“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 yellow—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 luster—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 Rap—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.
“Gods!” 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 others—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’t—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 shapes—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 blustered 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 Gods’ own pests to get rid of. Mind the cobwebs. This next door is especially tuneful, as I recall.”
He was right—it opened with a long, ear—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 world—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 cocked 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.
“Gods, 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. But—”
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?”
Unencumbered by a lantern, she jumped; he caught her and set her down. Then he took a deep breath and kissed her lips. Apparently Skarash had not been planning much of a kiss, or else was now frightened to, but she clung tight, closed her eyes, and kept it going, turning it into a long, intimate thing. He wasn’t as experienced as Andor had been. He probably had no more experience than Rap had had, but he caught on quickly. And in the end it was she who broke it off.