"You shall lead us, Father," he cooed. "With such purity as yours, we can't fail."
The hermit thought about that for a moment and then said, "I will pass the word. Give me the feke."
Ciaran's jaw dropped. His eyes got glassy.
"The feke," said the hermit patiently. "The jiggler."
Ciaran closed his eyes. "Mouse," he said weakly, "give the gentleman the picklock."
Mouse slid it to him, a distance of about two inches. The red-haired giant took some of his weight off Ciaran. Mouse was looking slightly dazed herself.
"Hadn't I better do it for you?" she asked, rather pompously.
The hermit gave her a cold glance. He bent his head and brought his hands up between his knees. His collar mate on the other side never noticed a thing, and the hermit beat Mouse's time by a good third.
Ciaran laughed. He lay in Mouse's lap and had mild hysterics. Mouse cuffed him furiously across the back of his neck, and even that didn't stop him.
He pulled himself up, looked through streaming eyes at Mouse's murderous small face, and bit his knuckles to keep from screaming.