Behind him the bank rose toward the crest of a hill. The grass gave way to scrubby bushes, and the bushes to gnarled trees. High above the treetops, a large bird made lazy circles with hardly the flicker of a wingtip, riding the updrafts.

There was no sign of Cheeky.

Blade controlled both his fear for Cheeky and his anger at Lord Leighton until he'd finished checking his clothes, his equipment, and the shape of his body. He was intact, and he had everything he'd taken into the booth-except for Cheeky. He waited a minute, for signs of either the feather-monkey or less-welcome company. Then he pulled out his canteen and walked down to the water's edge.

The water of the river was too scummy and dark with decayed vegetable matter for drinking, but a clear stream flowed down the bank a few yards away. Blade drank, filled both canteens and added water purification tablets, then hooked the canteens to his belt. At last he started searching for Cheeky in earnest, using not only his eyes and ears but his mind.

Cheeky, where are you? Cheeky, answer me. Cheeky, are you hurt?

Blade sent his thoughts out over and over again, keeping the message simple. For all the answer he got, he might as well have been trying to explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

He didn't see or hear anything, either. He began to wonder if perhaps Cheeky had thought Blade was dead or hurt and gone off in search of help. He went back to where he'd awakened and looked at the grass. It was flattened, but not crushed as if he'd lain there for a long time. Also, if he'd been there long enough to make Cheeky think he was dead, he'd feel chilled and stiff.

No, Cheeky was-lost. Blade would not use the word «gone,» let alone the word «dead,» even in his mind. Cheeky was lost. The main problem for now was to find him again.