He waddled over to them, a short, obese man with bright blue eyes, a cheerful round face, and hair so light as to be nearly blond. “But as for accepting an Ayuntamiento of chems, you need not trouble. I’m no chem, though I confess that the object before you is something of the kind.”

Remora gasped, having recognized him.

“This augur and I are old — I really can’t say friends. Acquaintances. You, I feel sure, are the rebels’ famous General Mint.” The stranger giggled. “Presumably you aim at supreme power, which would make you the Govern-Mint. I like that! I’m Councillor Potto. Curtain. Did you wish to speak to me?”

For a fleeting moment in which his heart nearly stopped, it seemed to Silk that he had seen Hyacinth among the cheering pedestrians. Before he could shout to his bearers, the woman turned her head and the illusion ended. He had been ready, as he realized as he settled back among the cushions, to spring out of the litter.

I need my glasses, he thought. My old ones, which I can’t possibly get back, or some new ones.

Oreb fluttered on his shoulder. “Good Silk!”

“Crazed Silk,” he told his bird. “Mad and foolish Silk. I mistook another woman for her.”

“No see.”

“My own thought exactly. Several times I’ve dreamed my mother was alive. Have I told you about that?”

Oreb whistled.

“For a minute or two after I woke up, I believed it, and I was so happy. This was like that.” Leaning from the right side of the litter, he addressed the head bearer. “You needn’t go so fast. You’ll wear yourselves out.”

The man grinned and bobbed his head.

Silk settled back again. Their speed was increasing. No doubt the bearers felt it a question of honor; when one carried the calde, one ran. Otherwise ordinary people who had never had the privilege of carrying the calde’s litter might think him on an errand of no importance. Which would never do; if his errand were of no importance, neither were his bearers.