“Hey, I didn’t mean . . .”
“Oh, be quiet,” Moira snapped and Wiz lapsed into abashed silence.
As the afternoon turned to twilight Moira sent Wiz to gather firewood. He came back with a good armload which she accepted wordlessly and with little grace. Then she set about kindling the fire. Wiz stood watching her.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s have it.”
“Have what?” She looked up as the fire sprang to life.
“Whatever’s eating you. You’ve been mad ever since we got past the gate and I want to know why.”
“Mad? Me? What have I to be angry about? Just because your clumsiness nearly got us both killed, that is no reason for me to be angry.”
“Okay, my foot slipped. I’m sorry, all right? And in case you hadn’t noticed, I saved your bacon back there.”
“And that makes it right?”
“It sure as hell makes it better.”
“Sparrow, curing a disease is no excuse for causing it. If you had not been so lead-footed there would have been no need for rescue.
“Bal-Simba has given me the job of saving your worthless carcass. That would be dangerous enough if you were an adult. But you have the mind and manners of a child and that makes it ten times worse. If you do not feel I truly appreciate you, then, again, I am indeed sorry!”
“All right, that’s it!” Wiz shouted and reached over to pick up his pack.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Moira demanded.
“Leaving. You don’t want me around? Fine! I’ll make my own way.”
“Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are. You wouldn’t last one day out there by yourself.”
“Maybe not,” Wiz said bitterly, “but it would be better than putting up with you. Lady, I’m sick of you and I’m sick of listening to you run me down. I’m outta here.”
“And just where do you plan to go tonight?”
“I don’t care. I’ll find a place.” He turned and stalked off.
“Sparrow! Wiz . . .” Moira dropped her arm. “All right, make a fool of yourself!” she yelled after him. “See if I care,” she muttered as she settled on a log by the fire. He’ll be back as soon as he gets over this temper tantrum, she thought. Meanwhile he should be safe enough inside the walls. Oh Bal-Simba, such a task you have given me!
By the light of the rising moon Wiz pushed his way through the brush and weeds that choked the ruined courts and overgrown gardens.
Bitch! He thought. Arrogant, insufferable goddamn bitch! I didn’t ask for all this and I sure as hell didn’t ask for her. She’s done nothing but insult me since I met her. Well, to hell with that, Lady. And the hell with you too!
He went on, stumbling occasionally over loose bits of marble, heedless of the branches that whipped at him. He’d find someplace to camp and then figure out what to do in the morning. It would probably be better to stay inside the walls tonight, he decided. That damn red-headed bitch was probably right about the protective spells and he had had a bellyful of magic already.
At the bottom of a ruined garden someone was playing a flute. The thin, plaintive music caught all the longing and unfulfilled dreams that ever were.
Guided by the bright moonlight, Wiz made his way among the overgrown bushes over the cracked flag path to the sound.
There was a pool there, rank with cattails and dark with lilypads. A broken marble bench lay beside it. On a dark rock overhanging the water sat the flute player, clad only in a pair of rough trousers with long hair down to his shoulders. Wiz listened until he reached the end of his song.
“That was beautiful,” Wiz said involuntarily into the silence.
“Did you enjoy it, mortal?” the player asked. As he turned, Wiz realized his mistake.
It was man-sized and man-like, but it was not a man. The face was utterly inhuman with a broad flat nose and huge eyes with no trace of pupil. The hair was a mane, starting low on the forehead and sweeping back to the shoulders. Large pointed ears peeked out of the mane on either side. The trousers were fur, fur that clad the body from the waist to the tiny hoofed feet.