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sycamore trees in the Moth Garden – the Margrave of Ryovora sat frowning terribly.
    Before him, the table stretched almost a hundred feet, in sections that were so cleverly joined the overarching trees could admire their reflections intact in its polished top. Nothing spoiled the perfection of the table, except the purplish sheen it had acquired from the close and sluggish air.
    To right and left of him, ranked in their chairs, sat the nobility of Ryovora, men and women of vast individual distinction: the merchant-enchanters, the persons of inquiring mind, the thinkers, the creators, all those to whom this city owed its fame and reputation.
    The margrave spoke, not looking at his audience.
    “Tell us what has transpired in your section of the city, Petrovic.”
    Petrovic, a dry little man with a withered face like an old apple, coughed apologetically and said, “There are omens. I have cast runes to ascertain their meaning. They have no known significance. But in my demesne milk has soured in the pan four mornings running.”
    “And Ruman?”
    Ruman was a man bodied like an oak tree, whose thick gnarled hands were twisting restlessly in his lap. He said, “I have slaughtered an ox and an ass to divine what may be read in their entrails. I agree with Petrovic; these omens have no discernible significance. But two springs under the wall of the city, which have not failed in more centuries than I can discover, are dry this morning.”
    “And Gostala?”
    Gostala was a woman with a queenly bosom and a queenly diadem of white hair plaited around her head. She said, “I have watched the flight of birds each dawn for seven days, and also at sunset. The results are confused. But a two-headed lamb has been born in the village of Dunwray.”
    “And Eadwil?”
    Eadwil was hardly more than a boy. His chin was innocent of a beard and when he spoke his voice was like a reed pipe; still, they must respect his precocious wisdom. He said, “I have analyzed the respective positions of the stars and planets, and am driven to the hypotheses that either we know nothing at all of their effects or some undetected celestial body is influencing events – perhaps a comet. But yesterday lightning struck three times out of a clear sky, and – and, Margrave, I’m frightened!”
    The margrave made a comforting gesture in the air. It didn’t help much. He said, “This, though, cannot be the whole story. I move that we – here, now, in full council – ask Him Who Must Know.”
    Eadwil rose to his feet. On his youthful lips trembled a sob, which he stoutly repressed.
    “I request your permission to withdraw, then. It is well known how He Who Must Know deals with those – uh – in my condition.”
    The margrave nodded approval of the discreet reference. Eadwil owed some of his precocity to the postponement of a major upheaval in his physiology, and the elemental they were considering found virgins vulnerable to his powers.
    “Agreed,” he said, and Eadwil departed, sighing with relief.
    Before they could proceed with the business in hand, however, there was a rustling sound from far down the table, and a voice spoke like the soughing of wind in bare winter woods.
    “Margrave, I suggest otherwise.”
    The margrave shifted uncomfortably in his chair. That was
    Tyllwin who spoke, a figure as gaunt as a scarecrow and as thin as a rake, who sat among them by courtesy because no one knew where he had come from or how old he was, but everybody knew he had many and peculiar powers which had never been put to use. Just as well, maybe. Whenever he spoke, untoward events ensued. The margrave saw with alarm that blossoms on several nearby trees were withering.
    “Speak, Tyllwin,” he muttered, and braced himself.
    Tyllwin chuckled, a scratching noise, and the flowers on the whole of one tree turned to fruit and rotted where they hung. His nearest neighbors hastily left their seats and moved towards the margrave’s end of the table.
    Tyllwin’s