Gathmor scowled, shot a glance at Rap, and said, “I’ll wait for my shipmate.”
“As you wish.”
“No!” Rap said. “For the Gods’ sake, Cap’n—”
“I’m staying.” Gathmor folded his arms and set his jotunn jaw, looking every bit as stubborn as man could be. He stepped back a pace and scowled. Rap saw that argument would be useless, and was again miserably aware that he had led the man into this danger.
The gnome’s jet eyes had moved to Darad. “We’ll handle the gold problem next. Call Thinal.”
Darad grunted in shock and looked reproachfully at Rap.
“He didn’t tell me,” Ishist said. “If I have to force the change, I may hurt you.”
The threat worked. Darad’s gown crumpled toward the floor, uncovering Thinal within it. He bent his arms to stop it falling off him completely. Then he just stood there, staring at the gnome in terror. He was bare from the elbows up, hugging himself, and gradually turning pale all over. As usual, he was unshaven and ratty-haired. His teeth chattered with a curiously metallic clink.
Somewhere a dragon roared, and then another.
Thinal choked, worked one hand free of the overlong sleeve, and spat something into it.
“Pass it over.”
Another roar, closer. The little thief shuffled forward with the folds of his robe tangling around his feet. He thrust the gold into the sorcerer’s hand, then backed away quickly. Ishist flipped the coin; it rose in a gilded flicker and never came down. The dragon roars died away.
The sorcerer glared very sourly at Thinal for a minute or two. “You have unpleasant ideas about gnomes, guttersnipe. I’m tempted to . . . but then I don’t like scroungers skulking around my castle, so it’s mutual. Call Andor.”
Thinal had just time for a quick nod before he vanished, not having spoken a word. From his point of view he had made a fast escape, which was all he would care about.
Andor raised the gown and adjusted it properly on his shoulders, somehow transforming plain homespun into elegant mens wear in the process. He was clean, freshly shaved, washed, combed. He bowed.
“The honor of meeting the famous dragonward—”
“Quiet!” The gnome wrinkled his pug nose, causing the entrenched dirt around it to writhe and flake. He glanced at Rap.
“They get worse all the time. Do you want them around, or shall I not bother?”
Rap was befuddled again. “My lord?”
Ishist shrugged and told Andor, “Call Sagorn, then.”
Andor stiffened. “Your Omn—”
“One more word of flattery and I turn you into a troll.”
“But the old man is—”
“I know. Call him.”
Andor’s mouth opened, then he nodded in understanding. He vanished.
Sagorn’s face was the color of wood ash, a shade only a jotunn could ever be, and then only when close to death. He swayed as if about to fall. Before Rap could move to catch him, the sorcerer did so, with magic. The old man steadied. Color flowed back into his cheeks, his eyes flipped open. In a moment he took a deep breath and straightened. His face took on a healthy glow and even seemed to swell, becoming less gaunt and haggard than before. Suddenly Sagorn looked about ten years younger, and fitter than Rap had ever seen him.
He stared at the gnome for a long moment, as if waiting for the transformation to reach completion, or perhaps to see if there was more to come. Then he bowed.
“I am truly grateful, Sorcerer. It feels as if you found every ache and hangnail.” His voice sounded stronger, too.
Ishist scratched at his beard, digging stuff out of it. “I found a few problems you didn’t even know about. Tumors, for example.”
Sagorn bowed again, and there was an ironic amusement twinkling in his pale-blue eyes. “I thought the prophecy of the dragon signified my death, but it seems to have brought me a new lease on life. I admit I have been prejudiced against gnomes, Dragonward, but I shall regard them differently after this.”
The gnome grunted skeptically. He turned his gaze on Rap. “Sorcerer,” Sagorn said hastily. “There is another—”
“No.” Ishist scowled horribly at him. “First of all, I just tried, and I made no impact at all. Your Orarinsagu must have been enormously powerful—it’s much too strong for me. You’ll need a warlock or a witch, likely. And second, that would make five of you around underfoot, and your word of power would be shared six ways. So, no.” He switched his attention back to Rap again.
“You have demonstrated power within South’s sector, boy. By ancient custom, your words belong to him.” He waved a black thumb at Sagorn. ”His, also, of course.”
“I used mine first in the north,” Rap said cautiously.
Ishist nodded. “Yes, and in West’s sector later. It’s very odd that neither of them imprinted you with a loyalty spell. If they did, I can’t find it. But you’re an odd case all round, lad. Neither of them could foresee you, could they?”
“I don’t think Zinixo tried, but Bright Water said she couldn’t, my lord.”
“Ishist,” Ishist said softly, showing his myriad teeth in a smile.
“Ishist.”
“That’s better! You’re an adept, and we sorcerers must stick together! But if Bright Water tried and failed, then I certainly won’t succeed. You’re the first person I ever met that I can’t foresee, though. All I get is a sort of white blur. It hurts! Did she explain?”
“No.”
“I wish I had a preflecting pool handy . . .” The gnome sighed and leaned back to stare up at the ruins of what had once been a magnificent roof. For a moment nothing moved except wraiths of dust, swirled across the floor by eddies of wind. A dragon rumbled in the distance.
Ishist straightened, as if reaching a decision. “Take a seat.”
One of the vanished dining chairs magically reappeared at Rap’s back. He sat down obediently, aware the Sagorn and Gathmor had been left standing, wondering why the old gnome was favoring him so much over them.
“I’m imprinted, Rap,” Ishist said. “You understand that? A votary. Most sorcerers get trapped by their warden sooner or later—it’s why so many of them try to become wardens themselves, instead. Whenever a warlock detects magic at work in his sector, he’ll try to track it down and lock it up with a loyalty spell. He may not do anything more about it than that . . . depends how many words and votaries he has already and what his needs are. I’m dragonward for Warlock Lith’rian, and very happy in my work. Perhaps he spelled me to enjoy it. I don’t know, but it feels like worthwhile employment, and the quarters are ideal for gnomes.” He leered.
Rap smiled, also, thinking of the ancient heroes who had built this enormous redoubt and how appalled they would be to see it now.
The bottomless black eyes fixed on him. “And I’m happily married.”
Was that happiness also a spell? “I can see that, Ishist.” Rap spoke as matter-of-factly as he could manage. “And Athal’rian seems to be very happy, also. I’m sure you love each other and you’re proud of your family. They wouldn’t be my choice of children, and I would not be happy living here, but my tastes are different—not better, just different . . . That’s the best I can do,” he added uneasily. Who was he to pass such judgment?
The gnome chuckled, glancing briefly at Sagorn and Gathmor. “It’s a lot better than most can. Yes, she’s happy. Misses her family sometimes. Her father hadn’t been around for five years or more, but he turned up a few months ago, in a hurry, one evening. Needed a fire chick. None of my business why—he’s the boss. He brought it back the next day. That’s the only baby dragon that’s left here in years. It was Lily you met.”
He waited, giving Rap time to think. The fire chick could hardly have been a gift or a bribe if it had been returned the next day.
So despite what Bright Water had told Zinixo, she must be in league with Lith’rian.
“What exactly does a fire chick do to magic?”
Ishist smiled nastily. “All magic gets unpredictable around all dragons, young or old. You’re only an adept, so Primrose ought to have charred you to ash yesterday, yet you almost drove her out of her wits. Poor thing was gibbering when she got back here! On the other hand, the occult fence across the Neck has been there for thousands of years, and all the greatest sorcerers in history have worked on it, yet the worms just seem to eat it. They throw off their bindings sometimes and fly over water. I don’t know why Bright Water wanted a fire chick, or why Lith’rian loaned her one—but I expect they had their reasons.” His button eyes twinkled.