exertions. He tried his best to be quiet, but it wasn’t good enough.
Suddenly he noticed a pair of eyes staring down at him from the cliff above.
“Who are you?”
For an instant Pellar considered fleeing back down the cliff and eluding Cristov in the forest—he knew he had more woodcraft than the boy—but before he could put his plan into action, Chitter appeared and started scolding Pellar and Cristov with equal intensity.
“Is he yours?” Cristov asked, his voice full of amazement and yearning.
Pellar nodded. Chitter caught his eye and looked back and forth rapidly between him and Cristov. Pellar knew that the fire-lizard was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t decide what.
“Did you block the hold chimney?” Cristov asked, his voice cold with outrage.
Pellar shook his head firmly. Cristov peered at him and reached forward to touch his neck.
“Someone tried to choke you,” the blond boy declared, his fingers brushing Pellar’s throat gently. He gave Pellar another intense look. “Did you try to stop someone from blocking the chimney?”
Pellar nodded.
“And they tried to choke you?” Cristov asked rhetorically. “And now you can’t talk?”
Pellar nodded and then shook his head to answer both questions. Cristov looked confused.
Pellar reached to his side, then paused, looking questioningly at Cristov who, in his turn, looked confused. Pellar held up both his hands to show that he had nothing in them and then flattened one hand and poised the other over it in an imitation of writing.
“You want to write something?” Cristov asked. “I’ve got nothing to write with—oh! You do.”
Pellar nodded, smiling, and reached for his slate. He was bigger than the boy and older by at least two Turns, but if Cristov grew afraid or alarmed, his shouts could easily bring the entire mining camp out, and Pellar didn’t even want to think about what might happen then.
“It’s dark, I don’t know if I’ll be able to read,” Cristov began, only to stop when he saw that Pellar had a slate and stick of white chalk. “Maybe if you write big, then.”
Pellar wrote carefully, “Name Pellar.”
“I’m Cristov,” the other replied, holding out his hand. Pellar pocketed his chalk and let go of his slate which dropped around his neck, held in place by the ever-present string, and solemnly shook Cristov’s hand. Cristov pursed his lips for a moment, then asked, “You aren’t Shunned, are you?”
Pellar shook his head emphatically, reached again for his slate and chalk, and wrote, “Shunned blocked chimney.”
“And you stopped them?” Cristov asked, his eyes brilliant with awe.
Pellar shook his head and held up a finger.
“There was only one of them?”
Pellar nodded.
“What about your voice? Will it come back?” Cristov blurted, obviously overwhelmed with curiosity.
Pellar shook his head.
“Oh,” Cristov said, crestfallen. “Does it bother you that you can’t talk?”
Pellar shrugged, then waggled a hand in a so-so gesture. Then he smiled at Cristov and tapped his ear meaningfully.
“You listen more?” Cristov guessed. Pellar nodded. “I’ll bet you do. And so that’s why you were here? To listen?” Pellar nodded, surprised at how quickly Cristov had guessed. “For the Shunned, right?”
Pellar’s nod merely confirmed Cristov’s suspicions.
“So you’re listening for the Shunned,” Cristov murmured to himself thoughtfully. “Do you work for Master Zist?”
Pellar’s startled look was answer enough for Cristov. Pellar grabbed his slate and hastily wrote, “Secret!”
“From whom?”
“Everyone,” Pellar wrote back.
“Why?”
“Shunned,” Pellar wrote back. He pointed to his throat, rubbed his slate clear, and wrote, “Hurt people.”
“If they found out, they might hurt more people?” Cristov asked, trying to guess at Pellar’s meaning. Just as Pellar started to shake his head, Cristov shook his own head, dismissing the thought. “No,
Suddenly he noticed a pair of eyes staring down at him from the cliff above.
“Who are you?”
For an instant Pellar considered fleeing back down the cliff and eluding Cristov in the forest—he knew he had more woodcraft than the boy—but before he could put his plan into action, Chitter appeared and started scolding Pellar and Cristov with equal intensity.
“Is he yours?” Cristov asked, his voice full of amazement and yearning.
Pellar nodded. Chitter caught his eye and looked back and forth rapidly between him and Cristov. Pellar knew that the fire-lizard was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t decide what.
“Did you block the hold chimney?” Cristov asked, his voice cold with outrage.
Pellar shook his head firmly. Cristov peered at him and reached forward to touch his neck.
“Someone tried to choke you,” the blond boy declared, his fingers brushing Pellar’s throat gently. He gave Pellar another intense look. “Did you try to stop someone from blocking the chimney?”
Pellar nodded.
“And they tried to choke you?” Cristov asked rhetorically. “And now you can’t talk?”
Pellar nodded and then shook his head to answer both questions. Cristov looked confused.
Pellar reached to his side, then paused, looking questioningly at Cristov who, in his turn, looked confused. Pellar held up both his hands to show that he had nothing in them and then flattened one hand and poised the other over it in an imitation of writing.
“You want to write something?” Cristov asked. “I’ve got nothing to write with—oh! You do.”
Pellar nodded, smiling, and reached for his slate. He was bigger than the boy and older by at least two Turns, but if Cristov grew afraid or alarmed, his shouts could easily bring the entire mining camp out, and Pellar didn’t even want to think about what might happen then.
“It’s dark, I don’t know if I’ll be able to read,” Cristov began, only to stop when he saw that Pellar had a slate and stick of white chalk. “Maybe if you write big, then.”
Pellar wrote carefully, “Name Pellar.”
“I’m Cristov,” the other replied, holding out his hand. Pellar pocketed his chalk and let go of his slate which dropped around his neck, held in place by the ever-present string, and solemnly shook Cristov’s hand. Cristov pursed his lips for a moment, then asked, “You aren’t Shunned, are you?”
Pellar shook his head emphatically, reached again for his slate and chalk, and wrote, “Shunned blocked chimney.”
“And you stopped them?” Cristov asked, his eyes brilliant with awe.
Pellar shook his head and held up a finger.
“There was only one of them?”
Pellar nodded.
“What about your voice? Will it come back?” Cristov blurted, obviously overwhelmed with curiosity.
Pellar shook his head.
“Oh,” Cristov said, crestfallen. “Does it bother you that you can’t talk?”
Pellar shrugged, then waggled a hand in a so-so gesture. Then he smiled at Cristov and tapped his ear meaningfully.
“You listen more?” Cristov guessed. Pellar nodded. “I’ll bet you do. And so that’s why you were here? To listen?” Pellar nodded, surprised at how quickly Cristov had guessed. “For the Shunned, right?”
Pellar’s nod merely confirmed Cristov’s suspicions.
“So you’re listening for the Shunned,” Cristov murmured to himself thoughtfully. “Do you work for Master Zist?”
Pellar’s startled look was answer enough for Cristov. Pellar grabbed his slate and hastily wrote, “Secret!”
“From whom?”
“Everyone,” Pellar wrote back.
“Why?”
“Shunned,” Pellar wrote back. He pointed to his throat, rubbed his slate clear, and wrote, “Hurt people.”
“If they found out, they might hurt more people?” Cristov asked, trying to guess at Pellar’s meaning. Just as Pellar started to shake his head, Cristov shook his own head, dismissing the thought. “No,
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