Merlin puffed on his pipe and let the silence hang. The sounds of the garden seemed to rise, the rustling of plants and the call of that owl, and behind it the sound of the city at night. He amused himself blowing shapes in the smoke, rings and squares and triangles, and then a knight on a horse galloping into cloudy oblivion.
Eventually the pipe ran out of smoke, and he looked at it, wondering if he should bother to refill it. "I can recommend some books, if you want to learn more about those battle stories," he said, tapping the bowl out into an ashtray. "Written as well as I can tell it, and saves me the trouble."