“Va-ban!” he shouted in a voice of thunder. The Bird Clan vassals heaved on the ropes; Diver, Mamor and the Harper steadied the framework. Tomarvan slid up the ramp to the level of the Bird Clan grounds. The vassals lifted it bodily onto the wheeled wicker cradle and trundled our precious bird into the enclosure. The Launcher surveyed it calmly, hands on his waist. “Cullin!” he cried. “Where in blazes will they come from next! Every bush weaver is Antho, this time o’ year. And why don’t ye fly it in . . . eh? eh? Because the flaming thing won’t fly, do you suppose?” “It will fly,” said Diver. He loomed up at the Launcher’s side, and the fellow flinched at his height. Diver looked as impressive as we could make him; it was a time for dressing-up, not for hiding away. He wore his own blue suit and, as a cloak, a magnificent silk hanging, one of Gwin’s treasures, ordered and not paid for, long ago, by Elbin Tsatroy, a mad old grandee, one of the last of her clan.
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