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Go on.”
    “A ritual magic. She, ah … used … you. You know …” He shrugged and tried to subtly lift his cheek away from the blade. “For magic, to find the Grail …”
    “What did your little friend do? Hmm?”
    He was really sweating now.
    “He did … things …”
    The eyes told me enough. I gritted my teeth. “A rite,” I muttered.
    “I had nothing to say about that, sir.”
    My eyes must have been very bleak now.
    “Used me for magic, did they?” Soft skin … and red hair … and twisted, naked cripples … and blood … and prodding me with himself undersea, bony, shark-mouthed, prodding me with his bent, outsized self … the two of them … “Magic.”
    Howtlande made a squeaking: my blade had pressed against his neck, and blood creased his jowls. “Please,” he begged. “Please, sir. I —”
    “Is there more?”
    “The … the rite was not finished, but I swear I don’t know how the rest goes … Spare me, Parsival, we’ll work hand in hand. I’m a loyal man, sir. A loyal man …” Everyone’s so loyal when you’re armed.
    “I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Howtlande.” I saw flowers move against the wind.
    “If she has not found what she seeks —” The eyes went sly briefly; blood beaded from the slight slash I’d made. “— as I think now, she hasn’t … then she’ll try more ritual. I overheard her telling him the Grail is wedded to your soul, Parsival … and will reveal itself to her witch vision when …” I could see he wanted to husband and trickle information now that the tension had lifted a little. It was too late for that.
    “When?”
    “When you die.”
    He stopped here, or perhaps I wasn’t listening. Gobble, in his tattered gown, and several armored beetles seemed to float towards me.
    And … “Well, well,” I said. “A happy meeting.” My blood-red ruby armor had just arrived, stalking me, blank helmet shut tight. The sword looked keen. When I was seventeen I’d punched a spearpoint through the previous owner’s neck and was baptized into knighthood by the drizzling blood. My first work for King Arthur.
    “I don’t suppose,” I said, “you’ll just take it off?”
    My steel didn’t reply.
    Gobble grinned, rolled his bug-eyes up into his forehead, and began to spin in a circle and mumble a chant while the jolly killer insects spread out, bobbing through the garden like the iron offspring of some strange machine. The mad cripple went faster and faster, a child’s spinning toy. I assumed he was having a fit. Howtlande was crossing himself rapidly in what seemed spiritual excess.
    “He’s doing magic,” he informed me breathlessly.
    My armor charged, sword cocked, just as a pair of dwarves ducked out long enough to loop ax cuts at my bare legs. That set me hopping. Nasty little nits. I hadn’t noticed Howtlande leaping loyally in yet, on any side.
    My armor aimed one for my face. I blocked, then spun aside as a fang-faced midget scuttled by, hacking, petals flying like sweet summer snow. I tried a stab but the shield was up fast and two little killers surfaced at my back. They were all silent; perhaps they were mutes. One nicked my side, but I got off a good backhand and the little arm flickered off and vanished into the shimmering, sun-laced colors with a scream of steel but no other: just a muffled sputter and puff in the little helmet … almost caught a strong downchop from my armor …
    The shield folded and the armor sagged backwards as I got in a good two-handed bang. My specialty. I tried to follow through but the rest of the tiny knights sprang and I batted one in mid-air; four others clutched my legs and nearly chopped me down before I could toss them away. The red armor went to its knees. Gobble danced on sliced flowers until the air stormed with petals. What was supposed to happen?
    Would I drop dead from a curse? Since I really didn’t want to damage the armor overmuch, I carefully bashed the red helmet with my