Weasel

That night Weasel Sootmouth came to him. He did not speak, for there was no need to speak.

She took the clothing from him and anointed him with balm, and gently rubbed his swollen shoulders, and changed the bandages on his feet. For an hour she labored over him. And then she covered him again, and sat beside him. He reached his hand for her, and she took it.

"Weasel," said Orem, "how can I give less than you?"

Weasel said nothing to that. What could she say? She only leaned and kissed him on the hand, which set him weeping again, for he was weak and ill and could not bear such tenderness. He talked then, talked until he could talk no longer, told her all that had happened below the ground and all above, told her of the gods, of the tortures, above all of his son, how he loved his son.

And when all was said, and Orem drifted off to sleep, still he held her hand. She pulled it back, but he clung to her weakly and said, "I love you."

And she said to him, because he was so young, so innocent, and so in pain, "I also. Love you."

She said it because it was true.

She left the Lesser Donjon and went to Urubugala, where he waited with Craven in the Palace.

"He'll do it," she told them.

"If all goes well, he'll hate me forever," Urubugala said.

"Why is that?" asked Weasel.

"I lied to him," he said.

"What did you tell him?" Weasel demanded.

"I won't tell you, Enziquelvinisensee Evelvenin, or you would tell him the truth, and then I think he would fail us."

"Why can't you believe, Urubugala, that some of mankind will act better if they know the truth than if they do not?"

"Experience is my only teacher," Urubugala answered. "Men are better when they know nothing."

"Then what of you, Sleeve, who know everything?"

Urubugala shrugged. "I'm just the Queen's little black dwarf."