coffin, right?'
Two of them,' said the other, regarding Harry in a new, perhaps slightly more cautious light.
'Oh?'
'The other one is for his wife. She's the thin one on the steps there. Her heart is broken. She doesn't think she'll survive him very long.'
They sat down on the humped roots of a vast tree, where Harry got out his sandwiches. He wasn't hungry but wanted to offer them to his Gypsy 'friend', in return for the good plum brandy. And: 'Where will you bury them?' he eventually asked.
The other nodded eastward casually enough, but Harry felt his dark eyes on him. 'Oh, under the mountains.'
'I saw a border post up there. Will they let you through?'
The Gypsy smiled in a wrinkling of tanned skin, and a gold tooth flashed in the sun striking through the trees. 'This has been our route since long before there were border posts, or even signposts! Do you think they would want to stop a funeral? What, and risk calling down the curse of the Gypsies on themselves?'
Harry smiled and nodded. 'The old Gypsy curse ploy works well for you, eh?'
But the other wasn't smiling at all. 'It works!' he said, quite simply.
Harry looked around, accepted the bottle again and took a good long pull at it. He was aware that others of the Gypsy menfolk were watching him, but covertly, while ostensibly they made camp. He sensed the tension in them, and found himself in two minds. It seemed to Harry that he'd discovered a way across the border. Indeed, he believed the Gypsies would gladly take him across; more than gladly, and whether he wanted to go with them or not!
The odd thing was that he didn't feel any animosity towards this man, these people, who he now felt reasonably sure were here partly out of coincidence but more specifically to entrap him. He didn't feel afraid of them at all; in fact he felt less afraid generally than at almost any time he could remember in his entire life! His problem was simply this: should he casually, even passively accept their entrapment, or should he try to walk out of the camp? Should he make allusion to the situation, make his suspicions known, or simply continue to play the innocent? In short, would it be better to 'go quietly', or should he make a fuss and get roughed up for his trouble?
Of one thing he was certain: Janos wanted him alive, man to man, face to face - which meant that the last thing the Szgany would do would be to hurt him. Perhaps now that Harry was on the hook, it were better if he simply lay still and let the monster reel him in. Part of the way, anyway.
... When he yawns his great jaws at you, go in through them, for he's softer on the inside...
Did I think that? Harry used his deadspeak, or was it you again, Faethor?
Perhaps it was both of us, a gurgling voice answered from deep within.
Harry nodded, if only to himself. So it was you. Very well, we'll play it your way.
Good! Believe me, you - we? - have the game well in hand.
'Do you think I might rest here a while?' Harry asked the traveller where they sat under the trees. 'It's peaceful here and I might just sit and look at my map, and plan the rest of my trip.' He took a last mouthful of slivovitz.
'Why not?' said the other. 'You can be sure no harm will come to you... here.'
Harry stretched out, lay his head on his holdall, looked at his map. Halmagiu was maybe, oh, sixty miles away? The sun was just beyond its zenith, the hour a little after noon. If the Travellers set off again at 2:00 p.m. (and if they kept up a steady six miles to the hour) they might just make it to Halmagiu by midnight. And Harry with them. He couldn't even hazard a guess as to how they would go about it, but felt fairly sure they'd find a way to get him through the checkpoint. Just as sure as he'd seen that sigil of a red-eyed bat launching itself from the rim of its urn, painted into the woodwork of the king's funeral caravan.
He closed his eyes and, looking inwards, directed his deadspeak thoughts at Faethor. I think I frightened Janos off- when I threatened to enter his mind, I mean.
It was bold of you, the other answered at once. A clever