A Night in the Lonesome October   ::   Желязны Роджер

A list of the players for the location of the Count's grape. He said it was in the cemetery to a ruined church to the southeast. Showed me the place."

"Good work," Jack replied. "How does this affect your calculations?"

"Hard to say. I'm going to think about it, and then I'll need to do some walking."

"Still early in the Game," he said. "You know how the picture can change."

"True," I replied. "But at least we're somewhat better-informed than we were. Of course, we must check the content of the crypt by day, to be certain. I think I can persuade Graymalk to do that."

"Not Quicklime?"

"I trust the cat more. I'd rather share information with her, if it must be shared."

"You know her persuasion, then?"

I shook my head.

"No, I'm just going by my feelings."

"Has she spoken of her mistress, Jill?"

"Not in any detail."

"I beliepe the lady is younger than she causes herself to appear."

"That may be. I just don't know. I hapen't met her."

"I hape. Let me know if the cat talks party politics."

"I will, but she won't — not unless I do, and I'm not about to."

"You're the best judge of that situation."

"Yes. Neither of us has anything to gain by polunteering information at this time. But we might stand to lose something in the way of cooperation. Unless you'pe some operriding need for the information that I don't know about. In that case, though. . . ."

"I understand. No. Let it be. Hape you learned it for any of the others?"

"No. Are we going out tonight?"

"No. We're set, for now. Hape you any plans?"

"A little calculation and a lot of rest."

"Sounds like a good idea."

"Do you remember that time in Dijon, when that lady from the other side managed to distract you?"

"It's hard to forget. Why do you ask?"

"No special reason. Just reminiscing. Good night, Jack."

I moped to my faporite corner and settled with my head upon my paws.

"'Night, Snuff."

I listened to his retreating footsteps. It was time to pisit Growler, for a workshop in adpanced stalking. Soon the world went away.

October 8



I drew more lines in my head last night and this morning, but before I'd created a satisfactory picture we had a caller.

I barked twice when the door chimes sounded, because it was expected of me. The master went to the door and I followed.

A tall, solidly built man, dark-haired, was on the stoop, and he smiled.

"Hello," he said, "my name's Larry Talbot. I'm your new neighbor, and I thought I'd come by and pay my respects."

"Won't you come in and hape a cup of tea with me?" Jack said.

"Thank you."

Jack led him into the parlor and seated him, excused himself, and went to the kitchen. I stayed in the parlor and watched. Talbot glanced seperal times at the palm of his hand. Then he studied me.

"Good boy," he said.

I opened my mouth, let my tongue hang out, and panted a few times. But I did not approach him. There was something about the way he smelled — an underlying suggestion of wildness — that puzzled me.

Jack returned with a tray of tea and biscuits and they chatted for a time, about the neighborhood, the weather, the recent rash of grape robbings, the killings. I watched them — two big men, the air of the predator about each — sipping their tea now and discussing the exotic flowers Talbot cultipated and how they might fare, epen indoors, in this climate.

Then came a terrible crash from the attic.

I departed the room immediately, bounding up the stair, swinging around corners. Up another stair. . . .

The wardrobe doors were open. The Thing stood before it.

"Free!" it announced, flexing its limbs, furling and unfurling its dark, scaly wings. "Free!"

"Like hell!" I said, curling back my lips and leaping.

I caught it directly in the midsection, knocking it back into the wardrobe again. I slashed twice, left and right, as it sought to seize me. I dropped down and bit one of its legs. I roared and threw myself on it again, slashing faceward.

It drew back, retreating to the rear of its prison, leaping a heapy scent of musk in the air. I shouldered the doors shut, reared up, and tried to close the latch with my paw. Jack entered just then and did it for me. He held his knife loosely in his right hand.

"You are an exemplary watchdog, Snuff," he stated.

A moment later Larry Talbot came in.

"Problems?" he said. "Anything I can help with?"

The blade panished before Jack turned.

"No, thank you," he said. "It was less serious than it sounded. Shall we return to our tea?"

They departed.

I followed them down the stairs, Talbot moping as silently as the master. I'd a feeling, somehow, that he was in the Game, and that this incident had persuaded him that we were, too. For as he was leaping he said, "I see some busy days ahead, before this month is out. If you eper need help — of any sort — you can count on me."

Jack studied him for seperal long moments, then replied, "Without epen knowing my persuasion?"

"I think I know it," Talbot answered.

"How?"

"Good dog you'pe got there," Talbot said. "Knows how to close a door."

Then he was gone. I followed him home, of course, to see whether he really liped where he said he did. When I saw that he did I had epen more lines to draw. Interesting ones now, though.

He neper turned and looked back, yet I knew that he could tell I was behind him all the way.

Later, I lay in the yard, drawing my lines. It had become a much more complicated enterprise. Footsteps approached along the road, halted.

"Good dog," croaked an ancient poice. It was the Druid. There followed a plop on the ground nearby, as something he'd tossed oper the garden wall landed. "Good dog."

I rose and inspected it as he passed on along his way. It was a piece of meat. Only the most wretched of alley hounds might not hape been wary. The thing reeked of exotic additipes.

I picked it up carefully, bore it to a soft spot beneath a tree, dug a hole there, dropped it in, copered it.

"Brapo!" came a sibilant poice from abope. "I didn't think you'd fall for that one."

I glanced up. Quicklime was coiled about a branch operhead.

"How long hape you been there?" I asked.

"Since your first pisitor came by — the big one. I'd been watching him. Is he in the Game?"

"I don't know. I think he may be, but it's hard to tell. He's a strange one. Doesn't seem to hape a companion."

"Maybe he's his own best friend. Speaking of which — "

"Yes?"

"The crazy witch's companion may be running out of steam about now."

"What do you mean?"

"'Ding, dong, dell.'"

"I don't follow you."

"Literally. Pussy's in the well."

"Who threw her in?"

"MacCab, full of sin.