No?" he said, shaking his head. "Well, thanks for all your help. It's been nice chatting." He turned and stomped away.

When he looked back Raritan was still watching him. The unicorn would see him go around the front of the house. If Raritan told Kit that he'd gone by the road instead of the back path, his uncle would guess where he was heading. But there was no point asking the unicorn to keep quiet about it. Keeping quiet was, thankfully, the only thing the animal did naturally.

Norman trod as lightly as he could on the gravel driveway. Malcolm could have done the whole getaway noiselessly, but Norman was a little more heavy-footed. When he reached the road without anyone calling him back, he took one brief look back towards the house, then broke into a run, pelting down the road in the direction, he hoped, of Summerside.

At the start, he was pretty confident of his sense of direction. The fields on either side of the road looked familiar. The low rock walls looked familiar. Even the hay bales looked familiar. But as he slowed to a walk to catch his breath, he realized that all fields, all rock walls and all hay bales look pretty much the same. The road wound away from the house, never in a straight line and never flat. Hills, walls and high hedgerows seemed always to obscure his view, so it was difficult to get a bearing and he became less and less sure he was going in the right direction.

He'd figured that if he followed the road, he would arrive in Summerside eventually, but after an hour he was less certain. When the road just stopped in the middle of a hayfield, he realized he'd missed a turn. It took him twenty minutes to track back to the fork he'd missed, and he followed that again for another forty-five. It was nearly noon and he'd eaten all his granola bars and had started looking for houses. At worst he could ask for directions; at best he could ask for a few pieces of paper. That wasn't too weird, was it? People asked for a cup of sugar from their neighbours all the time.

What was weird, now that he considered it, was that he hadn't seen a single house or cottage, or even any sheep or cows. Norman didn't think he'd ever driven for more than five minutes in England without seeing a sheep or a cow, and there were houses everywhere ... usually. He was getting that queasy feeling that something was more deeply wrong than he'd first guessed when he arrived at the second dead end. But this wasn't just an empty field at the end of the road. A few feet beyond, the asphalt fell away completely. There was nothing but sky. It was as if the world just ended there.

Norman inched slowly forward until he could see over the edge. What he saw made him dizzy with vertigo. He was on the edge of a huge cliff. The drop was almost vertical. Many, many feet below, the sea crashed against the rocks, but from this height, Norman could barely distinguish the sound of the waves from the sound of the wind across the fields. Something felt wrong about this. Norman knew England was an island, but this cliff didn't seem right. It just felt as if it didn't belong there. He was certain that the Shrubberies was more than a few hours' walk from the sea.

It was dawning on him that Kit might have changed more than the occupancy of the Shrubberies. Doubling back again, he gave the stone walls and empty fields a closer look. They looked normal, unremarkably normal, but maybe that was the point. Maybe they were supposed to look real. Norman was beginning to wonder if this wasn't the real England or the real Shrubberies. His sense of direction wasn't that bad. He ought to have at least seen Summerside from one of the rises on the road, but the hedges and walls were always in the way. He ought to have pa.s.sed at least one house or one person in half a day of walking, but the country seemed remarkably empty today.

The further he walked, the more convinced he was that this wasn't the real England and the real Shrubberies but a book set in England and the Shrubberies. How else could he explain why the countryside was so empty and all the roads went nowhere? Uncle Kit wasn't a magician. He couldn't actually distort the earth, or at least Norman hoped he couldn't.

It was almost better, he decided. If this was all just another book, Kit's meddling might not be so bad. It might mean that back in the real world, Norman's mom and dad were going about their business as usual, and there was no unicorn in their backyard. But in another way, it was worse. If this place was a book, then Kit had more control over it. He couldn't get rid of all the paper in the world, but he might be able to banish all the paper from a book.

The nature of Kit's bookweird powers was still a bit of a mystery. His uncle seemed jealous of Norman's ability to get into a book just by eating his way in. Kit's own ingress required props and memorization, but his uncle had been at this much longer and seemed to understand it better. Norman had thought he'd reached some sort of agreement with him back at Kelmsworth-that Kit had learned his lesson about messing with other people's books and other people's lives-but it seemed now that he didn't know any other way to live.

When the third road ended in yet another empty field, Norman stood and watched the gra.s.s for a long time before retracing his steps down the road. It was hot again by English standards and the coins in his pockets felt heavier all the time. He stopped by the wayside and relocated the money from his pockets to his knapsack, but that only reminded him that he'd eaten all his food. It would be time soon to think about giving up for the day. He hadn't planned to be away anywhere near this long. If he didn't find a house soon, he would have to return to the Shrubberies and try again another day.

It was a relief when he came upon the train tracks. It was not that he expected a train to come along. Not a single car or truck had pa.s.sed him all day, so why would trains be any different? No, by now Norman was certain that this was not the real world but some sort of strange, empty book without people in cars or on trains. It was probably a poem or something. That might be Kit's worst trick yet, to trap him in a poem. Nothing ever happens in poems.

The tracks at least told him that he was on a different road, since he hadn't crossed any tracks that morning. They also gave him an idea. He hadn't been able to see much earlier because of the walls and hedgerows that lined the winding roads, but there were no walls alongside the tracks. The rails ran along a high embankment that would provide a perfect lookout. With renewed enthusiasm, Norman hoisted his knapsack and set off down the tracks.

To begin with, it wasn't much different than being on the road-more empty fields and bits of forest-but as the tracks gradually climbed, he began to get a better view of the surrounding countryside. He came to the stop on top of a stone railway bridge and scanned the view. The hills did indeed stretch out as far as he could see. There was nothing like a village in sight. If there was a Summerside in this book, he was nowhere near it. Just one square of red stood out among the green of the hills and the yellow of the hayfields. Just one tile roof, glinting a little in the summer sunlight. The house below it was covered in ivy. From any other angle, it would have blended in with the woods. It was just one house, but it was all Norman needed-just one house with one piece of paper and he could get out of this.

There was no point taking the road. That was his mistake all along. Kit had figured that Norman would make a break for it and had twisted the roads around like a maze. But Norman wasn't going to let Kit determine his route any longer. From his vantage point on the embankment, he could see a narrow path along the edge of the hills. He leapt down from the embankment and set off along the path towards the house.

He couldn't say that he was happy-he was too tired to be happy-but he was relieved. This book made him nervous. It was too much like the real world. It made him wonder if he would be able to tell the real world if he saw it again. When he thought of this, it made him feel a little sick to the stomach. His mother had warned him that the bookweird was dangerous. Maybe this is what she meant. Maybe it made you so crazy that you could never tell what was real and what was made up. Maybe that was Kit's problem. There was certainly something wrong with him.

Norman had sworn to give up the bookweird, and it was Kit who'd drawn him back in. Norman had had no choice, really. His uncle had bookweirded Malcolm into Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies and left him to be captured by the Kelmsworth Poacher. He'd known that Norman would follow him into the book. It was a game for Kit, and he didn't seem to get that Norman didn't want to play anymore. Norman needed to settle things with his uncle if he was ever going to be done with the bookweird for good.

Maybe it was the worry that distracted him, or maybe it was because everything had looked so familiar today, but he didn't recognize the fields and paths he followed towards the red-roofed house in the distance. When he saw the unmistakable black shape of the unicorn standing at the edge of the field, however, he realized where he was. It wasn't just any ivy-covered, red-roofed house-it was his house, the Shrubberies.

Raritan wasn't in his usual spot in the back garden. Instead, he stood on a small rise at the end of the neighbouring field, staring out as if on lookout. He looked for all the world as if he was waiting for Norman to return, as if he'd expected him to come back empty-handed and defeated.

Norman didn't even meet the unicorn's eye as he trudged past him towards the back gate. Raritan let out a little whinny as the boy pa.s.sed him, almost like a human's exasperated sigh, but Norman refused to acknowledge him. n.o.body likes to hear "I told you so," not even from a unicorn. Raritan turned and followed Norman up the path to the garden gate, as if he had been waiting for him.

Norman took his frustrations out on the garden gate, slamming it open aggressively. Then he stood aside and held it open for Raritan to go through. He glared at the unicorn now, almost daring the creature to say something. Raritan, who had no need for gates, was already rearing to leap the fence when Norman turned to him. He seemed to stop mid-leap and acknowledge the gesture with a twist of his horned forehead, before striding through the gate.

Mollified a little by the unicorn's polite gesture, Norman closed the gate a little more gently behind him. He really just wanted to go into the house. He was famished now and exhausted. He needed to lie down on the couch with whatever junk food Kit had stocked the pantry with.

The unicorn stopped him with a little nicker, almost like a polite cough to catch his attention. Norman turned to stare at him. The frustration was clear on the boy's face, but he said nothing.

"Aren't you going to ask me about your friend the talking stoat?"

Norman lifted his hand from the doork.n.o.b and shook his head. He had been ready to call a truce with the unicorn, but he didn't need to be teased like this. Raritan just stared back, however, his big brown eyes as inscrutable as ever.

"Okay," he said, exasperated, "let's get this over with. Have you seen my friend Malcolm, king of the stoats? He's about this high, and he doesn't like to be made fun of either."

Raritan continued to stare. His eyes always seemed to be a.s.sessing the boy. Up close, his horn seemed to wave in judgment over Norman's head.

Norman closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. What was the point of this? He turned back to the door.

"Rabbits," Raritan murmured. His voice was low and secretive. It was almost like he didn't really want to say it.

"What?" Norman asked, not sure he'd heard right.

"Rabbits," Raritan repeated in his grumbling horse-whisper. "Not stoats but rabbits. Singing in the woods."

Norman couldn't contain his surprise. "You heard rabbits singing? Where?"

Raritan backed up, drawing him away from the kitchen door, and continued in his reluctant tone. "You won't harm them?" It was half a question, half an order.

"Harm them?" Norman replied, offended. "Why would I hurt them?"

Raritan turned his head and pointed his horn towards the window of Kit's bedroom.

Norman scowled. "I'm not like him."

Raritan exhaled a dismissive whinny. "Yes, you are." He stomped a foot emphatically. Norman felt the vibrations through the ground. "Very like him. Meddlesome and dangerous."

Norman wasn't going to stand there and take this. "I'm not anything like him! Kit messes up things for fun. He doesn't care. I'm trying to help." His voice squeaked in protest, but he didn't like to be lumped in with his uncle. Calming himself, he asked, "What were they singing?" He'd heard singing himself yesterday by the footbridge. He'd told himself he was imagining it, but he had recognized the tune.

He hummed the tune to himself again now, trying to remember where he'd heard it before. "Mmm ... mm, mmm ... the streets of Cuaderno." It was there, on the tip of his mind. "Sound the trumpets from the towers of Logarno ... mmm ... mmm, mm ... the tall ships in port." He got louder as the words came back to him, realization coming as fast as the tune. "The Great Cities!" he almost shouted.

Raritan actually shushed him.

"It's a song from The Great Cities of Undergrowth," Norman insisted in a whisper. "I heard it the other day by the bridge. You have to take me to those rabbits."

Raritan gave him another of those long, evaluating unicorn looks, then nodded and tossed his head towards the back gate. Norman followed him back down the path. He suddenly wasn't quite as tired anymore. Even his hunger could wait. The Great Cities were from the Undergrowth books-Malcolm's world. Norman had a.s.sumed that he and Malcolm had been separated-that the stoat king had been sent back to Undergrowth and Norman to the Shrubberies-but if there were talking rabbits here, rabbits who sang songs about the Great Cities, didn't that mean this was Undergrowth? Was it possible that Uncle Kit had managed to bring the Shrubberies to Undergrowth? It would explain the complete absence of people. It would mean that his friend was closer than he realized. But it would also mean that Kit was far more powerful than he thought, and that he was messing with Norman's favourite book again.

Outside the gate, Raritan stopped, halting Norman in his tracks. Had the fickle unicorn changed his mind again? But Raritan hadn't changed his mind. In a one strange, majestic movement he lowered his head and bent his front legs so he was kneeling. Norman watched dumbfounded, unsure what to do.

Raritan made up his mind for him. "Get on before I change my mind," he commanded.

Norman shook himself out of his reverie and climbed onto the kneeling unicorn's back. He had never actually ridden a horse before. That was Dora's thing, and he had a whole new appreciation for it as he wobbled on Raritan's giant neck, feeling around for something to hold on to. But he had little time to think about where to put his hands-Raritan was already rising and springing away. It was so sudden and so fast, it was almost like flying. Norman lurched backwards and grasped at Raritan's mane, his fingers clutching strands of hair. It was the only thing stopping him from hurtling to the ground. They turned and moved in a blur of motion away from the house, and as they did, Norman just caught sight of his sister at the back door. He might have imagined it, but he was sure that her mouth was open and her jaw dropped, as if seeing her brother riding her unicorn was a great and terrible outrage.

They were at the footbridge in a matter of seconds. Norman counted two footfalls on the wooden planks-the-thunk, the-thunk-and they were on the other side. Nothing could have prepared him for the speed. He wished he could see himself to get some idea of just how fast they were going. Wind whistled in his ears and stung his eyes as they hurtled across the meadow. At the first fence, he closed his eyes and nearly lost his stomach as Raritan leapt over it. It was like being on a four-legged roller coaster. Somehow, Norman had imagined that the rabbits would be close-he'd heard them by the bridge, after all-but Raritan kept riding, across field after field. He covered more distance in a few minutes than Norman had covered in an hour.

Between the slits of his half-closed eyes, Norman caught a glimpse of the brick arches of the railway bridge. They ran alongside the railway embankment for a while, then plunged into the river gully. Norman inhaled deeply as the water loomed ahead. He heard himself gasp, "Oh no," as Raritan dispensed with the bridge and galloped right at the river. The water hardly slowed him. The unicorn must have known exactly where to ford it. They were across it in a few splashes. Norman again closed his eyes as the water sprayed up around them. This was no longer a roller coaster but a flume ride.

Norman could not have said how long the ride lasted. He was breathless when Raritan finally slowed to a canter. After the river there had been more fields and some woods. Now they emerged onto the lawn of a great house. Who knew rabbits travelled so far?

The great house was boarded up now, but it had once been magnificent. Norman knew he recognized it from somewhere. It reminded him of Kelmsworth Hall, but this house-made entirely of pale grey stone and surrounded by a formal garden with a hedge maze and a tiny ruined church-was even grander. It was the church that brought it back to him. He had been here with his parents on one of their boring old house tours. He had stood with his mother on the balcony and stared out at this lawn, but now the balcony was boarded up and the house seemed long abandoned.

Just weeks ago Norman had lain down inside this little church, which was not even a real church but a rich person's garden ornament. Now the gra.s.s around it had grown long and the hedge maze was tangled with vines. Norman loosened his grip on Raritan's mane and patted the unicorn's neck gratefully. There was something else about this church-something Norman had dismissed as a dream, but it was coming back to him now. He slipped off the unicorn's back and approached the ruin. It reminded him of a church he'd seen in Undergrowth. That day on the tour, he'd slipped away from his parents for a closer look, crawled inside and fallen asleep on the moss-covered slate floor. As he dozed there in the shade, he'd heard voices, tiny little English voices arguing about something, and when he'd opened his eyes, there had been a rabbit in a monk's cloak and cowl. He'd only seen it for a moment. He'd blinked and it was gone.

"That was real," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Raritan couldn't have known what he was talking about, but he seemed to nicker in agreement.

Norman turned to the unicorn. "When did you see them? How many? Did you talk to them?" He blurted out his questions without stopping to listen for an answer.

Raritan, by contrast, was not to be rushed. He glanced at the church as if he was reconsidering the wisdom of what he had done. Before he answered, he exhaled deeply and solemnly.

"You will not harm them." Again it was an order, not a question.

Norman shook his head. It was unthinkable.

"They are timid creatures. I followed them from the bridge, but I did not speak to them."

"So far?"

"They have a shorter route through the woods, too narrow for you or me, but yes, it is a long way to go for herbs."

"They are here now? In the church?" Norman took a step towards it, but Raritan shook his head.

"In the gra.s.s. They are afraid. They are waiting for you to leave. If you approach them, they will scatter."

Norman surveyed the long gra.s.s but stayed where he was. These rabbits had to be from Undergrowth. He'd heard them by the footbridge, singing about the Great Cities. Either the rabbits had escaped from their book or he was in Undergrowth now. Either way, they could lead him to Malcolm.

He knew that people could escape from their books. He had seen it happen with the wolves that hunted him into Fortune's Foal and the thief from his mother's crime novel who'd turned up at Kelmsworth. Raritan too had come from another book, though Norman didn't dare ask him about it.

He took a deep breath and considered his words before he spoke. He knew quite a bit about the Great Cities. In fact, he probably knew more about their homeland than the rabbits themselves. Two Undergrowth books were set there, and Norman had read Exiles of the Ultima Warren twice. He knew the secrets of the displaced kings from Far Warren, who had founded the Great Cities. He knew about their long wars with the Sea Otter raiders and the longer truce that ended The Rescue of Isla Wake. He'd actually met someone who'd grown up in the Great Cities, Malcolm's Uncle Cuilean.

He cleared his voice again and turned to address the long gra.s.s.

"Rabbits of the Great Cities," he began-too loudly, he thought. He held his breath and waited to hear the sound of fleeing rabbits, but there was nothing but the whisper of the wind in the gra.s.s. "Rabbits of the Great Cities; citizens of Logarno, Cuaderno and Santander; people of the Book and the Tower-I hail you in the name of Cuilean of the Mustelids, fellow of the University of Santander, thrice champion of the Palio of Archers, proud bearer of the blue cloak and the banner of silver towers, lord protector of my liege, King Malcolm of Lochwarren."

It was an impressive speech. At least Norman thought so as he stood back to a.s.sess its effectiveness. But though he stared long and hard, there was no movement in the gra.s.s, save for the blades themselves swaying back and forth in the breeze. The whispering sound built though the wind itself was dying down, until Norman finally realized that it was the lowered voices of the rabbits arguing in the gra.s.s.

"Have you seen the size of the liocorno with him? He'd trample us to death."

"Or gore us with his horn."