Now it was Martine's turn to scowl as she considered the wisdom in handing her prisoner over to the gnomes. "How do you know he'll be safe?" she asked softly.

"They're not beasts, woman," Vil rumbled. "If he doesn't provoke them, the Vani won't harm him. You'll have to trust them on this."

The Harper wasn't quite so sure about the gnomes, but she knew she was in no condition to be responsible for a prisoner. "All right, it'll have to do," she said with a nod before turning to the others. "Master Ojakangas, will your people take this prisoner and guard him? You can see that I am in no shape to do so."

The broad gnome nodded. "This was expected," came his taciturn reply.

"You said I would be treated well, human," Krote hissed, furious at being turned over to his enemies. Ojakangas jerked the rope around Krote's wrists, warning him to be silent.

"I said you wouldn't be harmed. You're still my prisoner, Word-Maker." The Harper was too tired to argue the point. Krote would just have to accept whatever happened. "I'hank you, Master Ojakangas. Guard him well."

Prevented from killing their enemy, the gnomes, Jouka in particular, set to the task of binding Krote with such relish that Martine worried about their intentions. Still, there seemed to be no effort to seriously mistreat the prisoner, and she said nothing more as she watched the gnomes leave.

Once the Vani were gone, Martine turned and went into the cabin. Her body throbbed; her fingers and face burned as the warmth of the cabin penetrated her frost kissed skin. Her feet felt leaden and numb, sure signs of encroaching frostbite. Barely four steps inside the cabin, she collapsed in front of the fire and ungracefully fumbled at her boots. When they were both finally off, she thrust her feet as close to the banked coals as she dared. Heels propped up, she shed her improvised cape and pawed at the remains of her

parka, peeling away the sweat stiffened clothes.

"Thank gods we're back!" the ranger said as Vid stomped through the door.

"Thank Torm indeed," Vil wearily agreed. He selected tinder for the coals and quickly had a small, welcome blaze coaxed from the embers. When the fire was lit, he sat on the sooty stone hearth, where he carefully eased off his boots.

"Heat… I never thought I'd feel it again," Martine moaned as she lay with icy feet almost in the fire. Tiny curls of steam began to rise from her damp woolen socks. Already her soles were starting to itch and burn as the frostbite was slowly driven out of her toes. Even that pain couldn't keep her awake, though.

An untold time later, the woman surfaced from oblivion surrounded by the startling warmth of a thick comforter. After the comforter, the glimmer of firelight and the gnawing pain of hunger were the things she was most keenly aware of.

I'm dreaming, she thought, staring at the scarred rafters over the bed. It took several minutes to realize she was once more lying in Vil's bed, buried deep in blankets and a faded goose-down comforter. Her host sat at his rickety table whittling curls from a block of wood. "Oh, gods," she gasped as the dull ache of consciousness moved through every muscle in her body. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"Ail night and the better part of a day," the big man said as he set down his work.

Martine sank back into the featherbed. "Hungry"

"Yes!" she blurted. She was famished.

Vil fetched a big bowl of broth and set it carefully in her lap, then remained hovering over her to see if she needed some help eating. Although the spoon was unsteady in her

hand, Martine slowly and deliberately scooped up a few drops of the broth and greedily slurped it down, determined not to be fed like a child. The soup was fatty and over-salted but rich nonetheless with the pervading taste of smoked venison. Chunks of meat and fat and bits of ash swirled through the murky liquid, and it all tasted wonderful.

Only later, after she'd bathed and changed, did Martine finally start to feel human again. The gear she'd stored at Vil's cabin provided clean clothes, and after a quick inspection of her ragged parka, she decided the best course was to burn it. The tears in the leather were impossible to patch, and she saw black specks moving in the fur trimfleas, no doubt The former paladin rummaged up a coat to replace hers. It was more than a little large, but serviceable with some alterations.

With a sheet of foolscap and her writing kit, the Harper sat at the table. Finally, after so many days, she could compose a proper letter to Jazrac. So much had happened and there was so much to explain that the woman didn't know where to begin-nor did she know just what she should say. The crash… the elemental… her capture by the gnolls… For what was supposed to be a simple job, I certainly made a hash of it, she thought ruefully.

Martine decided to use discretion. Jazrac:

Your seals worked fine, and 1 have the keystone. THe rift is closed 1 had a run-in with some guolls, and I'm sad to report that Astriphie is dead. lf you received any of my earlier messages, please don't worry, because now 1 am safe… I'm in the valley of Samek. There's a woodsman here who has taken me in. l will be back in Shadowdaleas soon as the passes are clear Again, do not worry about me. I'm fine. Looking for- ward to seeing you again. Tell Jhaele I miss her ale.

Martine

That should do it, the ranger thought as she gently blew the ink dry. Taking the bone-handled knife, she set it upon a corner of the page. She wasn't quite sure how long to leave the letter sitting out at least a day, she guessed. "Is it all right to leave this out on the table?" she asked her host.

The big man shrugged. 'That's fine. We won't be around anyway."

"What.?"

Vil clapped a hand to his forehead. "Sorry. I forgot. The gnomes are celebrating the safe return of the search party tonight"

"And they invited us?" Martine asked dubiously. "We were the cause of all their trouble, after all. Besides, I thought they didn't like outsiders." She was still tired, and the thought of several hours of socializing with the gnomes was already giving her the. beginnings of a headache.

"I told you they were good neighbors," Vil said, grinning. "Besides, they like parties. They use whatever excuse they can to have one."

Martine looked at the rough outdoor gear she was wearing. "I didn't bring clothes for something like that." "Everybody will understand, I'm sure," Vil countered. "Besides, they brew a very tasty hard cider. You could probably use a few drinks after your ordeal."

That, Martine had to admit, was a point she could not dispute, and so, feeling bemused by the unexpected invitation, the woman finally consented to go.

Two hours later, Martine found herself in the entrance hall of the warren, the sounds of revelry all about her. The whiny music of hardrangers, curious fiddles with extra strings that droned like bagpipes, and a hurdy-gurdy echoed from the smooth wooden walls. Gnomes laughed and giggled as they hurried to the council chamber, adapted as a dance hall. Their fat round faces seemed festive enough, but to the Harper, it seemed their merriment was forced.

The din reached its peak at the doorway to the council hall, which was already jammed. White-bearded musicians scraped and bowed from atop a rough table made from several hogsheads and boards. Bungs hammered into the barrels beneath them flowed freely with strong cider. Courting couples danced a furious reel across the floor while the uncommitted lasses giggled and whispered as they watched the young swains from the shadows of the arches. The quadricentenarians of the colony sat on the foremost benches, nodding numbly to the drone of the hardrangers' strings, their liver-spotted fingers rippling to the runs of the tune. Married men sat clustered around the taps, the air over their heads thick with pipe smoke. Behind them, in the higher seats, their squat wives looked out on the dancers, dreaming of tunes when they once whirled on the floor.