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his explanation there had also been dismissal.
His Majesty started to shake his head, then looked down at the animal, which Perchingbird now saw
was no animal at all but a baby wrapped in a fur blanket. "I don't need you," the King replied. "But
maybe ye c'n help her. Do ye ken what babes like? Winnie's still a-sleepin' and Bron sets up a terrible
howl when any of t'ladies touch her. I've been nursemaidin' her ever since we left Fort Iceworm. T'only
other person she'll have aught t'do with was young Songsmith, and he's deserted me, th' scamp."
It just so happened Perchingbird knew a great deal about babies. His parents had whelped so many
there were never enough servants around to tend them all. Sons and daughters in great profusion had
trailed through their castle, most of them finding their way out into the fields of his father's rich agricultural
estates, where they worked right along with the peasants. His father believed in starting from the ground
up, literally.
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Sir Cyril was the odd one, gifted with a peculiar magic talent which his parents, though they didn't
understand it, encouraged from the start. '("Though you understand it doesn't come from my side of the
family," his sunburned father had protested when his mother approached him about little Cyril's gift.
"Never mind, dear," Mother had replied, "He has your eyes.") Cyril was allowed to make the queer
letters from spoken words, to codify the stories his grandparents told him, and the servants'
grandparents. He was allowed to pump mercilessly any wandering minstrel hapless enough to wander
into their home, begging the bard for more tales of the exploits of Finbar the Fireproof, Argonia's colorful
King at that time. Later Cyril entered King Finbar's service, but that was after the King was an old man,
his sons dead, his daughter in self-imposed seclusion. While he was still growing up, Cyril earned his right
to practice his craft by making himself useful with the little ones, which he could do indoors, instead of
helping out in the field. He'd become quite a hand with children, as adept at feeding and changing them
and making them laugh as his mother and sisters.
"The young princess is what now, sire? About nine months old?" he asked.
"Um-Aye, that's right," the King said, pulling the wraps back from the baby's wet pink face as if to
check his facts with her.
"Porridge," Perchingbird pronounced, and confidently led the way to the kitchen.
The King, though mystified, followed.
"Porridge?" His Majesty asked, just to make sure he'd heard correctly, while his Chief Archivist pulled
ingredients from bins and cupboards in the royal pantry.
"Yes, sire. Porridge. Just the thing to stick to her little ribs. See now, she's awake already, but she
knows we're looking to her needs. There, there now, little Sis." He paused between counter and table to
chuck her under the chin. "We'll have you a nice mess of porridge in no time." The baby tracked him
across the kitchen, and for the first time in many days, her eyes were dry.
An untidy hour later, the princess slept again on her father's lap. Porridge was smeared across her
cherubic face and stained her pink velvet gown, but she cooed in her sleep, hiccupping contentedly now
and then.
Rowan leaned back in his chair, combing the porridge from his flaming beard, a thoughtful expression on
his face. Talking to a bright lad like Perchingbird would be a better way to spend the evening than pacing
the armory. The stone floor there was hard even on feet used to marching long distances over hilly
terrain, but it had been the only room in the palace where Rowan felt at home. Kinging was tougher than
soldiering, and the former border lord sometimes yearned for his sword in his hand and his shield before
him. He didn't quite have a grasp yet on the subtler weapons needed to defend himself, his family, and his
kingdom against the forces aligned against it.
Perchingbird was a good man. He'd figured out how to talk to the dragons, Grizel and Grimley, while
everyone else stood around shaking their heads. Rowan had originally recruited the dragons through the
magic cat who accompanied Maggie Brown when she and young Songsmith saved Winnie. Problems
arose when the cat had to return home to Fort Iceworm to serve his mistress, and Rowan's regime found
itself in possession of a Royal Air Force consisting of two dragons no one could address. "Try Sir Cyril,
the archivist," someone had finally suggested. "He speaks all manner of heathenish tongues. Writes 'em,
too." And sure enough, after a brief, heated discussion with Grizel and Grimley, Perchingbird had
managed to master the rudiments of dragonese, and so became the Liaison Officer between the crown
and its dragons.
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Generally Sir Cyril stayed put down below with his conch shells and scrolls, however, and only
occasionally emerged from his quarters in the records hall when he was needed to interpret for his
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