He smiled back, a quiet smile, unassuming. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know anything about your people.”
“Aren’t there elves where you come from? Where do you come from, by the way. You’ve been here several cycles now, and I don’t recall hearing you say.”
Now was the time for the speech. Now was the time for Haplo to tell her the story he’d arranged during his voyage. Behind, in the parlor, the old man’s voice was going on and on.
Aleatha, making a pretty grimace, rose and shut the door between the two rooms. Haplo could still hear the wizard’s words quite distinctly, coming to his ears through those of his dog.
“. . . the heat-resistant tiles kept falling off. Big problem in reentry. Now this ship that’s docked out here is made of a material that is more reliable than tiles. Dragon scales,” he said in a piercing whisper. “But I wouldn’t let word of that get around. Might upset. . . you know who.”
“Do you want to try to fix this?” Haplo held up the two pieces of the broken icon.
“So you intend to remain a mystery,” said Aleatha. Reaching out her hands, she took the pieces from Haplo, letting her fingers brush against his ever so lightly. “It doesn’t matter, you know. Papa would believe you if you told him you fell from heaven. Callie wouldn’t believe you if you said you walked over from next door. Whatever story you do come up with, try to make it entertaining.”
Idly, she fit the pieces of the statue together and held it up to the light. “How do they know what she looked like? I mean, her hair, for example. No one has hair like this-white on top and brown at the tips.” The purple eyes gathered Haplo inside, held him fast. “I take that back. It’s almost like your hair, except that it’s reversed. Yours is brown with white on the edges. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Not where I come from. Everyone has hair like mine.”
That, at least, was a truthful statement. The Patryns are born with brown hair. When they attain puberty, the tips of the hair begin to turn white. What Haplo did not add was that with the Sartan, it is different. They are born with white hair, the tips eventually turning brown. He looked at the goddess the elven woman held in her hand. Here was proof that the Sartan had been to this world. Were they here now?
His thoughts went to the old man. Zifnab hadn’t fooled Haplo. The Patryn’s hearing was excellent. The old man had said “Tribus” elves-the elves who lived in Arianus, the elves who lived in another world, far and apart from this one.
“. . . solid fuel rocket booster. Blew up on the launch pad. Horrible. Horrible. But they wouldn’t believe me, you see. I told them magic was much safer. It was the bat guano they couldn’t handle. Need tons of it, you know, to achieve lift-off. . . .”
Not that what the old man was saying now made much sense. Still, there was undoubtedly method in his madness. The Sartan, Alfred, had seemed nothing but a bumbling servant.
Aleatha deposited the two halves of the goddess in a drawer. The remains of a broken cup and saucer ended up in the wastebasket.
“Would you like a drink? The brandy is quite fine.”
“No, thank you,” said Haplo.
“I thought maybe you might need one, after Callie’s little scene. Perhaps we should rejoin the others-”
“I’d rather talk to you alone, if it’s allowed.”
“You mean can we be alone together without a chaperone? Of course.” Aleatha laughed, light, rippling. “My family knows me. You won’t damage my reputation with them! I’d invite you out to sit on the front porch, but the crowd’s still there, staring at your ‘evil contraption.’ We can go into the drawing room. It’s cool in there.”
Aleatha led the way, her body rippling like her laughter. Haplo was protected against feminine charms-not by magic, for not even the most powerful runes ever traced upon a body could guard against love’s insidious poison. He was protected by experience. It is dangerous to love, in the Labyrinth. But the Patryn could admire female beauty, as he had often admired the kaleidoscopic sky in the Nexus.