“Zifnab, did you say? Where is he?” the old man demanded, extremely irate. Beard bristling, he whirled around. “This time I’ll ‘nab’ you!” he shouted threateningly, shaking his fist at nothing. “Following me again, are you, you—”
“Cut the crazy act, old man,” Haplo said. Putting a firm hand on a thin and fragile-feeling shoulder, he twisted the wizard around to face him, stared intently into the old man’s eyes.
They were bleary, rheumy, and bloodshot. But they did not glint red. The old man may not be a serpent, Haplo said to himself, but he certainly isn’t what he passes himself off as, either.
“Still claim to be human?” Haplo snorted.
“And what makes you think I’m not?” Zifnab demanded, highly insulted.
“Subhuman, perhaps,” rumbled a deep voice.
The dog growled. Haplo recalled the old man’s dragon. A true dragon. Perhaps not as dangerous as the serpents, but dangerous enough. The Patryn glanced quickly at his hands, saw the sigla on his skin begin to glow a faint blue. He searched for the dragon, but could see nothing clearly. The tops of the wall and the Final Gate itself were shrouded in pink-tinged gray mist.
“Shut up, you obese frog,” shouted Zifnab. He was talking, apparently, to the dragon, but he eyed Haplo uneasily. “Not human, eh?” Zifhab suddenly put his wizened fingers to the corners of his eyelids, pulled his eyes into a slant. “Elf?”
The dog cocked its head to one side. It appeared to find this highly diverting.
“No?” Zifhab was deflated. He thought a moment, brightened. “Dwarf with an overactive thyroid!”
“Old man—” Haplo began impatiently.
“Wait! Don’t tell me! I’ll figure it out. Am I bigger than a bread box? Yes? No? Well, make up your mind.” Zifnab appeared a bit confused. Leaning close, he whispered loudly, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to know what a bread box is, would you? Or the approximate size?”
“You’re Sartan,” stated Haplo.
“Oh, yes. I’m certain.” Zifnab nodded. “Quite certain. What I’m certain of, I can’t remember at the moment, but I’m definitely certain—”
“Not ‘certain’! Sartan!”
“Sorry, dear boy. Thought you came from Texas. They talk like that down there, you know. So you think I’m Sartan, eh? Well, I must say, I’m extremely flattered, but I—”
“Might I suggest that you tell him the truth, sir?” boomed the dragon.
Zimab blinked, glanced around. “Did you hear something?”
“It might be to his advantage, sir. He knows now, anyway.”
Zifnab stroked his long, white beard, regarded Haplo with eyes that were suddenly sharp and cunning. “So you think I should tell him the truth, eh?”
“What you can remember of it, sir,” the dragon remarked gloomily.
“Remember?” Zifnab bristled. “I remember any number of things. And you’ll be sorry when I do, lizard lips. Now, let’s see. Berlin: 1948. Tanis Half-Elven was taking a shower, when—”
“Excuse me, but we haven’t got all day, sir.” The dragon sounded stern. “The message we received was quite specific. Grave danger! Come immediately!
Zifnab was downcast. “Yes, I s’pose you’re right. The truth. Very well. You’ve wrung it out of me. Bamboo sticks beneath the fingernails and all that. I”—he drew a deep breath, paused dramatically, then flung the words forth—”I am Sartan.”
His battered pointed hat toppled off, fell to the ground. The dog walked over, sniffed at it, gave a violent sneeze. Zifnab, miffed, snatched the hat away.
“What do you mean?” he demanded of the dog. “Sneezing on my hat! Look at this! Dog snot—”
“And?” prodded Haplo, glaring at the old man.
“—and dog germs and I don’t know what else—”
“You’re Sartan and what else? Hell, I knew you were Sartan. I guessed that on Pryan. And now you’ve proved it. You would have to be, in order to travel through Death’s Gate. Why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” Zifnab repeated vaguely, glancing up at the sky. “Why am I here?”
No help from the dragon.
The old man folded his arms, placed one hand on his chin. “Why am I here? Why are any of us here? According to the philosopher Voltaire, we are—”
“Damn it!” Haplo exploded. He grabbed hold of the old man’s arm. “Come with me. You can tell the Lord of the Nexus all about Voltaire—”