"Oh!" Merlyn looked down, just as he was edging onto the stone sconce that held up the rafter, and saw the white-haired figure below him. Sitting on the edge of the stone, and steadying himself on the wood of the rafter, he leant forwards a little, his long beard dangling. "Oh, splendid. Much more convenient." Then, raising his voice, "If you wouldn't mind. The knitting supplies are mine. Toss them up here, would you? There's a good chap."

Of course, it was quite possible that whoever it was might decide that the needles stuck into the ball of yarn made good enough weapons to keep. Or that they might forego the yarn altogether and try to shoot him with a crossbow or a gun or whatever other nonsense the Gamemakers might have provided. But Merlyn had come to the conclusion that, in a place where what the ruling class wanted was conflict, maybe the best form of non-violent revolution was to trust. Openly. Obviously. For the full view of the cameras.

"I mean," he called, "I can come down there. But I'm afraid it would take some time. The rheumatism, you see. These by-our-lady castles are awful for it."