Bran's face peeked around the edge of the outer door as they pushed it open. The massive hinges groaned so softly that the sound might have cone from Platt, snoring as he sprawled on the floor.
Bran slipped through the opening. Brech grabbed his arm and tried to pull past. The twins struggled for a moment in whispered anger.
The attendant, dead to the world, continued to snore. Instead of ordinary wine, the boys had stolen a small cask of liquor made by freezing a portion of the water out of raw wine.
Platt had gulped down the whole contents, chortling to Sparrow in successful greed until drink stupefied him. He vomited in the night and now lay in his own spew, but his system had absorbed enough of the alcohol to keep him comatose till morning.
"Here, boys," called Sparrow softly as he spread his huge right hand.
This time the object that lifted from Sparrow's palm was material, a skein of silvery threads which wavered in slow undulations around a common center. The skein rose slowly as it moved toward the boys. When it neared the barrier, it hesitated as if it were repelled by the iron bars.
"Oh!" cried the twins together, forgetting the need for secrecy in their delight.
Their short capes, scarlet satin with fur linings, flared out like wings as they ran to the barrier. Brech trod on Platt's outflung hand, but the attendant was too drunk to twitch.
Sparrow's dog trembled like a motor straining against the brake. The dog's teeth were bared, but no sound came out of the jaws glistening with nervous drool.
"Here, lads, I'll help you," said the smith as he hitched himself closer to the bars and raised his hand toward the skein. The threads seemed to have a light of their own in addition to that of the tallow lamp guttering in the niche by the outside door.
Individual strands bowed farther out from the center. The skein lifted another twenty centimeters, but it would not approach the iron.
"Give me!" Bran cried as he pressed himself against the barrier. He flailed his right hand toward the object.
"Me!" shrieked his brother, waving also, his face red with effort and frustration.
Platt snored.
Sparrow reached out with both hands. The motion was as swift and perfectly gauged as that of a bear swiping trout from a stream. His fingers closed on the throats of both twins simultaneously.
The boys did not scream. Nothing, not even a burble of surprise, could pass the grip of fingers that could break limestone into powder.
Sparrow leaned forward so that the twins' thrashing feet did not ring against the bars. Death had been assured from the first instant in which he crushed the cartilage of the boys' windpipes, but he continued to squeeze with his full force.
If he let them go, they would wheeze and kick in a commotion that might arouse even Platt—
But the real reason Sparrow did not release his victims was that this act was the first he had done by his own choice since Hermann trapped him.
The boys' faces turned purple, then black. Their tongues protruded. The smith continued to squeeze. Increased pressure made drops of blood seep from the victims' ears.
When Brech's right eye started from its socket and hung by the optic nerve, Sparrow opened his hands. The bodies slumped to the angle of the floor and the barrier. The bars rang softly.
Sparrow took a deep, shuddering breath. He did not realize he was crying until a hot droplet splashed on the back of his wrist. He didn't know why his body—not his mind; certainly not his mind—was acting that way.
It didn't matter. . . .
The dog crept over to Sparrow and thrust its head onto his lap, whining softly. After a time, the smith began to stroke the animal's ear between his thumb and forefinger. His breathing returned to normal.
The silvery toy continued to spin in the air; just as it had when it decoyed the twins into reach. Sparrow pointed his forefinger at his creation.
The filaments drew in. The skein drifted purposefully, between the bars and across the outer room until it hovered low over the sleeping attendant.
The smith snapped his thumb and middle finger. The sound was like that of a treelimb cracking. Platt stirred but did not rise.
Threads extended from the skein. One of them hooked the guard of Platt's knife and tightened as a snake does when it seizes prey. The remainder of the toy spun at an increased rate until it drew back toward the barrier, dragging the knife along.
The blade dangled from the filament holding it, skittering just above the floor. Occasionally the point touched stone with a faint tsk!
Sparrow spread the twins' clothing on the floor and set the bodies on the garments. Their skin was smooth and white, except for the lividly swollen faces. Both the boys had fouled themselves as they died, but the smell was indistinguishable for the thick reek of Sparrow's cell and Platt.
The smith took the knife from the waiting toy and began to butcher the small bodies so that they would fit between the bars enclosing him. The job required very few cuts. The blood had not had time to extravasate, but the wadded clothing absorbed most of it.
Sparrow had already arranged hollow ovals of scrap and ores like a pair of shallow graves. As he cut away each portion of a body, he set it within a hollow.
The heads were a problem: they would neither pass entire nor could Sparrow section the skulls with a knife. But the skulls would crush between the palms of his two huge hands. . . .
When he completed the task, Sparrow sat back. He was crying again.
He wiped the knife and set it down, then used the least saturated of the boys' clothing to wipe down the bars. He laid the wet cloth on top of the bodies, then covered the fabric in turn with more chunks of metal and rock. The skein, its tasks complete, slid between the interstices of one of the mounds and disappeared.
The smith's last act of concealment was to upset his slops bucket over the scene of the murder and butchery. Platt would probably require the prisoner to clean up the mess with his bedding, but Sparrow's furs were already filthy anyway.
Sparrow lay on the floor between the two oval mounds. The corpses took up surprisingly little space when sectioned and piled part upon part.
The attendant continued to snore. Sparrow used the rhythm of Platt's rasping breaths to jog himself into a trance in which the Matrix opened its infinite series of pathways and patterns.
The dog was asleep also. Its belly was full, for perhaps the first time in the animal's life.
The mounds shifted and clicked as the structure of what was within them changed. Fluid soaked its way across the floor—demineralized water, a waste product beneath the notice of the most suspicious of observers.
The master smith was creating something again; but not a battlesuit this time. . . .