"You mean thick with one another?"

"Oh, they're that, all right. But I mean shut to outsiders. -Like the Bosky in troubled times, though instead of a Thornring they are hedged about with iron bars. Only in this case, the Chakia, they don't let males in."

"Well, I think I'll try regardless. The most they can do is turn me away. Besides, you've other patients to treat- male patients, that is-and I might be able to cheer them."

And so when Beau made his rounds Tipperton went alongside, and he played his lute in each of the infirmaries where Beau took him, and all the wounded were glad of it.

As they finally walked toward one of the portcullised halls, Tip said, "I think I'll do this from now on, Beau. It seemed to give them heart."

"My Aunt Rose always said that good spirits make the healing go faster."

Tip sighed. "Perhaps I ought not to play and sing for them, then."

Beau looked at him in puzzlement. "Why ever not?"

"Because, Beau, the faster they heal the sooner they go into battle again, and this time they might be killed."

"Oh."

They rounded a turn and before them stood a portcullis. Beau pulled on a cord at the grille. Somewhere a bell rang.

As they waited, Beau said, "Well, I think you ought to play for them regardless. I mean, perhaps someone who heals faster will prove to be the someone who saves the world from Modru and his ilk. It's all con-"

"-nected," finished Tip. "Yes, Beau, I know."

On the far side of the portcullis, a figure concealed in layers of gossamer veils moved down the hall toward them, silken fabric floating behind.

She stopped at the grillework.

"We have come to treat my patient," said Beau.

"You may pass, Sir Beau, but your friend-"

"I've come to help with the healing, too," said Tip, and he held up his lute. "In my own way, of course. This kind of healing is needed as well."

Now Beau said, "Tip's right, you know. It will help."

Silk shifted leftward as the Chakian canted her head to the side. "Tip? Sir Tipperton? Troll-slayer? Chak-Sol?"

Tipperton swept a wide bow, as wide as a three-foot four-inch Warrow could make. "At your service, my Lady."

Without further word the Chakian stepped back down the hall to a niche-held lever which she threw and a wall-mounted crank which she turned, and silently the portcullis rose in its track.

Beau ducked under when it was high enough, Tipperton following.

Quietly the grille was lowered again and the lever lock thrown once more.

They followed the Chakian through corridors to a large chamber filled with cots, where wounded Dara and female Baeron lay. Here and there veiled Chakia moved among them, administering to their needs. Now Beau came to where Phais lay abed, drifting in and out of consciousness, virulent poison running in her veins. Thin and pale and barely awake, she wanly smiled at him, and her eyes slightly widened at the sight of Tip, though his own heart fell to see the look of her.

"While Beau has come to poke and prod," said Tip, outwardly grinning in spite of his inward dismay, "I've come to play and sing."

"Poke and prod?" huffed Beau, rummaging through his bag. "Poke and prod, indeed."

"Never mind him, Lady Phais," said Tipperton, taking up his lute. "What song would you have?"

Phais paused, her eyes closed, and Tip thought she had fainted, but then she whispered, her voice weak, "Dost thou know 'The Dancing Sprite'? I deem it would lift the hearts of all."

Tipperton grinned. "As you will, my Lady." He looked about and spied a chair and jumped upon its seat. And then his fingers ran across the strings and he began to play, silver notes filling the infirmary with lively sounds, Tipperton raising his voice in song to all:

There was a Sprite, a lovely Sprite,

Who danced within her ring.

And when she danced her lovely dance

She didn 't wear a thing…

… And danced around in sport.

There came a lad, a handsome lad,

Her very own kind, you see.

He peeked through leaves and watched her dance,

And fall in love did he…

… Or something of the sort…

When Tipperton came to the end of the song, laughter echoed throughout the chamber, ranging from weak to hearty. In a bed across from Phais, a Baeran woman with her leg in a cast guffawed and called out, "Served him right, it did," and this brought on more laughter.

Even the Chakia tittered behind their many veils.

As Beau spent his last dose of gwynthyme and prepared a cup of tea, Tip played and sang another song and then another. And he sang several more as a Chakian slowly spooned drifting Phais her drink. And another still as Beau laid on the gywnthyme poultice.

And after each of his songs he was greeted by applause and calls for more.

Finally, though, Beau said, "Come on, bucco, I've more patients to deal with elsewhere, and they can use your songs, too."

And so Tipperton called out, "I must now leave"-his announcement to be met by a chorus of disappointed

Ohs-"yet I shall return on the morrow," and many called out, Please do.

Tip sprang down from the chair and went to Phais. "Get well, my Lady, oh please."

Phais, her eyes closed, whispered, "I fully intend to do so, my wee friend."

As they strode away, a Chakian at their side, Beau said, "I dunno, Tip. That was the last of the gwynthyme, and if it doesn't work… Oh, I should have run the cauter into the wound, even though the scars would have done ill things to her breathing ever after. I should have. I should have."

"This gwynthyme, Beau, don't the Dwarves have any?"

Striding beside Tip, the Chakian said, "Nay, we do not. Gwynthyme is a rare thing, and we have none."

"Elwydd," said Tip, a one-word prayer.

Late in the night, Tip was awakened by Beau coming into the chamber they shared. Beau was weeping.

Sitting upright, Tip asked, "What is it, Beau?"

"Lady Phais," said Beau.

"Oh, no," moaned Tip.

"No, no, Tip, it's not that she's dead or anything. It's quite the opposite: finally, finally, her color is good and her breathing truly not labored. Oh, Tip, she's sleeping peacefully. The gwynthyme has burnt out the poison at last."

The buccen embraced one another, tears running down their faces.

"Come on, Beau, let's go tell Loric."

The next day Tipperton again accompanied Beau on his rounds, each buccan in his own way administering to the wounded. When they came to the Chakia infirmary, they found Phais sitting up in her bed, a veiled Chakia at her side and feeding the Dara her first good meal in days, meting out small spoonfuls. Even though Phais was eating, she was yet weak, exhausted. Still, as Beau had said, her color was much better.

The Dara spied the Warrows nearing and smiled, and Beau said, "Oh, my, Phais, but you are looking quite splendid."

Phais reached out and took Beau's hand, her grip weak. " 'Twas thy ministrations, Beau."

Beau looked down, shaking his head. "The credit is due to Lady Aris."

"Aris? In Arden Vale?"

Beau nodded. "Yes. She is the one who gave me the gwynthyme. Without it I don't think you'd have survived. The arrow was poisoned, the wound deep."

"It was Vulg poison," said the Chakia, her voice soft.

"Vulg poison?" asked Tip. "How do you know this?"

"Nought else is so baneful, and this was delivered deep."

"Oh," said Tip, looking at Phais, the Dara nodding in agreement.

Now Tip took up his lute. "What will you have, my Lady?"

Phais sighed. "I would see my beloved."

"Loric?" asked Tip, then slapped himself in the head and growled, "Of course it's Loric, you ninny." He turned to the Chakia. "Surely you can allow Alor Loric in to see his beloved."

Her veils shifted as she looked at the buccan. "Nay."

"But it would do her a world of good," protested Tip.