Cart and Cwidder by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

won’t do any good here.”
    Moril looked up at him in helpless irritation. “But—”
    â€œBe off!” said the man, urgently. Footsteps were coming through the dark passage behind him. Moril could see the man meant kindly, but he did not move. He waited to see if the person coming would let him see Dagner.
    The man who came was one of the two who had arrested Dagner. He glanced at Moril, without seeming very interested. Then he looked again—sharply. “That’s another of them, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said the man at the gate, and he gave Moril a reproachful look, as much as to say, “Now see what you’ve done.”
    â€œCome with me, lad,” said the other man. Moril, with his stomach hopping as it had never done before, even before this last show, followed him into the dark passageway, through a dismal courtyard and up some stone stairs. They went into a blank room with yellow walls and a bench by one of the walls, where the man told him to sit and wait. Then he went out and locked the door.
    Moril sat on the bench for some time, feeling terrible. He wondered if he was arrested, too. It looked like it. He tried to see out of the window, but it was high up and barred. He dragged the bench over to it, but he still could not see much except gray walls. There was no hope of wriggling out between the bars. He dragged the bench back to its original position and sat on it again.
    Then the most dreadful part began. He could not bear being shut between walls. He was hot. He was trapped. The room seemed to get smaller every second and the ceiling seemed to be moving down on him. He thought he would have to scream. He nearly did scream, when a fortunate stain on the wall opposite caught his attention. It was almost the shape of the mountains between Dropwater and Hannart.
    Moril thankfully escaped into a dream. He imagined snow-capped mountains and forgot he was too hot. He imagined wide valleys and the sky overhead, and the small room became easier to bear. He thought of the old green roads of the North and of Osfameron and the Adon walking along them. He became Osfameron himself. He and his friend the Adon made their way to imaginary Hannart. On the mountain, they were ambushed by enemies and fought their way clear. Then they went down into Hannart and strolled under the rowan trees outside the old gray castle, composing a song of victory together.
    The door opened, and another man told Moril to come along now, quickly.
    Moril came back to the present with a jump. He was scared and vibrating and small. He was aware of every stone and stain in that oppressive room, of the grain in the wood of the door, and the dirt in the fingernails of the man’s hand holding it open. He even knew there were six hairs in the mole on the man’s nose. As he got up, he suddenly remembered Clennen by the lake, saying, “You’re in two halves at present.” And he wondered if this was what Clennen had meant.
    The man ushered him into a large, imposing room, with a heavy old table at one end. An elderly man sat behind the table, with a younger one who was taking notes. Moril could see by the gold chain round the elderly one’s neck that he was a justice.
    â€œStand in front of the table and answer clearly,” said the younger man, pausing in his writing and pointing his pen at Moril.
    Moril did as he was told, still vibrating. He knew every bulge in the rather pointless carving on the wall above the justice. He could tell how many wrinkles there were in the forehead of the justice—fifteen yellowish folds.
    The justice wrinkled these folds up and looked at Moril. “Full name?”
    â€œOsfameron Tanamoril Clennensson,” said Moril. “I’d like to see my brother, please.”
    â€œQuite a mouthful,” remarked the Justice, while the other man wrote it down. “Osfameron?”
    â€œHe’s my ancestor,” said Moril. Seeing