He was looking at Abernathy. Landover’s scribe sat on the ground next to an aging hickory, staring down at himself. He was a dog once more, a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, shaggy and unkempt beneath his clothing, fur sticking out everywhere, ears perked, glasses perched awkwardly on his long nose. His liquid brown eyes seemed both startled and sad as he studied his human fingers, all that remained of his old body. Then he shrugged, looked up at Poggwydd, and sighed.
“What seems to be the trouble, Poggwydd? Haven’t you ever seen a talking dog before?”
Poggwydd’s wrinkled, furry face went through a series of bizarre contortions as he huffed and spit in an effort to speak. “Well, I… Well, of course, I… Humph! Mumble, mumble! Well, you certainly weren’t a dog earlier!”
Abernathy climbed slowly to his feet and brushed himself off. “How much earlier do you mean?”
“Just a little bit ago! Just before we were gobbled up by the wizard’s magic! You were a man, confound it!”
Abernathy’s smile was rueful even for a dog. “That was just a disguise. This is the real me. Can’t you tell?” He sighed again, and his eyes locked on Questor. “Well, you were right, Questor Thews. Congratulations.”
Questor gave a quick nod in reply. “Yes, it appears I was, thank you. I must say again that I wish it could be otherwise.”
“We all wish things could be otherwise, but this is the real world, isn’t it? Or as real as it gets for us.” Abernathy looked around in puzzlement. “Where are we, anyway?”
“I was just about to ask our friend,” the wizard replied, looking in turn to Poggwydd.
The G’home Gnome seemed startled by the question. He glanced right and left momentarily as if to confirm his suspicions, then cleared his throat officiously. “We’re right back where we started, is where we are. Well, back where I started, anyway. This is where that little girl found me, minding my own business, not causing anyone the least amount of…” He trailed off quickly as he saw a dark look creep into Questor’s eye. “Ahem! What matters to you, I imagine, is that we’re just a mile or so from the Deep Fell.”
“I don’t understand,” Abernathy ventured, coming over to stand next to them. “What are we doing here? Why aren’t we back in the lake country?”
Questor Thews was rubbing his chin furiously, twisting his whiskers into rat’s tails while thinking the matter through. “We’re here, old friend, because Mistaya’s here—down in the Deep Fell with the witch. This is where Poggwydd saw her last. Nightshade took her back to the Deep Fell, and there’s no reason to think she isn’t still there. We’ve been brought here to save her, I believe.”
“I don’t understand any of this!” the G’home Gnome declared abruptly. “But that’s fine, that’s just fine, because I don’t want to understand any of it! I just want to be on my way. So good-bye to the both of you and good luck!”
Once more he started away, this time heading east, away from the witch’s lair.
“Don’t you want to know what happens with Nightshade?” Questor Thews called after him.
“I don’t want to know another thing about any of this!” The Gnome did not slow his pace. “I already know more than enough! Much more!” He scuffed at the dirt furiously, raising dust with his feet. “Do me a favor, please. If you find that little girl, give her my regards and tell her I never want to see her again. Nothing personal, but that’s the way it is.” His voice rose dangerously. “I hope she is a King’s daughter! I hope she becomes a Queen! I hope if she ever goes for another walk, she does it somewhere else! Good day!”
He disappeared into the trees and was gone, a hunched ragtag figure leaving in his wake a scattering of rude gestures and indecipherable mumbles.
Questor dismissed him instantly and turned to Abernathy, eyes intent. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?”
Abernathy looked at him as he might a small child. “I know perfectly well. Probably better than you.”
“Then we had better hurry. I have an uneasy feeling about things.”