Thibor’s father had told him nothing, of course. Nor had the Vlad, for that matter. What little he knew was superstitious twaddle he’d had from a fellow at court, a foolish man who didn’t much care for the prince and who in turn was little cared for. Thibor had no time for ghosts: he knew how many men he’d killed, and not a man of them had come back to haunt him.
He decided to take a chance. He’d already learned much of what he wanted to know. ‘My father said only that the way was steep, and that when he was there, many men were camped in and about the castle.’
The old man stared at him, slowly nodded. ‘It could be, it could be. The Szgany have often wintered with him.’ He came to a decision. ‘Very well, I will take you up – if he will see you.’ He laughed at Thibor’s raised eyebrows, led him out of the house into the quiet of the afternoon. On their way the gypsy took a huge bronze frying pan from its peg.
A weak sun was poised, preparing itself for setting over the grey peaks. The mountains brought an early twilight here, where already the birds were singing their evening songs. ‘We are in time,’ the old man nodded. ‘And now we must hope that we are seen.’
He pointed steeply upwards at the looming mountains, to where a high, jagged black crest etched itself against the grey of the ultimate peaks. ‘You see there, where the darkness is deepest?’
Thibor nodded.
That’s the castle. Now watch.’ He polished the bottom of the pan on his sleeve, then turned it towards the sun. Catching the weak rays, he threw them back into the mountains and traced a line of gold up the crags. Fainter and fainter the disc of light flickered with distance, jumping from scree to flat rock face, from fangs to fir clump, from trees back to crumbling shale as it climbed ever higher. And finally it seemed to Thibor that the ray was answered; for when at last the gypsy held the pan stiffly in his gnarled hands, suddenly that dark, angular outcrop he’d pointed out seemed to burst into golden fire! The lance of light was so sudden, so blinding, that the Wallach threw up his hands before his eyes and peered through the bars of his fingers.
‘Is that him?’ he gasped. ‘Is it the Boyar himself who answers?’
‘The old Ferengi?’ The gypsy laughed uproariously. Carefully he propped up the pan on a flat rock, and still the beam of light glanced down from on high. ‘No, not him. The sun’s no friend of his. Nor any mirror, for that matter!’ He laughed again, and then explained. ‘It’s a mirror, burnished bright, one of several which sit above the rear wall of the keep where it meets the cliff. Now, if our signal is seen, someone will cover the mirror – which merely shoots back our beam – and the light will be snuffed out. Not gradually, as by the sun’s slow descent, but all at once – like that!’
Like a candle snuffed, the beam blinked out, leaving Thibor almost staggering in what seemed a preternatural gloom. He steadied himself. ‘So, it would seem you’ve established contact,’ he said. ‘Plainly the Boyar has seen that you have something to convey, but how will he know what it is?’
‘He will know,’ said the gypsy. He grasped Thibor’s arm, stared up into the high passes. A glaze came suddenly over the old man’s eyes and he swayed. Thibor held him up. And:
‘There, now he knows,’ the old man whispered. The film went from his wide eyes.
‘What?’ Thibor was puzzled; he felt troubled. The Szgany were queer folk with little-understood powers. ‘What do you mean when you say – ‘
‘And now he will answer “yes” – or “no”,’ the gypsy cut him off. Even as he finished speaking there came a single, searing beam of light from the high castle, which in the next moment died away.
‘Ah!’ the old gypsy sighed. ‘And his answer is “yes”, he will see you.’
‘When?’ Thibor accepted the strangeness of it, fought down the eagerness in his voice.