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“I miss Maerad,” he said at last.

“That, alas, is a wound I cannot heal,” said Saliman gently. “Although I can perhaps help with other things.”

There was another long silence.

“Well,” said Saliman, when it was clear that Hem would not volunteer anything further. “Perhaps we should look at this bird of yours.”

Hem brightened up at the change of subject, and opened the chest. The bird cowered in the corner, staring at them unblinkingly. Saliman picked it up carefully, whispering to it in the Speech, and it relaxed into his hand.

“Do you think it will be all right?” asked Hem, watching Saliman anxiously.

“I think it has sustained no great hurt,” said Saliman. He examined the bird closely, murmuring in the Speech. As he did, he began to glow faintly with a strange inner light. Hem, who had now seen a few Bards using their Gift, knew he was making a healing charm, and relaxed. He felt a strange affinity with this tattered, abused bird, and he was relieved that it was getting the proper treatment. He could do healing, but he wasn’t confident about his ability.

After a short time Saliman finished, and he coaxed the bird onto Hem’s wrist, where it perched, perfectly tame, as if it were a falcon. Its feet felt cold against his skin, and its claws dug in with a surprising strength. Hem chirped at it, and then said, in the Speech, Are you all right, little one?

Better, said the bird. Hungry! And it made an interrogative noise very close to the wheezing gasp of a baby bird asking for food.

“It’s scarce more than a nestling,” Saliman said, smiling. “But what is it?”

“I thought you might know,” said Hem eagerly. “It looks like a kind of crow . . .”

“Yes, but it’s white.” Saliman regarded it with his head cocked to one side. “How did you find it?”

“Well, I was sitting in the mango tree when . . .” Hem stopped.

Saliman glanced at him ironically. “I had assumed that you were raiding Alimbar’s fruit trees,” he said. “Very expensive fruit it is, too. And then?”

Hem blushed for his slip, and told the full story of how he had found the bird. Saliman listened attentively, and then stroked the bird’s head. “An outcast, eh?” he said. “Perhaps it will not want to go back to its kin, where it will be persecuted. I think it is a crow that was so poorly used because it is unlike the others. Crows will do that. You may have found a companion, Hem.” He stood up. “I’ll leave you to decide whether you want to look after a crow. I have many things to do, and I am now grievously late.”

He walked to the door, and turned around. “I haven’t forgotten your trespass,” he said. “We’ll say no more for today. But I will do some thinking, and I judge that you ought to, as well.” Then he left.

Hem nodded absentmindedly; his attention was all turned to the bird. It now looked very perky, but it was, he thought, rather scruffy. It would look better when all its adult feathers had grown and it didn’t have grayish fluff poking through them, which gave it a kind of ragamuffin look.

So, he said. Do you want to stay with me? I can look after you.

Feed me? said the bird.

Yes, I’ll feed you. And keep those others away. You’ll be safer.

The bird ruffled its feathers, stuck out its tail, and soiled the floor.

But you’ll have to do that outside, Hem added, thinking with dismay of Saliman’s rather stern housemaster. Because people will get cross with me.

The bird turned its head, fixing Hem with one of its eyes.

I stay, it said.

So what is your name? asked Hem.

Name?

What do they call you?

I was not given a name, said the crow. The flock would not name me, when my wing feathers came, because I am wrong-colored. I have no name.

You have to have a name, said Hem. He thought for a moment, and remembered the word for bird that had been used by the Pilanel people he had briefly known. How about “Irc”?

Irc? The bird bobbed up and down comically on his wrist. Irc! I have a name! Irc! It soiled the floor again.

I told you, said Hem. You’ll have