“I had the distinct impression he was trying to protect us,” I said, taking a step forward. “Cover me. I want to try something.”

“You sure you can move fast enough?” he asked. “With that side…”

“Don’t worry,” I said, a trifle more heartily than necessary, and I kept moving.

He was correct about my left side, where the healing knife wound still ached dully and seemed to exercise a drag on my movements. But Grayswandir was still in my right hand and this was one of those occasions when my trust in my instincts was running high. I had relied on this feeling in the past with good results. There are times when such gambles just seem to be in order.

Random moved ahead and to the right. I turned sidewise and extended my left hand as you would in introducing yourself to a strange dog, slowly. Our heraldic companion had risen from its crouch and was turning.

It faced us again and studied Ganelon, off to my left. Then it regarded my hand. It lowered its head and repeated the ground-striking movement, cawed very softly — a small, bubbling sound — raised its head and slowly extended it. It wagged its great tail, touched my fingers with its beak, then repeated the performance. Carefully, I placed my hand on its head. The wagging increased; its head remained motionless. I scratched it gently about the neck and it turned its head slowly then, as if enjoying it. I withdrew my hand and dropped back a pace.

“I think we’re friends,” I said softly. “Now you try it, Random.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sure you’re safe. Try it.”

“What will you do if you are wrong?”

“Apologize.”

“Great.”

He advanced and offered his hand. The beast remained friendly.

“All right,” he said half a minute or so later, still stroking its neck, “what have we proved?”

“That he is a watchdog.”

“What is he watching?”

“The Pattern, apparently.”