“Come along, Catchflea,” he said. “Let's show these cave-folk how Que-Shu men face danger.”

“On my hands and knees,” the old man muttered, closing in behind Riverwind.

The bridge was only six inches wide, and rounded. A fine film of soot coated the upper surface; just enough, Riverwind mused, to make it slick. He slid his feet onto the glassy surface. It seemed sturdy enough. He brought his trailing foot up slowly. That was the way to do it. Inch along. No hurry, no sudden stops.

Catchflea imitated him. Only once did the old man look down. Instantly he regretted it. Vertigo punched him in the stomach; his head spun. So did the concentric streets of Var-toom, far below. Catchflea flailed his arms-

'Tall man!” he gasped. “Help me!”

Riverwind turned in time to see Catchflea topple. The drop beneath him was over a hundred feet. Riverwind threw himself at Catchflea. He hit the bridge chest-first. The impact drove the air from his lungs, but he reached out and grasped Catchflea's arms. The old man slid steadily over the rounded rim of the bridge. Riverwind wrapped his long legs around the limestone span and dug his fingers in Catchflea's rags. The old cloth frayed and ripped, sending up puffs of dust.

The Hestites, who up till now had been jeering, fell silent. One shouted, “Get a leg up, old giant!” The rest joined in, calling out advice.

Catchflea tried three times to get his right leg over the bridge, but his heel could find no purchase and skidded off. Tears streaked his dirty face. “I cannot do it,” he groaned.

Riverwind said, “Try again! This time I'll pull you just as you swing your leg up!”

Catchflea was old, but wiry. He threw his leg up again. Riverwind's arm muscles knotted, drawing the old man toward him. Catchflea's heel caught. The elves cheered. With much effort, the old man worked his leg over until he was straddling the bridge. He and Riverwind lay nose to nose, panting for breath.

“Are you set?” asked Riverwind.

“I think so, yes.”

Riverwind sat up and swung himself around. He and Catchflea proceeded, sliding along astride the bridge. The soldiers and the cave wall submerged in the smoke and were lost from sight.

Gradually their destination took shape. A number of especially stout stalactites had been used to support an airy platform. Iron bands circled the spires, securing a floor made of square iron rails. Riverwind grasped a rail and hauled himself onto the platform.

A dark figure appeared in the smoke. “Who's there?” When neither man replied, the figure came forward. It was Karn. “So, the outlanders were sent to the Spires, too. How fitting.”

Riverwind dragged Catchflea off the bridge. The old man clung to the floor like a sailor to a barmaid.

“This is like no dungeon I ever heard of,” he wheezed.

“It wasn't built to be a prison,” Karn said. His pointed features twisted into a sneer. “Once this was the private aerie of the King of Hest. Now, it's where Her Highness sends those who displease her.”

“There's no gate, no barred door,” Riverwind noted.

“None are needed, giant. Two guards stand at the end of the bridge, ready to dispatch any who try to leave.” Karn growled low in his throat. “I, who serve Her Highness like a slave, sent here with two barbarians!” He glared at the men. “I should have slain you in the tunnel. And that digger girl, too.”

“Bitterness is no answer, yes,” Catchflea said.

“We share a common prison,” Riverwind added. “Couldn't we work together to gain our freedom?”

Karn sneered. “I don't expect you overgrown barbarians to understand a warrior or his code of honor,” he said. “My life belongs to the queen. Her will is mine.”

“But she sent you here,” said Riverwind.

Karn folded his arms. “I won't be here long. Her Highness needs me. I am her right arm.”

“From what I've seen, there are many arms in Hest, yes? Perhaps you are not as valuable as you think,” Catchflea remarked.

The elf warrior flushed and took a step toward where Catchflea and Riverwind still sat on the floor. He glared hatefully down at the old man. “You know nothing about us!” Karn rasped, breathing heavily. “I may have to take such insults from Vvelz because he is the queen's brother, but I won't take them from you!”

He stepped back from Catchflea, and the old man breathed a sigh of relief. “Vvelz is a weakling and a meddler,” Karn continued. “He is tolerated by the Host only because of the loyalty we bear Her Highness.”

“He seems witful enough,” Catchflea ventured carefully.

“Master Vvelz is infamous for his wit. And for using it to aid the diggers. He will subvert the natural order of Hest! Favoring diggers over his own kind-” The flow of words trailed away. After a second of head-shaking, Karn said, “Kinthalas take his eyes!”

The Que-Shu men exchanged a long and meaningful glance. “Why would Vvelz favor the diggers?” asked Riverwind softly.

Karn waved the question aside. He dropped on his haunches and scrubbed through his pale hair with his fingers. “Politics, pah! Don't ask me to fathom such things. It's not a fitting subject for a warrior to discuss.”

Karn stared morosely across the chasm, lost in self-pity. Riverwind drew Catchflea away from the sullen warrior.

“There are many things afoot here,” Riverwind said in a low voice. “Did you hear the queen blame Di An's thievery on someone else? She said the girl was commanded to go to the surface.”

Catchflea scratched his bearded cheek. “You think it's Vvelz, yes?”

“Could be.”

“What are you two muttering about over there?” Karn asked loudly.

“I was wondering if there is anything to eat?” Catchflea inquired politely.

“How do I know? Am I servant? Look around.” He grinned nastily. “But beware the floor's edge; there is no rail to keep you from walking right off into the chasm. Still hungry, giants?”

“What I am is tired,” Riverwind replied truthfully. He scanned the smoky expanse of iron flooring and sighed. “The air here is very bad. Maybe it's fresher farther away.”

“It doesn't get any better,” Karn said.

“I would find out for myself.” To Catchflea, he murmured, “Let's go where we can speak without Karn hearing.”

“And find food, yes?”

They wandered away. A short distance into the haze they found a brass urn three feet tall. It was full of stale, brackish water, which they drank anyway. Riverwind soaked a kerchief and tied it over his nose and mouth. Catchflea plucked a rag from his shirt and did likewise.

“What are you thinking, tall man?” he asked as they walked slowly through the High Spires, watching for sudden drop-offs.

“I am thinking of Goldmoon,” Riverwind said simply.

“Ah.”

“Catchflea, you're old enough to recall the time when Arrowthorn became chief, aren't you?”

The old soothsayer nodded. His rag mask made him look like an elderly bandit. “There was a feud between the followers of Arrowthorn and the men who wanted Oakheart as chieftain. It was a bad time.”

“My father told me of those days. There was fighting in the streets, theft, burning of houses and crops, even murder.”

“Oakheart's murderer was never found,” Catchflea said. “It was only because Arrowthorn was with many people when it happened that he wasn't accused of the crime.”

“So he married Tearsong and became chief.”

“And a strong chief he has been, yes. But what does this have to do with your thoughts of Goldmoon or our situation here?”

“Such a bad time may come again to our people if I am opposed as chieftain,” Riverwind replied. “Goldmoon already faced death when Hollow-sky tried to kill me. I don't want her to be a target in a feud.” He looked around at the shifting smoke. “And this place-if brother and sister are plotting to bring each other down, then you and I are in the worst possible position.”

Catchflea stopped his ambling. “The first to die, yes?”