Dennis saw a curve of metal, barely poking half an inch out of the snow. Beside it, he could see a round track made by one of his knees-he had almost crawled over the thing during his frantic hunt.
He tried to pluck it from the snow and on his first try only pushed it farther in. His hand was almost too numb to close. Digging in the snow for the metal object, Dennis realized that if his knee had come down on it instead of beside it, he would have driven it more deeply into the snow without even feeling it-his knees were as numb as the rest of him. And then he never would have seen it at all. It would have remained buried until the spring thaws.
He touched it, forced his fingers to close, and brought it out. He looked at it wonderingly. It was a locket-a locket which might be gold, in the shape of a heart. There was a fine chain attached to it. The locket was shut-but caught in its jaws was a folded piece of paper. Very old paper.
Dennis pulled the note free, closed his hand gently over the old paper, and slipped the locket's chain over his head. He got creakily to his feet and ran back toward the shadows. That run was, in a way, the worst part of the whole business for him. He had never felt so exposed in his whole life. For every step he ran, the comforting shadows of the buildings on the far side of the Plaza seemed to recede a step.
At last he reached comparative safety and stood in the shadows for a while, panting and shuddering. When he had gotten his breath, he returned to the castle, slinking along the Fourth Alley in the shadows and entering by Cook's Way. There was a Guard of the Watch at the doorway leading into the castle proper, but he was as sloppy about his duties as his mate had been the night before. Dennis waited, and eventually the guard wandered off. Dennis darted inside.
Twenty minutes later, he was safely back in the storeroom of the napkins. Here he unfolded the note and looked at it.
One side was closely writ in an archaic hand. The writer had used a strange rust-colored ink and Dennis could make nothing of it. He turned the note over and his eyes widened. He rec-ognized the "ink" that had been used to write the short message on this side easily enough.
"Oh, King Peter," he moaned.
The message was smeared and blurry-the "ink" had not been blotted-but he could read it.
Meant to try Escape tonight. Will wait r night. Dare wait no longer. Don't go for Ben. No time. Too dangerous. I have a Rope. Thin. May break. Too short. Will be a drop in any case. 20 feet. Midnight tomorrow. Help me away if you can. Safe place. May be hurt. In the hands of the gods. I love you my good Dennis. King Peter.
Dennis read this note three times and then burst into tears-
tears of joy. That light Peyna had sensed was now shining brightly
in Dennis's own heart. That was well, and soon all would be
well.
His eyes returned again and again to the line I love you my good Dennis, written in the King's own blood. He had not needed to add that for the message to make sense... and yet, he had.
Peter, I would die a thousand deaths for you, Dennis thought. He put the note inside his jerkin, and lay down with the locket still around his neck. It was a very long time before sleep found him this time. And he had not slept long before he snapped wide awake. The door of the storeroom was opening-the low creak of its hinges seemed an inhuman shriek to Dennis. Before his sleep-fuddled mind even had time to realize he had been found, a dark shadow with burning eyes swept down on him
103
The snow began at around three o' the clock that Monday morning-Ben Staad saw the first flakes go skating past his eyes as he and Naomi stood at the edge of the King's Pre-serves, looking out toward the castle. Frisky sat on her haunches, panting. The humans were tired, and Frisky was tired as well, but she was eager to go-the scent had grown steadily fresher.
She had led them easily from Peyna's farm to the deserted house where Dennis had spent some four days, eating raw po-tatoes and thinking sour thoughts about turnips which turned out to be as sour as the thoughts themselves. In that empty Inner Baronies farmstead, the bright-blue scent she had followed this far had been everywhere-she had barked excitedly, running from room to room, nose down, tail wagging cheerfully.
"Look," Naomi said. "Our Dennis burnt something here." She was pointing at the fireplace.
Ben came and looked, but he could make out nothing-there were only bundles of ash which fell apart when he poked at them. Of course, they were Dennis's early tries at his note.
"Now what?" Naomi asked. "He went to the castle from here, that's clear. The question is, do we follow or spend the night here?"
It had then been six o'clock. Outside it was already dark.
"I think we had better go on," Ben said slowly. "After all, it was you who said we wanted Frisky's nose, not her eyes... and I, for one, would testify before the throne of any King in creation that Frisky has a noble nose."
Frisky, sitting in the doorway, barked as if to say she knew it.