"Eh?"
"I said," Habrunt went on pointedly, "that one Si'Wren, who kneels before you now, is no empty-headed minstrel, or some plaything in the Emperor's harem, but a Royal Scribe in the palace court. She sits before kings. She prays to the Invisible God."
Bassdag's keen, intelligent frown seemed to bore powerfully through Si'Wren to her very soul, when the aged man turned his eyes upon her again.
"Oh!" said Bassdag, with a quick raise of his eyebrows. He seemed to be genuinely impressed. "That changes everything."
Then Bassdag rose with difficulty, using the assistance of a shepherd's crook and Habrunt's helping, steady hand.
"Come here, girl," he said.
Timidly, Si'Wren took a step closer, and Bassdag reached up and took
Si'Wren's slender forearm in his large and knobby old hand.
"This old man," said Habrunt, "who is older than anyone I have ever met, invented—writing."
Si'Wren stared up at the white-haired old face, and was awestruck.
"Aye," said Bassdag, nodding in the affirmative. "Verily I thought I had created something with which to enrich men's souls. But since inventing it, much has happened to cause me to believe otherwise. Sometimes, I think it was all just a waste of time."