#basile

1987

"Hold the light higher. Yes. Good." Basile peers at the cavemouth. "The hobthrush, generally, is not a fastidious creature. Its habitation tends toward squalor. This specimen is either a particularly tidy outlier or has not long been in residence."

"Very astute."

"Notice, also, the—please, the light. Thank you. Notice the scratches. Here and here, where the flank spines rub. Enormous. Truly gargantuan. Proceed when ready."

"Myself, sir?"

"Certainly. Such is your duty. The lantern must go ahead or my swordplay will suffer." Basile cuts at the air experimentally. "Now, let us begin. And try not to look so sullen."

Basile limps pitifully on his crutch in the hope that someone considered incompetent of strenuous exertion will face small expectation of performance. The mayor's neat, efficient office causes him immediately to reevaluate matters. Sympathy, he suspects, will not play as trump.

"You are adequately mended," the mayor says. "Now, concerning employment; have you any qualms pertaining to hobthrushes?"

"Alas, I rate myself barely half convalesced."

The mayor frowns. "Hmm. You are sure to be devoured immediately. Very well, I recommend confinement on the charge of vagrancy."

"Madame," Basile says. "Allow me to revise my estimate to, let us say, three-quarters."

Basile the Heron has a sword, a shield and very little else, especially in the way of coins, gems, jewelry, relics or potions. The horse, he is informed, gave up in a field south of town, and that was that.

This summary conforms, broadly, with his own understanding. He's lying in a bed with a splinted leg. Certainly something very heavy landed on him.