"Anthropophagi?"

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten the anthropophagia"I wonder how many imps they manage to eat in an average year? The merfolk have their little ways, too. Anyway, that's elves. If there's a complicated way to do something, an elf will find it; especially if it looks pretty or sounds good. The clan's the important thing. Even if an elf's family's lived within the Impire for generations, he'll still regard himself as belonging to one particular clan, one especial tree, although most clans control several trees. He may well have other, personal loyalties and allegiances within his clan."

Rap wondered why he was being given the lecture, but he supposed he would find out soon enougha"either the little gnome would come to the point, or events would. He blinked a few times, before realizing that the speck in his eye was actually a gleam of light a long way ahead. His farsight told him that the hillside above was back within his range, and dropping steeply.

"This comes out not far from the fence," Ishist said, changing the subject. "About a league. And about another league beyond that is the imperial highway from Puldarn to Noom. Straight as an arrow. Imps have no sense of artistry at all. So the elves say."

"It must be a very busy highway." Rap was not experienced with crowds on the scale of the Impire. The thought of big cities made him nervous.

"Lords, yes! All the traffic between the Dragon Sea and Home Water goes along it. It ought to be farther from the fence. My pets sense the metal going by and howl like dogs. They go mad when the annual tax train pa.s.ses. You taking your two friends with you?"

"Er . . . their decision."

"I think you should."

"But one of them has a word of power, and Warlock Litha""

"True, but he can get that one out of you anyway," Ishist said callously. "If he has to damage someone, I suspect his sense of artistry would be more impressed by a well-matched sequential set than an oversize faun with goblin tattoos."

That sounded like a threat. Despite the gnome's apparent friendliness, he was dangerous; very dangerous and very unpredictable. His comically disgusting appearance concealed not only great occult power, but also a mind of deadly sharpness. His ways of thinking were as alien as the dragons'. Rap could not imagine what many years of tending those monsters might do to a man, and he did not know how a gnome would have thought in the first place. Who ever talked with gnomes to find out?

The speck was a visible circle of light now. The air felt damper, and cooler.

"They can come with me if they wisha"or not, if they wish," Rap said stubbornly. Then he realized that Ishist could just change his friends' minds if he thought it a good idea. With sorcerers, as with elves, nothing was ever simple.

The tunnel ended abruptly in a small natural cave. Weeping gray sky and wet greenery were framed in the entrance arch, its ragged edges blurred by moss and fern. A steady vertical rain was soaking the hills as if willing to do so for weeks, hissing on rocks and mud, drumming on leaves. The four men stood under the lip of the cavern and peered out. Water dribbled and splashed everywhere, even dripping from the roof.

Gathmor uttered a long sigh of satisfaction. "Glad to see daylight," he muttered. "Don't like caves."

Darad grunted agreement, and Rap wondered if dislike of caves was a jotunn characteristic. He did not care for them either.

Ishist looked up at Gathmor. "West on the highway'll take you to Puldarn. If you're heading home, that is."

The sailor gnawed his silver mustache for a moment, then spoke to Rap over the gnome's head. "You meet Kalkor again?"

"That's the prophecy."

His pale eyes narrowed icily. "I'll stay aboard, then."

"Thanks, Cap'n."

"East to Noom," the sorcerer said. "First t.i.thro, then Noom. There you choosea"overland to Hub, or sail to Ilrane. Valdorian's in the west, near the coast, which is handy for you." Ilrane!

Eastward? Closer to Zark? No, that wasn't it . . .

Rap realized that the sorcerer was eyeing him with a very curious expression. "Sir?"

"You having a premonition?" asked the gnome, scratching busily.

"I'm not sure." The idea of going to Ilrane had certainly stirred something in Rap, something encouraging. He remembered he'd felt a twinge when Ishist had first suggested a visit to Lith'rian. He'd even felt traces of . . . whatever it was . . . when he arrived at Warth Redoubt. And whatever it was, it seemed to be getting stronger every time. Was that practice?

Ishist still wore a puzzled pout. "Adepts don't usually . . . O' course, geniuses don't usually have farsight . . . New, is it?" Rap nodded uneasily. "My mother was said to be a seer." The gnome shrugged. "Possible, then. Fauns have a reputation for trusting their own feelings, don't they?" He chuckled to himself. "And I'm not doing it to you. You'll find it rarely comes to order, but when it does you can trust it. Now, which is it to be? Hub or Ilrane?"

"How far?" Rap asked.

The gnome closed his eyes for a moment, as if consulting a mental map; perhaps he was fa.r.s.eeing a real chart. "A bit over four hundred leagues in either case."

"Water's faster!" Gathmor said quickly, and even Darad nodded as he struggled to keep up with the conversation.

"Not if you catch a ride on a stage," Ishist said.

Ilrane still felt right. Rap could walk ten leagues a day, maybe more on an Imperial highway. That was still more than a month to Hub, even if nothing went wrong. Water was faster and safer. "How do I get on a ship, though?"

"Steal a boat," Gathmor said impatiently.

"Then its owner may starve, and his children, too."

The jotunn grimaced at such sissy sentimentality. "Thinal?" Darad said triumphantly.

"I suppose so," Rap said sadly. If Thinal was willing to help, then he could steal the price of a ticket in Noom as easily as he had done the same thing for Andor in Milflor. Come to think of it, Rap probably could do those sorts of things himself now. He would just have to hope that whoever was chosen to support the cause could afford the honor.

The gnome was watching, scratching things out of his beard, and leering.

"What do you advise, Ishist?" Rap asked, trying to feel trusting.

"Oh, sea! Your biggest problem isn't getting there, wherever you go. You need to worry more about getting in to meet Lith'rian. An audience with the Imperor might be easier to arrange than a private chat with a warlock."

"If I used my powers right outside his gates? He'd sense me just like you did when I sent the dragon away."

"The guards will be votaries. They'll turn you to stone before you can blink."

Rap gulped.

"Besides," Ishist added, "Hub's dangerous. Other wardens, and would-be wardens. You'll be safest to stay in South's sector."

"Advise me, please," Rap said, as he was expected to.

"There's one sure way. Would only work for an elf, though."

"Yes?" Rap said cautiously. He distrusted a sorcerer's sense of humor on principle, and Ishist's in particular.

"I'd have to make you look elvish. It would be a low-power sorcery. It won't fool Lith'rian, of course, if you get to him; or any other full sorcerer. But otherwise you should pa.s.s."

"And?"

"And you can get taken right to Lith'rian." The old man chuckled. "Express."

Rap watched his own cheeks redden under the challengehis new reversible farsight could be a disconcerting ability. "That's the fastest way?"

"Yes."

"Then go ahead! Make me look elvish."

The stubble that had collected on Rap's face since he left Durthing fell off like cottontree fluff. His skin began to turn yellowa"and not just on his face. His eyes . . . he watched in astonishment as they grew larger and somehow tilted, as the gray of his irises developed the opalescent sparkle of the purebred elf. The skin change had almost reached his toes. His hair was curling and taking on the metallic golden l.u.s.tera"even his body hair, he noticed uneasily. His legs were shedding as his chin had. And were Little Chicken here, he could no longer call him "Flat Nose." His tattoos were gone.

Then it was done. In a vague way, Rap was still Rap, but he was an elvish Rapa"about the same height as before, but slimmer, slighter. Better looking than before, of course, but an ugly elf.

His robe shimmered and faded away, revealing snug-fitting jerkin and long trousers, of the same delicate leather as his boots, and colored bright green and blue. He did not remember putting those on. A matching forester's cap fell from nowhere and settled lightly on his shiny golden curls. He fingered an elvish ear thoughtfully.

He sniffed, and realized his sense of smell had returnedwoodsy scents of wet loam and leaves, plus the powerful stink of the gnome beside him.

"G.o.ds!" Gathmor said, horrified. "You look just like an elf! Even your eyes."

"Yes, I know." Rap's voice was higher pitched, and somehow sweeter. "It may take some getting used to."

Ishist chuckled, greatly pleased with himself. "You needn't be so worried! Everything's still there, it just looks different. The hair will grow back afterward. Don't be tempted to try anything, sailor. He looks elf and feels elf, but he's still got his strength. And he's still an adept."

Gathmor pouted. He must have felt tempted.

"I've put a year's limit on it, lad," the sorcerer said. "You're going to Lith'rian of your own free will, understand? That's still the case. But if no one takes the spell off, it'll fade in a year. And you othersa"I think you'd better be dressed the same, at least." Robes vanished, foresters' leathers appeared on Gathmor in red and yellow, green and white on Darad. Caps and all.

The sight of the mighty-thewed Darad in such clothing was not one to be taken lightly, Rap thought, and realized how much he had already adapted to the ways of sorcery. Gathmor hadn'ta"he swore under his breath, and squirmed.

Rap said, "Explain how this gets me to the warlock, Ishist."

The gnome's black eyes twinkled. "There'll be lots of elves in Noom. In the Impire they're usually artists of one sort or another. They can't compete in business with imps, and they profess to despise fighting. They sculpt and sing and so on. Pick a big one."

"Big one?" Rap repeated warily. "Important. A chief elf in a group of elves."

With a strange sensation that this conversation was somehow familiar, Rap said, "Then what do I do?"

The little old man cackled. "Then you punch him on the nose."

3.

Like the rest of the House of Elkarath, the cellars were a jumble of mismatched levels and shapesa"innumerable separate constructions that had grown together over the ages like some gigantic family whose members could never agree on anything. Most of the vaults were stacked high with merchandise, and much of it could be identified by smell alone: brandy and vinegar and turpentine in kegs; hides and cedar planks in stacks. But the dimness also held mysterious bales and barrels and baskets; ingots, crates, and flagons; urns and ewers and hampers. And shadows! With one hand comfortingly gripped by Skarash, and the other holding her lantern high to watch for uneven footing and low beams, Inos told herself very sternly that queens were not frightened of shadows. Or dust. Or rats, if rats there be.

Or Skarash.

But she hoped he could not feel the tremor in her hand. Once in a while she saw other lights flickering beyond arches or down tunnels; rarely she heard distant voices and footsteps. It was all very creepy.

She soon began to suspect that the curiously brash Skarash was leading her around in a circle, up and down, in and out, in a tour of the whole bewildering catacomb, but she was not going to allow yesterday's experience with the pixies to turn her into a nerveless ninny frightened of anything that grew hair on its chin. Her behavior when the centurion bl.u.s.tered had been shameful, but she ought to be able to handle Master Skarash no matter how friendly he became. If all he was trying to do was frighten her, then he could tunnel his way back to Arakkaran first. But their two lanterns did make the odd-shaped shadows shimmy in a sinister silent dance.

Something rustled . . . she jumped. Evil take it!

"Just rats, I think," Skarash said, stooping low under a tangle of beams that seemed to have been added as an afterthought to hold up part of the roof. "Or gnomes, which are worse. Every year or two gnomes get in here, and they're the G.o.ds' own pests to get rid of. Mind the cobwebs. This next door is especially tuneful, as I recall."

He was righta"it opened with a long, eara"rending scream of agony.

"I first came to Ullacarn when I was ten," he said, leading the way down more stairs. "I thought the desert was the most wonderful place in the worlda"until I discovered these cellars." High-vaulted and quite empty, the chamber gave his voice an eerie echo. The air was dank, the wall streaked with niter.

"And every year since, Grandsire has brought me along. We kids used to make up . . . Sh!" He stopped on the last tread and turned, staring up at the door they had just come through. "Hear anything?" he whispered.

"No."

He stepped down to the floor, then turned again, looking up at her intently. "Sure?"

He was playing a game, she thought, but she c.o.c.ked her head and harked. "No."

Skarash frowned and laid down his lantern.

Above her, the door shrieked like a trampled cat, then slammed shut in a reverberating roll of thunder. She leaped, he reached up and caught her. She slammed her lantern against his knee, clawed at his eyes, instinctively banged a knee at his groin, and broke free.

Then she was cowering back against the wall, fighting down a crazy spinning panic, panting madly, with her heart beating inside her head and a vile taste in her throat, hefting the lantern to strike him if he came closer. Enrage them into a mating frenzy, Elkarath had said.

Her knee had missed the tender spot that had worked on the pixie, but Skarash had retreated several paces. He raised a hand to his cheek and then inspected the blood on his fingers.

"G.o.ds, lady! I didn't mean . . ." Even in the uncertain light of the lanterns, his shock was obviously genuine.

She had not screamed, though. She struggled to calm her frantic breathing. She glanced back up at the door. "Kids?"

"Always. The place swarms with them. Buta""

He dabbed at his face again, staring at her. Worried. No mating frenzy, just a cruel practical joke.

Kids! "What exactly did you have in mind?" Inos asked, furious now.

He was blushing, dark in the dim light. "I thought . . . It was only a joke, my lady. I meant no harm."

She shouted. "Explain!"

He squirmed. "We used to do it to the girls. Make them jump into our arms. No harm, really. Just . . . I've never kissed a queen."

A queen. She was not going to let yesterday's escape scar her. She was not going to shy at shadows all her life. Pixies, centurions . . . now she had fallen for a stupid, juvenile, childish prank. Men!

She laid down her lantern with a clatter. "Then let's try that age!"

"What?"

Inos stamped up the stairs to where she had been standing before. "I said let's try that again!"

Wide-eyed, Skarash walked back to his former place also, and then just stared up at her.

"Well?" she demanded, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the wetness of her palms, wishing he would get on with it. Skarash whispered, "Bang?"