“Odd in what way?” Rap asked then.
“All sorts of ways, lad. What they’ll tell you is that every elf belongs to a clan, and owes all his loyalty to his clan. Each clan owns a tree, or the tree owns them, maybe. And each clan has a chief. Sound simple?”
“No. Sky trees?” Rap’s deeper voice echoed even more than the gnome’s. He could not detect the surface now. A whole mountain seemed to lie above, pressing down relentlessly.
“Of course.” Ishist was barefoot; the others were shod in elven boots of leather soft as gossamer. Their tread was spookily soft.
“And it’s more complicated?” Rap asked, sending rumbles down the long tube.
“Nothing is ever simple around elves. It doesn’t help that they never tell nonelves anything. Clans have alliances and feuds, which they don’t talk about, which seem to come and go like the tide. There are subclans and overclans. A clan may have more than one tree, and more than one clan may have rights in one tree. Any clan may have more than one chief—a chief for justice, a chief for wisdom, a chief for war, a chief for law . . . Gods know how they’re chosen or how it all works, if it does.” He fell silent for a few paces, then added, ”But historically the elves have held off the imps better than almost anyone, except the dwarves, so I suppose it must work after a fashion.”
“Anthropophagi?”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten the anthropophagi—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 enough—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 passes. 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 Lith—”
“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 wish—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 Tithro, then Noom. There you choose—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 farseeing 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 pass.”