“Nexus!” Zifnab recoiled in alarm. Clasping his heart, he staggered backward. “What do you mean—Nexus? We’re on Chelestra!”
“No, you’re not,” Haplo said grimly. “You’re in the Nexus. And my lord—”
“You!” Zifnab shook his fist at the heavens. “You sorry excuse for an omnibus! You’ve brought us to the wrong place!”
“No, I did not,” retorted the dragon, indignant. “You said we were to stop here first, then proceed to Chelestra.”
“I said that, did I?” Zifriab looked extremely nervous.
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“I didn’t happen to say why I wanted to come here, did I? Didn’t happen to suggest that it was a great place for barbecued chaodyn carapace? Anything of that sort?”
The dragon signed. “I believe you mentioned, sir, that you wanted to speak to this gentleman.”
“Which gentleman?”
“The one to whom you are currently speaking.”
“Aha! That gentleman,” Zifnab cried triumphantly. He reached out, wrung Haplo’s hand. “Well, my boy, nice seeing you again. Sorry to run, but we really must be going. Glad you got your dog back. Give my regards to Broadway. Remember me to Harold Square. Nice chap, Harold Square. Used to work in a deli on Fifth. Now, where’s my hat—”
“In your hand, sir,” observed the dragon with long-suffering patience. “You have just turned it inside out.”
“No, this isn’t mine. Positive. Must be yours.” Zifnab attempted to hand the hat to Haplo. “Mine was much newer.
Better condition. This one’s all covered with hair tonic. Don’t try to switch hats on me, sonny!”
“You’re going to Chelestra?” Haplo asked, casually accepting the hat. “What for?”
“What for? Sent for!” Zifhab stated importantly. “Urgent call. All Sartan. Grave danger! Come immediately! I wasn’t doing anything else at the time, and so— I say,” he said, eyeing Haplo anxiously. “Isn’t that my hat you’re holding?”
Haplo had turned the hat right side out again, was keeping it just out of the old man’s reach. “Who sent the message?”
“It wasn’t signed.” Zifhab kept his gaze on the hat.
“Who sent the message?” Haplo began revolving the hat round and round.
Zifnab stretched out a trembling hand. “Mind you don’t crush the brim …”
Haplo drew the hat back.
Zifnab gulped. “Sam-hill. That was it. As in ‘What the Sam-hill are you doing with my hat?’ ”
“Sam-hill… You mean ‘Samah’! Gathering his forces. What’s Samah intend to do, old man?”
Haplo lowered the hat until it was about level with the dog’s nose. The animal, sniffing at it cautiously this time, began to nibble at the already shapeless point.
Zifnab gave a sharp cry. “Ah! Oh, dear! I—I believe he said something… No, don’t drool on it, there’s a good doggie! Something about… Abarrach. Necromancy. That’s… that’s all I know, I’m afraid.” The old man clasped his hands, cast Haplo a pleading glance. “May I have my hat now?”
“Abarrach… Necromancy. So Samah’s going to Abarrach to learn the forbidden art. That world could get rather crowded. My lord will be quite interested in this news. I think you’d better come—”
“I think not.”
The dragon’s voice had altered, rolled on the air like thunder. The sigla on Haplo’s skin flared bright. The dog leapt to its feet, teeth bared, looking all around for the unseen threat.
“Give the doddering old fool his hat,” commanded the dragon. “He’s told you all he knows anyway. This lord of yours wouldn’t get anything else out of him. You don’t want to fight me, Haplo,” the dragon added, tone stern and serious. “I would be forced to kill you… and that would be a pity.”
“Yes,” agreed Zifnab, taking advantage of Haplo’s preoccupation with the dragon to make a deft grab. The wizard retrieved his hat, began to sidle backward, heading in the direction of the dragon’s voice. “It would be a pity. Who would find Alfred in the Labyrinth? Who would rescue your son?”
Haplo stared. “What did you say? Wait!” He lunged out after the old man.
Zifnab shrieked, clutched his hat protectively to his chest. “No, you can’t have it! Get away!”
“Damn your hat! My son … What do you mean? Are you saying I have a son?”
Zifnab regarded Haplo warily, suspecting designs on the hat.