"This is very, very kind of you."

"See here? This black kind?" The husband had detached an ear.

"Yes. I thought at first that it only looked black because it's so dark; but it really is black, isn't it?"

"You take it and pull off six. Not no more. I need it."

The ear was small and rough, the seeds small too, but smooth and hard. He rubbed and tugged six free.

The husband retrieved the black ear. "See this?" It was a second ear, slightly bigger and much lighter in color. "This's the other kind I got. Red and white. You see that?"

He nodded.

"The red ones and the white ones are both the same. Don't matter what color you take."

"I understand."

"You can have three red and three white, if you want 'em. Make you feel better. Color don't make no difference though."

"I will, just to be on the safe side."

"Figured. You plant 'em in the same hill so they'll cross. You don't feed that or grind it either. Plant it. Corn'll be yellow or white. Not never red nor black."

He nodded, struggling to detach the first grain.

"Plant it, and next year you'll have a real good crop."

"Thank you. I pray that I can get this seed you're giving me back to Blue safely."

"Your lookout. Thing is, every year you got to grow some black and some red-and-white off by themselves. Got to keep 'em apart and don't let no other corn near 'em. Do like that, and you can grow more seed next year for the year after."

"I understand." He held his hand closer to the lantern, seeing in the mingled grains waving green fields, sleek horses both black and white, and fat red cattle.

The husband retrieved the seed ear. "We're goin' out now."

"All right." Carefully depositing the twelve grains of corn in a pocket, he helped the husband close the big door.

"Wolves come in closer, darkdays," the husband said almost conversationally. "Kill my sheep. Not many left."

He said, "I'm sorry to hear that," and meant it.

"Got two dogs watchin' them. Good dogs. Kick up a fuss if there's wolves around, but I don't hear 'em. Now this Silk."

It had come too suddenly. "Yes. Yes-Silk."

"He was their head man down in the city."

"Calde. Yes, he was."

"He was good out here. Got my slug gun off him. Years ago it was. Still got it, and three shells I'm savin'. He's not there no more. City people run him out."

"I see. Do you know where he went? Please-this is very important to me."

"Nope." The husband set the lantern on the ground between them. "He was head man a long time. Had a wife. Pretty woman's what I heard."

"Yes, she was. Beautiful."

"Whore, too. That's what they said. That why you want to find him?"

"No, I want him. I want to take him to New Viron, as I saidand Hyacinth too, if she'll come. Don't you have any idea where they are?"

The husband shook his head.

"I'm sure you'd tell me if you knew. You and your wife have been extremely kind to me. Is there anything that I can for you in return? Some sort of work I could do?"

The husband said nothing, standing in silence with legs slightly separated. His heavy, knobbed staff, grasped in his right hand at the balance, tapped the thickly callused palm of his left. The odors of coffee and frying bacon diffused from the open window of the kitchen, tantalizing them both.

"You want me to leave."

The husband nodded. "Go. Go or fight, old man. You got your stick. I got mine, and I'm tellin' you. You goin'?"

"Yes, I am." He held up the dead branch he had picked up the night before and flexed it between his hands. "I certainly won't fight you-it would be the height of ingratitude, and I've offered to leave several times already. I would greatly prefer to leave in friendship."

"Get!"

"I see. Then I must tell you something. I could defeat you with this, and beat you with it afterward if I chose. I won't-but I could."

The husband took a measured step toward him. "It'd break, and you're older than me."

"Yes, I suppose I am. But this stick wouldn't break, not the way I'd use it. And if you really believe the difference in our ages would give me an insurmountable handicap, it is base-very base-of you to threaten me."

When the better part of a minute had passed, he took a step backward. "Thank your wife for me, please; she was kind to a stranger in need. So were you. Tell her, if you will, that I left of my own accord, having no wish to deplete your meager store of food."

He turned to go.

He could not have said afterward whether he had heard the blow or merely known that it would come. He swayed to his right. Whistling down, the knobbed head scraped his arm and bruised the side of his knee. He pivoted as it struck the ground beside his left foot, pinned it with his foot, thrust his bloodstained stick into the husband's face and threw it aside. Half a second and the knobbed staff was in his hands. A quick, measured blow knocked the husband flat. Another put out the lantern.

Once he turned back to look at the lighted windows of the farmhouse he was leaving; but only once.

"Need practice!" exclaimed a man older than himself who popped unbidden into his mind. "Ruins you, fighting! Spoils your technique!"

He had white whiskers and jumped about in an alarming way, but his thrusts and cuts were as precise as a surgeon's with lancet and scalpel, and incomparably faster.

I can't practice now, Master Xiphias. I need this to feel my way along.

That had been the old man's name. He repeated it under his breath, then said more loudly, "Xiphias. Master Xiphias."

Some distance away, a bird called, "Silk? Silk?"-its hoarse cry shaped by chance or, as was more probable, his own mind, into the familiar name.

"Yes," he said aloud. "Silk. Patera Silk. And old Patera Pike, who must have been eighty. Also the sibyls, Maytera Rose, Maytera Marble, and General Mint."

The whorl had turned upside down, and suddenly-ever so suddenly-there had been Patera Quetzal, Patera Gulo, and Patera Incus; and Auk and Chenille, Hammerstone, Mucor, Willet, the lovely Hyacinth, and dozens of others. Running and shooting for Maytera Mint, who had continued to wear her sibyl's black bombazine gown, with a needler and an azoth in the big side pockets in which she had carried chalk.

Ginger's hand blown off, and Maytera Marble's cut off. "My mind's slipping," he confided aloud; it was comforting to hear a human voice, even if it was only his own. This rutted, grassless ground on which he walked was probably a road, a road going whoknew-where.

"It's like that first book Nettle tried to sew, the thread has broken and the pages have fallen out. They are gone now-all gone, except for Nettle and me. And Maytera, out there on her rock with Mucor, Marrow, and a few others. Old classmates. Sisters and brothers."

Calf, Tongue, and Tallow had wanted help from him, a great deal of help that his mother had urged him to provide, when he and Nettle had nothing to eat. It was a bitter memory, one that he counseled himself to forget.

"Got to practice!" That was Xiphias in the Blue Room.

How can I get to be a good swordsman, sir? I don't have anybody to practice with.

The sword out at once and pushed into his hand. Xiphias's old, veined hands (still astonishingly strong) positioning him before a pier glass. "See him? Fight him! Good as you are, every bit! Up point, and guard! Parry! Hilt, boy! Use the hilt! Think you've got it?"

He had said yes and thought no. Now he halted, making quartering cuts with the lighter end of the knobbed staff and parrying each the moment that he made it.

"Not so bad," he muttered. "Better than I did down on Green, though that sword was a better weapon."

"No cut," a harsh voice overhead advised. Startled, he terminated his practice; and something large, light, and swift lit upon his shoulder. "Bird back!"