He sat on the unpolished stage, absently staring down the market boulevard. The family heads were present, and each had a dimly lit cage. With tongs in hand, Tinokta worked happily. The pace was slow and steady as he took an old gem from a cage and replaced it with one that burned. Zamani could not feel it, but it was there somewhere; he was happy for the Shee, all of them.

He watched the extravagant gestures of his stocky friend and guessed that dead tales were

being raised. No doubt, they were being stretched to the point of incredulity. But Takax was in his own and received from all a proper respect. He watched his friend stop speaking, and look around. He came up the boulevard toward him. The brief thought of hiding in his glamor was quickly dismissed. He would not do that; no, his friend would call him to mingle. Smiling and unwilling he would go.

“You sit alone,” noted his friend.

“What a keen eye you have,” he answered, but his friend's remark was all too true.

“Come,” said Takax. “Help me tell the tale.”

“You’ve told it to each head twice,” said Zamani.

Takax laughed merrily. “This is true,” he said, “but, you have not. Your half of the story is called for.”

Zamani grinned.“Such heroism as ours should not be denied the well-earned

praises of those who stand in awe.”

Takax chuckled. “You speak as I think.”

“How did you find me?” asked Zamani, noting the near blackness of the night.

Takax grinned apologetically. He said, “Truth is, you completely slipped my mind. Pax said you might be here. He sent me with a message.” Then he recited the message, adding a gesture of open arms. “Proud arms wait to embrace you.”

They faced the market standing side by side. Takax assumed the stance of a fighter. They

laughed, but for Zamani, the laughter died in his throat as he thought of dangling himself before the Shee, like a tasty tidbit above ravenous maws. He searched the throng for Pax. Takax, it was clear, had no understanding of the personal message Pax had sent with him, but Zamani was strengthened by it. He stood as iron against the straw of circumstance.

Then, with a hardy slap of Takax’ broad hand upon his shoulder, Zamani accompanied his friend into the din of the Shee. Zamani waded in and did his part. The mon-Shee were engrossed. He spoke of huge, multi-legged monsters, their numbers, how they moved. Takax followed with lively enactments

of the battles. Telling of the armor they had fashioned, Takax produced a shell breastplate which he had brought from the mine. Of course, everyone had to touch it. Then the pole picks were displayed, and Takax spoke in awed tones of a hammer that had been left behind.

Zamani described the mad white Pecks. The crowded boulevard gasped. He spoke of their unending numbers, their twisted, rotting dunny, their heart-stopping cries. Takax recounted their prowess in dispatching the wild warriors. He gave splendid demonstrations which thoroughly impressed the family heads. Zamani concluded with the rolling of the stone.

Then Kikok asked what Tinokta intended to do with the pole picks. A debate on the proper use of the iron ensued. Pax took Zamani by the elbow and led him from the clamorous throng. They sat on the eating bench, and Zamani waited respectfully as Pax collected his thoughts.

Pax smiled and said, “Your safe return is a testament to your abilities.”

“Don’t forget Takax,” said Zamani, chafing at the pinch of unneedful praise.

“Yes,” replied Pax. “He seems truly enlarged by your adventure. As if he was not big enough.”

Pax made a small, nervous laughing noise that ended in awkward silence. The two of them sat in a hush, studying their hands, the family heads, and middle space. Words seemed inadequate. They leaned back and watched the grand gesticulations of Takax, as he found another upon which to lade his tale. Hot gem light cast his shadow across the Norsey wall. Zamani was dazzled by the dance of the storyteller; his sleepy eyelids drooped. He glanced at Pax and was surprised to find that he was being studied with keen interest.

Pax opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then took a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you,” he said.

Zamani answered, “No need, mon-Sith. I did what I did for you, because of your words. I did it to thank you.”

Pax brightened, and with a short laugh, he sat forward. “Such a one,” said he! “I must return to my preparations. Come home with me.”

“I do thank you, but I’ll stay here. I must think.” Zamani felt his smile was gracious.

“Xarhn will be pleased to find you here,” said Pax, standing.

“Tell her I wait.” Zamani stood respectfully.

Pax left, and one by one, the others slipped away, remembering work to be done, excited to install their new gems. The market was silent. Zamani sat alone at the eating bench, nursing a thought. He thought that if he could, somehow, find the hidden arms of war, all the Shee would have iron enough to spare. There was no end to the uses to which iron could be put.

Pax could dig in his fields so much easier with iron. In fact, Zamani could not think of a single labor that would not be made lighter by the application of iron. But, a quest for the arms of war would be formidable. It was not an impossible task, should he set himself to it; he would give iron to the Shee, and the Shee would give him respect. His decision came into focus. Somehow, he would find the arms of war.

Of course, he would need to learn more about the hiding. Yagi would never disclose his secret, but there was just a slight chance that the Mithal might. Zamani considered several lines of argument. Ragezeg might easily dismiss all of them, but still – Zamani had to smile – his likelihood of persuading the Mithal was good, for he knew the Mithal's secret. His goal seemed to justify the harsh means he had in mind. His thoughts, then, wandered to golen pells; he thought of the faerie dust and the mechanical suits. How the Shee would benefit from such wondrous treasure! Indeed, how they would benefit from Zamani's beneficence.

He arose and set his face toward the Mithal's lodging, following the narrow street that coursed between the Norsey and the school. The closeness of the walls made them seem somewhat darker, but, as he passed the school, he noted the issue of pale orange light from beneath the door. Was the Teller in? Slowly, he opened the door and peered within. Yes. There sat Yagi on his stone bench. His head nodded, while beside him sat an old cage with an old pyre gem inside. He had not gone to the boulevard; no one had called him.

Zamani assessed the situation. Yagi sat sleeping in his ankle-length ceremonial gown. A single sprig of sayl adorned it. Upon his feet were sedge sandals, old and well worn. A cap of rolled nechsta petals sat precariously on the Teller's head, and his skin was the buff color of deep slumber. Having prepared, what else was an old fat Sith to do? Zamani smiled and stepped inside.

Yagi's gentle snore was interrupted by a wet snort. He mumbled to himself, took a breath as his head rolled to the side, then forward again. Zamani closed the door and tiptoed across the room. He sat on the bench beside the Teller. Yagi shouted something incoherent as if he might rouse, but then, he settled back into his dreamless sleep. Zamani smiled at the sleeping Teller, made faces at him, balled his fists with anger that would never be vented. Then, he leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“Bwabachod, bwabachod; in my hand, you rest. Tuatha; mine, both soul and mind. Speak truth at my behest.”

“Yes . . .” mumbled the sleeping Teller.

“What is the hiding,” Zamani asked?

“Gone. All gone,” came Yagi's slurred response. “Hidden. None shall find, and good riddance. World . . . safe and whole. Mother, father . . . my success honors you.”

Zamani quietly prompted, “At what did you succeed?”

The Teller stirred, settled, and mumbled, “At great pains, in peril oft, I accepted the Mithal's charge. All evil hidden. None shall find, for the hiding, itself, is hidden.”

Zamani repeated the word of power. “Tuatha. Tell me where you’ve put the hiding.”

“The hiding,” said Yagi, “hides inside a secret song. Long ago came the song, lest I forget

my work.” The Teller giggled lightly and continued. “To my own ears was the song sung; none other has ever heard.”

Zamani asked, “And, do now your ears remember that song?”

Yagi's head rolled in a sleeper's nod. “They do.”

Zamani pierced the long-guarded secret. “What do they remember, Yagi? What are the words of your song?”

In a small, childlike voice, Yagi sang the hiding for Zamani:

“Tre' not upon the downward path, hide your feet from certain death, blackened hole where stone should be, abysmal doom for hapless Shee. Iron will shield your Mother's Soul, turn within her heart and toll, dew her tear for lost and late, naught to cast but graven slate. From Thletix or Zhereen may fly, of souls when souls must go, to dance among the living lights, in realms both strait and low.”

Zamani was both pleased and proud of his work. As the eerie song bled from the room, he turned again to whisper in the Teller's ear. “Tuatha. How bitter is your hatred of the nholan king?”

Yagi stirred in his slumber. “Loathsome Gathorne,” he mumbled. “Must kill him. Must be done.”

Zamani gaped, he had not expected that. “Tell me your plan,” he commanded. “How will you kill one who is your superior in strength and agility?”

“This even,” said the sleeping Teller. “Walk with him . . . procession . . . hidden knife. I will overtake him at the cast. No one will know.”

“Bad plan,” whispered Zamani. “Tuatha. Now, hear my voice. I am the voice of Yagi. You will obey me. I am the voice of virtue; you will not kill another. I am Yagi and am no murderer. Hear me. Return your knife to its place, you will hate no more. Say it.”

“ . . . I will hate no more.”

Zamani arose, removed the sayl from Yagi's gown. In its place, he put a red quill from his cap, replacing it with the sayl. As he stole quietly from the room, he stopped in the street to look back through the door and remember. This eve had been most fortuitous. A slow, broad smile warmed his face. With the door closed, he turned. It had all been too easy. He wondered why he had not thought before to use his Phrava; a few well-placed words were all he needed.

Yes, he felt quite proud of himself, for now, he need not risk a failed confrontation with the Mithal. As he set off around the Norsey, his heart warned him that it was best to leave the Mithal for another day – not that he feared the Mithal. What the Mithal knew, Zamani also knew. And then some. He stopped and mused; yes, another day.

He had gone the odd direction, not by the market boulevard, but around through the dark back street behind the Norsey. He found himself standing before the door of the lodging. The lodging was not much more than an extension of the school, with a small alley between. The buildings curved around the Norsey like a hand caressing the face of a child. The school and lodging were like a cradle for the young within the Norsey, but the slatted roof of the lodging was lost in the ambivalence of the dark night. No more than a single long room with door and window closed, the dim light from within bled through a multitude of cracks to illuminate the street, casting the suggestion of his shadow across the Norsey wall.