Ellen Under The Stairs by John Stockmyer Page B

early morning
damp, though soon to gleam in gold and silver under a gilded
sky.
    At a distance, he could see a corner
of the cobble stone courtyard, the final wisps of every morning's
fog obscuring its gushing fountain, the mist now snaking away from
the light as serpents slide for cover at the sight of
man.
    Farther down the rocky hill on which
the palace stood, he could make out the city; fabled Xanthin;
capital of Stil-de-grain; sparkling like a jewel in it's island
setting, the island out-riggered by the fleet of Stil-de-grain. (At
least the island used to have naval protection -- before outright
defiance of John's battle plans had lead to disaster.)
    Beyond the city lay Xanthin harbor, at
that distance a mirrored glint of gold reflecting the egg-yoke sky.
Though poorly protected at the moment, peace had produced a harbor
crowded with merchantmen.
    Later that morning, he must remember
to make his customary visit to the child-King Yarro II. Followed by
meetings with the king's tutors: the tutor Head, Haelb; Eidiz --
history and geography; Gera -- economics, trade; and Isab --
military.
    Shutting the window, turning, he found
the room itself to be as he remembered: marble and dark wood, this
place the nerve center of the Mage of Stil-de-grain.
    But not for long. Only until Ellen was
well enough to make the return trip to Hero Castle -- and
home.
    As for Ellen, art historian that she
was, she'd wanted a morning's tour of the palace, John asking
around to find her a guide. Guards would accompany her, of course;
plus a troop of soldiers should she insist on venturing into the
city.
    There was a knock on the door. Someone
of importance, the guards instructed to keep out the
run-of-the-mill flatterers, Mage worshipers, menus preparers,
Mage-robe seamstress, and office seekers. John needed his
privacy.
    Leaving the window, sitting in the
large, ornately carved chair at the head of the table, John was
ready to impress.
    "Enter."
    A pause ... the door opening a crack,
an eye atop a short body peeking in.
    Though half a face was not much to go
on, John recognized the man as Gagar, the messenger bird
handler.
    Gagar -- spy master. Trainer of bird
groomers; the man responsible for shipping agents and their birds
to all bands, messenger birds the fastest way of long distance
communication.
    "Come in, Gagar," John called, John
coming to have respect for the little man, Gagar far from the
mincing, head bobbing, sycophant he appeared to be on first
acquaintance. "I'm glad to see you."
    And, after a moment -- a golden parrot
on his gloved arm -- the birdie man did as John commanded, Gagar
tripping along the side of the table on tiny, timid
feet.
    As for the bird-on-glove, it was much
like a parrot, this one yellow, meaning it had been hatched in
Stil-de-grain, messenger birds the color of the Band from which
they came. Taken to other Bands, when released, they flew back to
their home Band, in this case, to the trainer, Gagar. In this way,
resembling homing pigeons.
    The parrot side of their function was
to repeat whatever message they'd been taught to say. (When John
had suggested just tying a message to the bird's foot, Gagar had
been shocked at that suggestion, explaining that no self-respecting
bird would leave the ground until pecking off such an offensive
impediment!
    Like the bird, Gagar had beady eyes, a
long, downward sloping beak of a nose, and head bobbing movements.
Talk about dogs resembling their owners!
    Gagar and parrot arriving at John's
end of the table, pausing for a few eye blinks -- man and bird --
it was time to find out what was up.
    "Where is this bird from?"
    "I cannot tell, great Mage. Until I
hear a bird speak, I will be unable to divine its origin." Even
Gagar's voice was bird-shrill, no doubt an asset in the training
process.
    "And you haven't heard the message,
yet?"
    "Impossible, sir!" Gagar was taken
aback. "The message is for you to hear. Since the bird will forget
what it's learned as it speaks it, I know