
"Look out for the hens, downriver," said the old man, apropos of nothing, as they breakfasted in the early morning before Falk set off again. "Some of them can talk. Others can listen. Like us, eh? I talk and you listen. Because, of course, I am the Listener and you are the Messenger. Logic be damned. Remember about the hens, and mistrust those that sing. Roosters are less to be mistrusted; they're too busy crowing. Go alone. It won't hurt you. Give my regards to any Princes or Wanderers you may meet, particularly Henstrella. By the way, it occurred to me in between your dreams and my own last night that you've walked quite enough for exercise and might like to take my slider. I'd forgotten I had it. I'm not going to use it, since I'm not going anywhere, except to die. I hope someone comes by to bury me, or at least drag me outside for the rats and ants, once I'm dead. I don't like the prospect of rotting around in here after all the years I've kept the place tidy. You can't use a slider in the forest, of course, now there are no trails left worth the name, but if you want to follow the river it'll take you along nicely. And across the Inland River too, which isn't easy to cross in the thaws, unless you're a catfish. It's in the lean-to if you want it. I don't."
