On the second day, the rats began to bore him. By that evening, they were annoying him, and when the third day dawned bright and warm—as near as he could tell from the tiny slip of window at the top of his cell—Jonas was telling himself that any move at all was a move in the right direction.
He set up a shout for one of the guards. The bald one had brought his meals every day, but the black-haired one was the man who checked his cell at night. For once, Jonas thought, he was lucky; the bald man appeared, after some fifteen minutes of screaming and cursing. Jonas was not at all sure whether the black-haired man understood language: there was little trace of it in his mind, and virtually nothing that might be called intelligence. With the bald man, at least, he could communicate.
"What's wanted?" the guard said sourly, staring through the bars.
Jonas smiled softly. "You know why I'm here, don't you?" he said in a voice as close to silky as he could make it.
"You?" the bald man said. "You're here. In a cell."
"That's right," Jonas said patiently. He rubbed at his face. "Do you know why I was put here?"
"You—cast spells. You make things happen."
"That's right," Jonas said, smiling again. "I'm a wizard. A warlock. That's what they say, isn't it?"
"You—make things happen," the bald man said.
But he had the basic idea; Jonas checked that in his mind. "Very well," he said. "Now, I wish to see Herr Knupf."