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instincts I seemed to be ignoring a lot lately.
    I negotiated my way through the maze, half-forgotten memories guiding me right or left. My cigarette went out but I didn’t have the energy to relight it, and I stuffed the butt into my coat pocket rather than dirty the Crane’s patio.
    One last turn and I was facing the entrance, an outline of a door in the sheer wall, absent knocker or other obvious means of ingress.Perched on an indentation above it was a gargoyle, white stone like the maze, its maw locked in something closer to a smirk than a grimace. Seconds passed. I was glad no one was around to witness my cowardice. Finally I decided that I hadn’t traversed the maze for nothing, and rapped twice on the frame.
    “Greetings, young one.” The voice the Crane had created for his watchman was incongruous with its purpose, lighter and friendlier than one would expect from the creature’s composition. Its concrete eyes looked me up and down slowly. “Perhaps not so young these days. The Master has been alerted, and will receive you in the loft. I have standing orders to allow you entry should you ever arrive.”
    The crack in the facade widened, stone sliding against stone. Above it the gargoyle’s face contorted smugly, no small feat for a creature composed of mineral. “Although I didn’t think I’d ever need to follow them.”
    Not for the first time I wondered what in the name of the Firstborn had possessed the Crane to imbue his creation with a sense of sarcasm, there being no great shortage of it among the human race. I stepped into the foyer without responding.
    It was small, little more than a platform for the long circular stairway that led skyward. I began the climb to the upper floors, my path illuminated by evenly spaced wall sconces leaking a clear white light. Halfway up I stopped to catch my breath. This had been a lot easier as a child, sprinting up the curving stone with the abandon of someone who was not a hardened tobacco addict. After a rest I continued my ascent, fighting the urge to retreat with every step.
    A spacious living room took up most of the top floor of the Aerie. The furniture was neat and functional, making up in clean aesthetic what it lacked in opulence. Two large chairs sat before a narrow fireplace built into the dividing wall that separated this area from the Master’s private quarters. The decor had remained unaltered since Ihad first glimpsed the interior, and unbidden memories came to mind of winter afternoons by the fire and of a childhood best forgotten.
    I watched him, silhouetted against the great glass window looking southeast over the harbor. From that height the stink and hustle of Low Town evaporates, giving way to the endless ocean in the distance. He turned slowly and placed his withered hands over mine. I was conscious of my desire to look away. “It’s been too long,” he said.
    The years showed. The Crane has always been wizened, his body too thin to support his height, scraggly tufts of white hair sprouting from his head and bony chin. But also he’d always possessed an improbable energy which seemed to make a lie of his age. I could detect little trace of it any longer. His skin was stretched thin as paper, and there was a jaundiced tinge to his eyes. At least his costume remained unchanged, an unadorned robe, rich blue like everything else in his citadel.
    “My greetings to you, Magister,” I began. “I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment.”
    “Magister? Is that how you greet the man who rubbed unguent on your scraped knees and made you boiled chocolate to ward off the cold?”
    It was clear he wasn’t going to make this easy. “I thought it inappropriate to presume on past intimacies.”
    His expression soured, and he pulled his arms firm across each other. “I understand your reticence to return—even as a child you had more pride than half the royal court. But don’t suggest that I turned my back on you, or ever would. Even after