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though the commander was certainly a clever man, the Shaker was far cleverer.
        
        Gregor was set the task of checking the condition of the Shaker's magic devices to be certain they remained well-padded and strapped properly in place in the rucksacks their horses carried.
        
        Sandow wandered back through the line of riders, noting with approval the businesslike dress that had replaced the foppish, colorful costumes of the previous day. Each man wore tough leather britches which were tucked and banded into rugged boots. They wore coarse, long-sleeved shirts and soft but sufficiently warm neck scarfs. Each man owned an oiled leather artic coat which was folded into a bulky square and strapped over the gear-stuffed rucksack. All in all, they looked the efficient mountaineers they were reported to be.
        
        “You're Shaker Sandow, aren't you?” a blond-haired, blue-eyed man asked, stepping around a horse's rump to intercept the Shaker. He was in his thirties somewhere, not nearly so slim and willowy as his fair skin and hair made him appear. There was a ruggedness beneath the clothes he wore, and a heartiness in those sky-chip eyes.
        
        “That is so,” Sandow acknowledged. “But I fear you have the advantage here.”
        
        “Aye, and excuse me,” the man said. He grinned, and the pleasant smile which split his face seemed the prototype of the theatrical mask of the comic. His teeth were broad, very white. “My name is Fremlin, and I am the master of the birds-the Squealers who will be our eyes in advance of our feet.”
        
        “Squealer masters are always portrayed as dark and mysterious, intense men who actually commune with their charges.”
        
        “I commune with them, beyond the verbal level,” Fremlin said. “But the similarity ends there.”
        
        “Are the birds nearby?” Sandow asked.
        
        “Back here but a few paces, sir. Would you like to have a look at the brooding devils?”
        
        “That I would,” the Shaker said. He was not merely being polite, for he had always been curious about the odd feathered creatures man had come to use as advance scouts in war and on hazardous ground.
        
        Fremlin led him to a great chestnut stallion whose rump was slung across with a cargo strap. From each end of the strap hung a wicker cage which was further secured by cord to the saddle to keep it from slapping the beast's flanks as it walked. In each cage, there were two birds. Each was perhaps twice as large as a man's hand, and each stared through the wooden bars of its prison with pitch black, intelligent eyes that seemed to examine Shaker Sandow with speculative interest. They looked much like ravens, except that there was a crimson streak down the center of the small head, fanning intricately across the orange beak. On the center of each breast was a white diamond.
        
        “Handsome, aren't they?” Fremlin asked, obviously proud of his four winged friends.
        
        That they are. And valuable, I would say. We will want to know much about the way ahead once we reach the far side of the Cloud Range.”
        
        The smile faded from Fremlin's face, and though he did not allow a scowl to replace it, the evidence of such an unpleasant expression was there, just behind the skin. “Perhaps not so valuable in comparison to a Shaker,” the bird master said. “You could do a reading and perhaps see the way more clearly than any Squealer could.”
        
        “Perhaps,” the Shaker said. “But it requires ritual and energy to perform a reading. There will be instances when we do not have the time for that, or when I will not have the energy.”
        
        “I hope you will permit my charges to make their reports first. They are proud creatures, and more clever and understanding than most men give them credit for. If they are merely to be kept in their cages