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lar knew。
Tiamak reached down into the chest and removed a leaf…wrapped bundle； unrolling it to remove his prized parchment； which he spread on the floor beside Morgenes' letter。 This parchment page； which Tiamak had stumbled on by luck at the market in Kwanitupul； was of much higher quality than anything he himself could afford。 The rusty brown ink formed the northern runes of Rimmersgard； but the language itself was the archaic Nabbanai of five centuries gone。
〃。 。 。 Bringe jrom Nuanni's Rocke Garden
The Man who tho' Blinded canne See
Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose
At the foote of the Rimmer's greate Tree
Find the Call whose lowde Claime
Speakes the Call…bearer's name
In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea…
…Wizen Blayde； Call； and Man
e to Prince's right Hande
Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free 。。。〃
Below this inprehensible poem was printed the name 〃NISSES。〃
So what was Tiamak to think？ Morgenes could not know that Tiamak had discovered a page of the near…mythical book…the Wrannaman hadn't told a soul…yet still the doctor had said that Tiamak would have important work to do； something to do with Du Svardenvyrd！
His inquiries to Morgenes and the others had gone unanswered。 Now he must go to Nabban to plead his people's cause to the drylanders； yet he still did not know what it could all mean。
Tiamak poured the tea out of the pan into his third…favorite bowl…he had dropped and broken his second…favorite bowl that morning； when Older Mogahib and the others had started braying beneath his window。 He cupped the warm bowl in his slender fingers and blew across the top。 〃Hot day； hot tea；〃 his mother had always said。 Today was certainly hot。 The air was so still and oppressive that he almost felt he could leap off his porch and swim through it。 Hot weather alone did not make him unhappy； since he was always less hungry when the heat was fierce； but nevertheless there was something disconcerting about the air today； as though the Wran were a smoldering bar of tin on the world…anvil； with a great hammer trembling above it； ready to smash down and change everything。
That morning Roahog the Potter； taking a moment to gossip while Older Mogahib was helped up the ladder； had said that a colony of ghants was building a new nest just a couple of furlongs down the watercourse from Village Grove。 Ghants had never e so close to a human settlement before； and although Roahog had chuckled about how the Wrannamen would soon put the nest to fire； the story nevertheless left Tiamak unsettled； as if some undefined but recognized law had been violated。
As the slow； sweltering afternoon wore on toward evening； Tiamak kept trying to think about the demands of the Duke of Nabban； and about Morgenes' letter； but visions of the nest…building ghants pushed in…their brownish…gray jaws clicking industriously； their mad little black eyes glittering…and try as he might； he could not rid himself of the ridiculous notion that somehow all these things were related。 It is the heat； he told himself。 If only I had a cool jug of fern beer； these wild
ideas would disappear。
But he did not even have enough yellowroot to make another cup of tea； let alone any fern beer。 His heart was troubled and there was nothing in the wide； hot Wran that would give him peace。
Tiamak rose with the first light of dawn。 By the time he had cooked and eaten a rice…flour biscuit and drunk a little water； the swamp was already being unpleasantly warm。 He grimaced as he began his packing。 This was a day to go splashing and swimming in one of the safe ponds； not set out on a journey。
There was actually little to pack。 He selected a spare breechclout and a robe and pair of sandals to wear in Nabban…there was no reason to reinforce the unfortunate opinion of his people's backwardness held by most Nabbanai。 He had no use on this trip； however； for his stretched… bark writing board； his wooden chest； or most of his other meager lot of possessions。 His precious books and scrolls he dared not take； since there was a better than average chance he would wind up in the water a few times before he reached the cities of the drylanders。
He had decided he must take the Nisses parchment； so he wrapped it in a second layer of leaves and bundled the whole into an oiled skin bag given to him by Doctor Morgenes when Tiamak had lived in Perdruin。 He put the bag； the Summoning Stick； and his clothes into his flat…bottomed boat； along with his third…best bowl； a handful of cooking implements； and a throwing…sling with a folded leaf full of round stones。 He hung his knife and his coin…pouch on his belt。 Then； having stalled as long as he couid； he climbed up the banyan tree to the top of the house to set his birds free。
As he climbed across the thatched roof he could hear the drowsy； muffled speech of the birds within their small cottage。 He had put the remaining seed in his fourth…best…and last…bowl； setting it out on the windowsill below。 They would at least stay near the house for a while after his departure。
He poked his hand into the little bark…roofed box and delicately removed one of his pigeons； a pretty white…and…gray named So…fast； then tossed her up into the air。 She fanned her wings briskly； settling at last on a limb above his head。 Unsettled by this unusual behavior； she hooted quietly； questioningly。 Tiamak knew the grief of a father whose daughter must be sent to strangers。 But he had to remove the birds； and the door to their house； which only opened inward； had to be fastened shut。 Other… wise； these birds or their absent kindred would enter and be trapped。 With no Tiamak to rescue them； they would soon starve。
Feeling very unhappy； he carefully removed Red…eye； Crab…foot； and Honey…lover。 Soon there was a disapproving chorus perched above him。 Alerted that something unusual was happening； the birds still inside had fled skittishly to the back of the little house； so that Tiamak had to strain to reach them。 As he tried to grasp one of these last recalcitrants； his hands brushed against a small； cold bundle of feathers that lay just out of sight in the shadows at the far end
Suddenly full of worry； he closed his hand around the object and lifted it out。 It was one of his birds； he saw immediately； and it was dead。 Eyes wide； he examined it closely。 It was Ink…daub； one of the pigeons he had dispatched to Nabban several days ago。 Ink…daub had apparently been injured by some animal； many of his feathers were missing and he was spotted with dried blood。 Tiamak was sure the bird hadn't been there yesterday； so he must have arrived during the night； flying with his last strength despite his wounds； reaching his home only to die。
Tiamak found the world swimming before his eyes as the tears came。 Poor Ink…daub。 He was a fine bird； one of the fastest fliers。 He had been very brave； too。 Everywhere on the bird's body that Tiamak looked； blood showed beneath the tattered feathers。 Poor； brave Ink…daub。 A slender strip of parchment was curled around the pigeon's twighke ankle。 Tiamak placed the silent bundle aside for a moment and coaxed out the