“No you won't. It will be my debt, taken on freely. I'll expect you to pay close attention to your master and devote yourself to learning your trade well.”

“I will, Tom, I will. And I swear, in your old age, you shall lack for nothing.” He spoke the words with the devout ardency of guileless youth. I took them as he intended them, and ignored the glowing amusement in Nighteyes' gaze.

See how edifying it is when someone sees you as tottering toward death? never said you were at your grave's edge.

No . You just treat me as if I were brittle as old chicken bones .

Aren't you?

No. My strength returns. Wait for the falling of the leaves and cooler weather. I'll be able to walk you until you drop. Just as I always have.

But what if I have to journey before then?

The wolf lowered his head to his outstretched forepaws with a sigh. And what if you jump for a buck's throat and miss? There's no point to worrying about it until it happens.

“Are you thinking what I am?” Hap anxiously broke the seeming silence of the room.

I met his worried gaze. “Perhaps. What were you thinking?”

He spoke hesitantly. “That the sooner you speak to your friends at Buckkeep, the sooner we will know what to expect for the winter.”

I replied slowly. “Another winter here would not suit you, would it?”

“No.” His natural honesty made him reply quickly. Then he softened it with, “It isn't that I don't like it here with you and Nighteyes. It's just that . . .” He floundered for a moment. “Have you ever felt as if you could actually feel time flowing away from you? As if life were passing you byand you were caught in a backwater with the dead fish and old sticks?”

You can be the dead fish. I'll be the old stick. I ignored Nighteyes. “I seem to recall I've had such a feeling, a time or two.” I glanced at Verity's incomplete map of the Six Duchies. I let out my breath and tried not to make it a sigh. “I'll set out as soon as possible.”

“I could be ready by tomorrow morning. A good night's sleep and I'll be Ê”

“No.” I cut him off firmly but kindly. I started to say that the people I must see, I must see alone. I caught myself before I could leave him wondering. Instead, I tipped a nod toward Nighteyes. “There are things here that will want looking after while I am gone. I leave them in your care.”

Instantly he looked crestfallen, but to his credit he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

Beside the table, Nighteyes rolled to his side, and then onto his back. Here's the dead wolf. Might as well bury him, all he's fit for is to lie about in a dusty yard and watch chickens he's not permitted to kill. He paddled his paws vaguely at the air. Idiot. The chickens are why I'm asking the boy to stay, not you.

Oh? So, if you woke up tomorrow and they were all dead, there would be no reason we could not set out together? You had better not, I warned him. He opened his mouth and let his tongue hang to one side. The boy smiled down at him fondly. “I always think he looks as if he's laughing when he does that,”

I didn't leave the next morning. I was up long before the boy was. I pulled out my good clothes, musty from disuse, and hung them out to air. The linen of the shirt had yellowed with age. It had been a gift from Starling, long ago. I think I had worn it once on the day she gave it to me. I looked at it ruefully, thinking that it would appall Chade and amuse the Fool. Well, like so many other things, it could not be helped.

There was also a box, built years ago and stored up in the rafters of my workshop. I wrestled it down, and opened it. Despite the oily rags that had wrapped it, Verity's sword was tarnished with disuse. I put on the belt and scabbard, noting that I'd have to punch a new notch in the belt for it to hang comfortably. I sucked in a breath and buckled it as it was. I wiped an oily rag down the blade, and then sheathed the sword at my hip. When I drew it, it weighed heavy in my hand, yet balanced as beautifully as ever. I debated the wisdom of wearing it. I'd feel a fool if someone recognized it and asked difficult questions. I would feel even stupider, however, if my throat were cut for lack of a weapon at my side.

I compromised by wrapping the jeweled grip with leather strips. The sheath itself was battered but serviceable. It looked appropriate to my station. I drew it again, and made a lunge, stretching muscles no longer accustomed to that reach. I resumed my stance and made a few cuts at the air.

Amusement. Better take an axe.

I don't have one anymore . Verity himself had given me this sword. But both he and Burrich had advised me that my style of fighting was more suited to the crudity of an axe than this graceful and elegant weapon. I tried another cut at the air. My mind remembered all Hod had taught me, but my body was having difficulty performing the moves.