It was half past the third hour B.D. when Grantin, Chom, and Castor reached the tumbles. The jumbled mass of slabs and boulders appeared nothing more than a barren, rock-strewn palisade. That was the Ajaj way. Most of the Grays were in Cicero or tilling Topor's farmsteads. The aged and the cubs who remained kept to their apartments. Castor led them along a twisting path up the slope to the entrance of his shelter. The deserted appearance of the landscape notwithstanding, Grantin felt the eyes of unseen watchers fixed upon his back.
Castor halted next to a triangular opening formed by the intersection of two slabs of stone. Nervously the Ajaj motioned for Grantin and Chom to enter the crevice. Grantin went first, crouching on his hands and knees, feeling his way along in the dark. The shaft lowered as it went and bent sharply to the right. Another foot or two and it jogged to the left. Grantin entered a pitch-black chamber which he sensed was large enough for him to stand upright.
Behind him came the grunts and scrapes of Chom's tortured passage. At each turn the native's shoulders jammed against the walls, forcing him to twist sideways in order to extricate himself. At last he, too, escaped the tunnel. Castor was the last to emerge. The Ajaj circled his guests and released a set of shutters. Sunlight ricocheted through the chinks between the boulders, penetrated the grille-like windows, and patterned the far wall.
"You should be safe here for a short time," Castor said, already turning back to the exit. "Undoubtedly you were seen, but it is unlikely that my kinsmen will volunteer information about your presence, at least for a day or so. There is food in the pantry; take what you like. Above all, do not go outside. I will return sometime after the second hour and if possible will contact Mara."
So saying. Castor skittered from the room, leaving Chom and Grantin to fend for themselves. While Chom explored Castor's quarters Grantin laid out his blanket, curled up, and went to sleep.
Without pausing to rest or eat. Castor worked his way to the top of the cliff and trotted down the trail to Cicero. By the time he had passed through the gate and checked in at the clerk's wicket it was already past the fifth hour. The guard at the scullery admitted him without comment. Castor slipped inside as inconspicuously as possible. The kitchen was deserted. Cockle and the rest of the Grays were now in the refectory serving lunch. Castor removed his pack and set the jars of spices on Buster's work-table, all except the rot root which he placed out of sight in the drawer. Next he stowed the backpack, then filled a water pitcher which he carried upstairs.
Castor contrived to enter the dining hall while Cockle's attention was concentrated in another quarter. Without making a sound he carried the flagon to the serving bar, then joined the other Grays in dishing up the meal. Ever since the incident of the worm in the salad Cockle had forced himself to remain alert through lunch, a practice which he did not enjoy. Now he turned and looked truculently at the scurrying Grays but could find nothing amiss. To his rheumy eyes Castor was indistinguishable from his fellows. In Cockle's mind only Buster by his grizzled muzzle and limping gait had acquired a separate identity. Grumbling, the steward turned back to his duties. The meal proceeded without incident.
After lunch all retreated once again to the kitchen, where Cockle promptly bludgeoned his senses with a bottle of Hazar's wine. Once he was certain that the human had drunk himself into his usual afternoon stupor Castor sidled up to Buster's bench where the elder Ajaj worked on Hazar's dinner.
"As you see. Buster, I got the herbs you requested," Castor said in a somewhat theatrical tone.
"Yes, I noticed. Got all of them, did you?"
"Yes, all you asked for, plus some special delicacies besides. In fact, that's why I was late. I found some items more to the taste of us Ajaj than Lord Hazar, so I left them at my quarters before returning here."
"What sort of special items?" Buster asked with more nonchalance than he actually felt.
"They are difficult to describe. Here, let me sketch them for you in the flour."
Castor smoothed a thin film of flour over the workbench and hastily wrote with his fingertip: A Hartford and a Fanist.
"Can you draw that a bit more clearly?" Buster asked.
Castor wiped out the words, then wrote another message: Mara gave the human a bloodstone ring. He must meet her. My quarters, after third hour A.D.
One of the other Grays approached the table, and Buster hastily wiped out the message.
"Can you help me prepare these rare items?" Castor asked..
"I'm not sure. I'll try, if I can get away."
Castor nodded and moved off. Numbly Buster resumed his preparation of Hazar's dinner. Theories, schemes, and fears raced through his brain while his hands automatically chopped, sliced, and scraped. The addition of the tiny fragments of rot root to the stuffing had become almost an anticlimax.