Aside from the strange lamps, there was little to see in the tunnel. The ceiling was arched, and whoever had cut the tunnel was evidently shorter than Riverwind. He had to crouch low to avoid the projecting globes. A light coat of dust covered the floor. Riverwind noticed his own footprints when he turned to speak to Catchflea.

“Put the light on the floor, old man,” he said intently. “I want to see something.”

They squatted in the center of the passage. “See, here are the marks of my moccasin boots,” Riverwind said. His large, flat soles made broad smudges in the gray dust. “And these are yours.” Catchflea's ragged footwear, laced up bits of leather and cloth, made distinctive prints.

“And there,” Riverwind pointed, “is a third set.” He spoke in a whisper.

Sure enough, a third set of feet had passed that way. The prints were quite normal-looking, though small and slim. A child, perhaps? The third one had preceded the two men, and had gone right down the center of the corridor. At a run, too; the toeprints were widely spaced and the heel print was almost nonexistent.

“The thief, yes?” whispered Catchflea. Riverwind nodded solemnly. The intruder had deliberately jumped into the hole, knowing the magic spell would lower him to this place. He and Catchflea were on the thief's own terrain now. Caution was paramount.

Riverwind hefted his saber, and they resumed the advance.

The tunnel bent sharply to the right. The globes here were dark, leaving Riverwind and Catchflea in blackness. Despite the mild temperature, the warrior sweated. It was oppressive, the close confines of the tunnel, especially when Riverwind considered all that rock over his head, heavy and impenetrable, pressing in, pressing down on him. Riverwind straightened his hunched posture slightly, and his head connected with the roof. Solid. Unyielding.

“Is the tunnel getting smaller?” he said tightly.

“Not that I can tell,” Catchflea replied.

Riverwind moved uncomfortably. He could not stand straight in the tunnel. “Plainsmen were not meant to be moles,” he muttered. He turned to Catchflea. “I want out of here. I want to see the sky, feel the wind on my face. I want to stand up straight!”

“How will you get there, tall man? Fly up the shaft, yes?” Riverwind had an angry retort ready, but the old man smiled disarmingly. “Your fear is not real, my friend. There is no present danger.”

“I feel-closed in!”

“So you are, as am I. Pay no attention to it. I have mastered my fear. If I can do it, you can, yes.”

Riverwind took several deep breaths. The old soothsayer was right. This tunnel was solid, in no danger of collapsing. There was no reason to be afraid. He said it aloud: “There is no reason to be afraid.”

Light footfalls sounded ahead of them. Catchflea caught Riverwind's arm, eyes wide with alarm. Riverwind nodded. The thief was not far away. If he could navigate in this inky hole, so could the son of Wanderer.

“You, thief! Stand where you are!” Riverwind roared. The sound was deafening in the tunnel. The steps seemed to cease, then resumed rapidly. The odd metallic ringing was louder than before. “Follow,” Riverwind said to Catchflea. He jogged down the passage with his saber in his hand. The floor sloped downward more steeply here. Riverwind slowed. He wasn't going to be tricked into another hole.

The tunnel bent back to the left. A misshapen shadow skittered crazily across the wall. When it vanished, so too did the thief's footsteps fade. Riverwind sidled around the corner and was dazzled by bright light. He threw up a hand to shade his eyes.

“What is it?” hissed Catchflea from around the corner.

“A room. The light is bright!” Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the illumination. Riverwind lowered his hand. “Come along, Catchflea, and be quiet.”

They slipped into a very large, high-ceilinged chamber. The light came from a huge, disk-shaped lamp that hung from the ceiling by brass chains. Fire flickered within, flooding the room with light. Riverwind inched along the wall, his eyes going left and right.

The room was irregularly shaped. All around them were piles of goods of every description. Things seemed to be sorted according to what they were made of. There was a lot of wood: poles, tool handles, clapboards, shingles, beams of considerable thickness with the mortise holes still showing. Beyond the wooden goods were heaps of leather items: old shoes, boots gray with mildew, belts, gloves, leggings, arrow quivers, peaked caps such as foresters wore, thongs, lacings, a hodgepodge of hide products ranging in quality from the very decrepit to the pristine.

And there was more. Wicker baskets and glazed pottery. Jars of tar, beeswax, and soap. In all, the chamber resembled a merchant's warehouse.

Riverwind and Catchflea wandered among the piles of stuff, pondering the wisdom of thieves who stole old shoes instead of gold. While Riverwind headed to the right, the old man went left down a narrow aisle. There, discarded carelessly with three rolls of homespun linen, was River-wind's bag. The lacing was still drawn tight, the contents untouched.

“Over here! I found it!” Catchflea called hoarsely.

With his height, Riverwind was able to see over most of the piles. He found Catchflea and gratefully slipped the bag's strap over his shoulder.

“There's wood aplenty here. Maybe we could build some sort of ladder?” Catchflea said. He reached under the hem of his tattered shirt for the gourd and acorns.

“What are you doing?”

Catchflea knelt on the stone floor. “Trying to find out what we should do,” he said. He began the invocation over the acorns. Another sound-droning voices-drifted to them.

“Someone's coming,” Riverwind whispered. “No time for that now.” Out came the saber.

The welter of voices, echoing through the tunnel, grew louder. The speakers seemed unconcerned about being heard, for they were talking in loud, harsh voices.

Riverwind motioned to Catchflea to stay put, then tiptoed around a pile of sawn planks and climbed up the side. Lying prone on the top planks, Riverwind peered over the end. Six figures poured into the next aisle. Five wore bright steel armor on their chests and legs. Their helmets were curious, shaped like tall, divided cones. The sixth person was smaller and wore a loose shirt and kilt made of some shimmering black fabric. The neck of the shirt rose up in a cowl that covered his face in shadows. He was held firmly in the grip of one of the larger figures. He spoke in tremulous tones.

Riverwind did not understand their speech. These folk spoke like no one he'd ever heard before.

The loudest soldier, who had to be the leader, stood gazing around the room. He made a sharp demand of the little one in black. When an answer was not forthcoming, the leader rapped him with a short metal baton. Riverwind frowned. He didn't like cruelty, whatever its logic.

The little fellow spoke slowly, gesturing at the array of goods around him. With rapid, angry words, the leader pointed in the direction Riverwind and Catchflea had come, and then to the way they themselves had entered. The small one made plaintive sounds. The leader seized him by the shirt and flung him into the arms of the other soldiers. They dragged the protesting fellow away.

Riverwind climbed down and got Catchflea from his hiding place under the homespun. Come with me, he signed to the old man. Say nothing.

They skulked along an aisle parallel to the soldiers and their cringing captive, always keeping bales of booty between them. In tine heart of the chamber was an operv space. There, two soldiers forced the captive to his knees. The leader approached from the side with his sword raised.

Riverwind acted. He knew a pending execution when he saw one.

“Ha!” he cried, springing into the clear. The soldiers started back. They were considerably shorter than the plainsman, whose height seemed to intimidate them. They drew stubby swords and closed together, armored shoulders clanking as they fell into line. Their helmets were closed with hammered metal visors resembling very stylized faces, with embossed grimaces and chiseled eyebrows. The condemned fellow, whose features were still hidden by the drooping cowl, pointed excitedly at Riverwind and chattered volubly. Riverwind didn't need an interpreter to understand a triumphant “I told you so!”