Pocket sneezed again. The ladder began to shake and teeter as his stomach lurched. He gripped the top rung tightly, wrestling with it to remain upright. His legs quivered from hours of climbing up and down again, over and over, always starting from the top, working steadily downward. There was a moment of blissful triumph each time his feet finally hit the stone floor, only to be dashed by the presence of yet another tapestry sitting patiently beside its brethren, waiting to be dusted. Up again to the very top, where the next long, heavy, acrid smelling beast was tethered, to start anew, beating the dust of years from the fibers.

Pocket’s nose was runny and raw, his nostrils clogged with a sharp, gritty crust. His eyes were horribly irritated, the lids sandy and dry. His whole body itched where the mites had fled the tapestries only to find a new home in his hair and clothes. He tried assuming a feathered form, to help resist the scratchy particles, but his body only sprouted a few pitiful downy tufts that instantly molted and fell away to drift slowly down to the castle floor, sixty feet below.

He had worked in the Great Hall most of the afternoon and into the night. The Mumbler said he needed to have the tapestries dusted and the floor swept by the fourth crow of the morning. At least, that is what Pocket thought he said. It was always difficult to tell with the Mumbler. Whatever the specific instructions, Pocket wanted to be done before dawn. By tradition, only the knights were allowed to attend the funeral, but Pocket trusted in his ability to remain unnoticed. So he labored steadily on, starting on the left wall and working his way across. Up, slowly down, and across.

He had not eaten since supper and took only a small respite when he completed the eight hangings on the left wall. He had dragged the ladder around to the right side, taking a moment to survey his handiwork. While cleaning them, nose deep and personal, the weaves were nothing but multicolored blobs, but from a respectful distance the tapestries were a majestic menagerie of champions, battles, sorcerers and kings. Pocket had seen them all many times, but never so clean and never from his own hand. He loved the large, heroic images, depicting the greatest moments of the Order’s history. From the Barbarous Times through to the Founding, that was the left wall. On the right, the Battle of the Unsounded Horn to the Building of the Roost still waited for Pocket’s attention.