Oh, Paithan, I'm sure you're laughing now, but this is serious. Poor Callie's about to tear the hair off her head in frustration, and I'm afraid I'm not much better. Of course, she's worried about the money and the business and the mayor coming by with a petition to get rid of the dragon.

I'm worried about poor Papa. The crafty old human has Papa completely convinced in this nonsense about a ship and going to see Mama in the stars. It's all Papa talks about. He's so excited he won't eat and he's getting thinner by the day. Callie and I know that old wizard must be up to something-maybe making off with all Papa's fortune. But, it'so, he's shown no signs of it.

Cal tried twice to buy Zifnab-or whatever he calls himself-off, offering him more money than most humans would see in a lifetime to go away and leave us alone. The old man took her by the hand and, with a sad look on his face, told her, "But my dear, soon the day will come when money won't matter."

Won't matter! Money won't matter! Callie thought he was crazy before but now she's convinced he's a raving maniac and should be locked up somewhere. I think she'd do it, too, but she's afraid how Papa might react. And then there was the day the dragon almost got loose.

You remember how the old man keeps the creature under enchantment? (Orn knows how or why.) We were sitting down to breakfast when suddenly there was a terrible commotion outside, the house shook like it would fall apart, tree limbs cracked and thudded into the moss and a fiery red eye appeared, staring into our dining room window.

"Have another muffin, old man!" came this dreadful, hissing voice. "With lots of honey on it. You need fattening, fool. Like the rest of the plump, juicy meat around you!"

Its teeth flashed, saliva dripped from its forked tongue. The old man went pale as a ghost. What few servants we had left ran screaming out the door.

"Ah, ha!" shouted the dragon. "Fast food!"

The eye disappeared. We ran to the front door and saw the dragon's head diving down, its jaws ready to close over the cook!

"No, not her!" shouted the old man. "She does the most wonderful things to a chicken! Try the butler. Never did like him," he said, turning to Father. "Uppity chap."

"But," said poor Papa, "you can't let him eat the staff!"

"Why not?" Cal screamed. "Let him eat all of us! What does it matter to you?"

You should have seen Callie, Brother. It was frightening. She went all stiff and rigid and just stood there on the front porch, her arms crossed over her chest, her face set hard as rock. The dragon seemed to be toying with his victims, driving them like sheep, watching them duck behind trees, lunging at them when they came out in the open.

"What if we let him have the butler," said the old man nervously, "and maybe a footman or two? Take the edge off, so to speak?"

"I-I'm afraid not," answered poor Papa, who was shaking like a leaf.

The old man heaved a sigh. "You're right, I suppose. Mustn't abuse your hospitality. Seems a pity. Elves are so easily digestible. Slide right down. He always feels hungry right after, though." The old man began rolling up his sleeves. "Dwarves, now. I never let him eat a dwarf. Not since the last time. Up with him all night. Let's see. How did that spell go? Let's see, I need a ball of bat guano and a pinch of sulfur. No, wait. I've got my spells muddled."

The old man strolled out on the lawn, cool as you please, in the midst of the chaos, talking to himself about bat dung! By now, some of the townspeople had arrived, carrying weapons. The dragon was delighted to see them, shouting about "all-you-can-eat buffets." Callie was standing on the porch, screeching, "Eat us all!" Papa was wringing his hands until he collapsed into a chaise lounge.

I hate to admit this, Pait, but I started to laugh. Why is that? It must be some horrible flaw in me that makes me start giggling during disaster. I wished with all my heart you'd been there to help us, but you weren't. Papa was useless, Cal wasn't much better. In desperation, I ran down onto the lawn and caught hold of the old man's arm just as he raised it in the air.

"Aren't you supposed to sing?" I asked. "You know, 'something, something Bonnie Earl'!"

It was all I could understand of the damn song. The old man blinked and his face brightened. Then he whirled around and glared at me, his beard bristling. The dragon, meanwhile, was chasing the townspeople across the lawn.

"What are you trying to do?" the old man demanded angrily. "Take over my job?"

"No, I-"

" 'Don't meddle in the affairs of wizards,' " he said in lofty tones, " 'for they are subtle and quick to anger.' A fellow sorcerer said that. Good at his job, knew a lot about jewelry. Not bad at fireworks, either. Wasn't the snappy dresser Merlin was, though. Let's see, what his name? Raist-no, that was the irritating young chap, kept hacking and spitting up blood all the time. Disgusting. The other's name was Gand-something or other ..."

I began laughing wildly, Pait! I couldn't help it. I had no idea what he was yammering about. It was just all so ludicrous! I must be a truly wicked person.

"The dragon!" I grabbed the old man and shook him until his teeth rattled. "Stop him!"

"Ah, yes. It's easy for you to say." Zifnab gave me a hunted look. "You don't have to live with him afterward!"

Heaving another sigh, he began to sing in that high-pitched quavery voice of his that goes right through your head. Just like before, the dragon jerked his head up, and stared at the old man. The creature's eyes glazed over and pretty soon he was swaying in time to the music. Suddenly, the dragon's eyes popped open wide and he stared at the old man in shock.

"Sir!" the creature thundered. "What are you doing out on the front lawn in your nighty? Have you no shame?"

The dragon's head snaked across the lawn and loomed over poor Papa, who was huddled underneath the chaise lounge. The townspeople, seeing the creature distracted, began raising their weapons and creeping up on it.

"Forgive me. Master Quindiniar," said the dragon in a deep, booming voice. "This is my fault entirely. I was not able to catch him before he left this morning." The dragon's head swiveled around to the old man. "Sir, I had laid out the mauve morning coat with the pin-striped pants and the yellow weskit-"

"Mauve morning coat?" screeched the old man. "Did you ever see Merlin strolling around Camelot, casting spells in a mauve morning coat? No, by hoppy toads, you didn't! And you won't catch me in one-"

I missed the rest of the conversation because I had to convince the townsfolk to go home. Not that I would have minded so much getting rid of the dragon, but it was perfectly obvious to me that their puny weapons couldn't do it any serious harm and might only break the spell, it was shortly after this, by the way, around luncheon, that the mayor arrived with the petition.

Something seemed to snap inside Callie after that, Pait. Now she completely ignores the wizard and his dragon. She simply behaves as if they aren't there. She won't look at the old man; she won't speak to him. She spends all her time either at the factory or locked up in her office. She'll barely speak to poor Papa. Not that he notices. He's too busy with his rockets.

Well, Pait, the barrage has ceased for the moment. I must close and go to bed. I'm taking tea with the dowager tomorrow. I believe I'll switch cups with her, just in case she's slipped a little poison in mine.

Oh, I almost forgot. Callie says to tell you that business has really picked up. Something about rumors of trouble coming out of the norinth. Sorry I wasn't paying more attention, but you know how talking about business bores me. I guess it means more money, but, like the old man says, what does that matter?

Hurry home. Pait, and save me from this madhouse!

Your loving sister, Aleatha

CHAPTER 12.

GRIFFITH, TERNCIA, THILLIA.

INVOLVED IN HIS SISTER'S LETTER, PAITHAN WAS AWARE OF FOOTSTEPS entering the tavern, but he didn't pay any attention until the chair he was using for a footstool was kicked violently out from underneath his legs.

"About time!" said a voice, speaking human.

Paithan looked up. A human male stood staring down at him. The man was tall, muscular, well built, with long blond hair that he wore tied with a leather thong at the back of his head. His skin was deeply tanned, except where his clothes covered it, and then Paithan could see that it was white and fair as any elf's. The blue eyes were frank and friendly, his lips curved in an ingratiating smile. He was dressed in the fringed leather breeches and sleeveless leather tunic popular among humans.

"Quincejar?" said the human, thrusting out a hand. "I'm Roland. Roland Redleaf. Pleased to meet you."

Paithan glanced at the chair, which had been knocked over and kicked halfway across the common room. Barbarians. Still, it didn't do any good to get angry. Standing up, he stretched out his hand, clasping the human's in the odd custom that both elves and dwarves found so ridiculous.

"The name's Quindiniar. And please join me," said Paithan, retrieving his chair. "What will you have to drink?"

"You speak our language pretty good, without that silly lisp you hear with most elves." Roland yanked over another chair and sat down. "What are you drinking?" Grabbing Paithan's almost full mug, he sniffed at it. "Stuff any good? Usually the ale around here tastes like monkey piss. Hey, bar keep! Bring us another round!

"Here's to the toys," Roland said, lifting his mug.

Paithan took a swallow. The human downed his at one gulp. Blinking, wiping his eyes, he said moistly, "Not bad. You going to finish yours? No? I'll take care of it for you. Can't let it go to waste." He drained the other mugful, slamming it down upon the table when he was finished.

"What were we drinking to? Ah, I remember. The toys. 'Bout time, as I said." Roland leaned across the table, breathing beer fumes into Paithan's face. 'The children were getting impatient! It was all I could do to placate the little darlings ... if you know what I mean?"

"I'm not certain that I do," said Paithan mildly. "Will you have another?"

"Sure. Barkeep! Two more."

"It's on me," said the elf, noting the proprietor's frown.

Roland lowered his voice. "The children-the buyers, the dwarves. They're getting real impatient. Old Blackbeard like to took my head off when I told him the shipment was going to be late."

"You're selling the ... er ... toys to dwarves?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that, Quinpar?"

"Quindiniar. No, it's just that now I understand how you were able to pay top price."

"Between you and me, the bastards would've paid double that to get these. They're all worked up over some kid's fairy tale about giant humans. But you'll see for yourself." Roland took a long pull at the ale.

"Me?" said Paithan, smiling and shaking his head. "You must be mistaken. Once you've paid me the money, the 'toys' are yours. I've got to return home. This is a busy time for us, now."

"And how are we supposed to transport these babies?" Roland brushed his arm across his mouth. "Carry them on our heads? I saw your tyros in the stables. Everything's packed up neat. We'll make the trip and be back in no time."

"I'm sorry, Redleaf, but that wasn't part of the deal. Pay me the money and-"

"But don't you think you'd find the dwarven kingdom fascinating?"

The voice was a woman's, and it came from behind Paithan.

"Quincetart," said Roland, gesturing with his mug. "Meet my wife."

The elf, rising politely to his feet, turned around to face a human female.

"My name's Quindiniar."

"Glad to meet you. I'm Rega."

She was short, dark haired and dark eyed. Her well-muscled body was scantily clad, like Roland's, in fringed leather, leaving little of her figure to the imagination. Her brown eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, seemed filled with mystery. Her full lips kept back untold secrets. She extended her hand. Paithan took it in his. Instead of shaking it, as the woman apparently expected, he carried the hand to his lips and kissed it.

The woman's cheeks flushed. She allowed her hand to linger a moment in Paithan's. "Look here. Husband. You never treat me like this!"

"You're my wife," said Roland, shrugging, as if that settled the matter. "Have a seat, Rega. What'll you have to drink? The usual?"

"A glass of wine for the lady," ordered Paithan. Crossing the common room, he brought a chair back to the table, holding it for Rega to sit down. She slid into it with animallike grace, her movements clean, quick, decisive.

"Wine. Yeah, why not?" Rega smiled at the elf, her head tilting slightly, her dark, shining hair falling over a bare shoulder.

'Talk Quinspar here into coming with us, Rega."

The woman kept her eyes and her smile fixed on the elf. "Don't you have somewhere to go, Roland?"

"You're right. Damn beer runs right through me."

Rising to his feet, Roland sauntered out of the common room, heading for the tavern's backyard.

Rega's smile widened. Paithan could see sharp teeth, white against lips that appeared to have been stained red with some kind of berry juice. Whoever kissed those lips would taste the sweetness ...

"I wish you would come with us. It's not that far. We know the best route, it cuts through SeaKing lands but on the wilderness side. No border guards the way we go. The path's occasionally treacherous, but you don't look like the type to be bothered by a little danger." She leaned closer, and he was aware of a faint, musky odor that clung to her sweat-sheened skin. Her hand crept over Paithan's. "My husband and I get so bored with each other's company."

Paithan recognized deliberate seduction. He should have; his sister Aleatha could have taught it on a university level and this crude young human could certainly benefit from a few courses. The elf found it all highly amusing and certainly entertaining after long days on the road. He did wonder, though, why Rega was going to all this trouble and he also wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if she might be prepared to deliver what she was offering.

I've never been to the dwarven kingdom, Paithan reflected. No elf has. It would be worthwhile going.

A vision of Calandra-mouth pursed, nose bone white, eyes flaring-rose up before Paithan. She'd be furious-He'd lose a season, at least, in getting back home.

But Cal, look, he heard himself saying. I've established trade with the dwarves. Direct trade. No middle men to take a cut...

"Say you'll come with us." Rega squeezed his hand. The elf noted that the woman possessed an unladylike strength, the skin of her palm was rough and hardened.

"The three of us couldn't handle all these tyros-" he hedged.

"We don't need all of them." The woman was practical, businesslike. She let her hand linger in the elf's grasp. "You've packed toys for cover, I assume? Get rid of them. Sell them. We'll repack the ... er ... more valuable merchandise on three tyros."

Well, it would work. Paithan had to admit it. Plus, the sale of the toys would more than pay for the trip back for his foreman Quintin. The profits might moderate Calandra's fury.

"How can I refuse you anything?" Paithan answered, holding the warm hand a little tighter.

A door from the rear of the tavern slammed. Rega, flushing, snatched her hand away.

"My husband," she murmured. "He's frightfully jealous!"

Roland came strolling back into the common room, lacing up the leather thong on the front of his trousers. Passing by the bar he appropriated three mugs of ale that had been set out for other customers and carried them over to the table. He slammed them down, sloshing ale over everything and everyone, and grinned. "Well, Queesinard, my lovely wife talk you into coming with us?

"Yes," answered Paithan, thinking that Redleaf didn't act like any jealous husband the elf had ever known. "But I've got to send the overseer and my slaves back. They'll be needed at home. And the name's Quindiniar."

"Good idea. The fewer who know about our route the better. Say, you mind if I call you Quin?"

"My given name's Paithan."

"Sure thing, Quin. A toast to the dwarves, then. To their beards and their money. They keep one and I'll take the other!" Roland laughed. "Here, now, Rega. Quit drinking that grape juice. You know you can't stand it."

Rega flushed again. With a deprecating glance at Paithan, she thrust aside the glass of wine. Lifting a mug of ale to her berry-stained lips, she quaffed it skillfully.

What the hell? thought Paithan, and downed his ale in a gulp.