"I think I'll stand." Martine couldn't look at the man; trying to maintain his dignity while his knees were tucked up practically under his chin, without feeling the urge to laugh. "It could be a long wait," her companion cautioned.

Martine regained her composure by feigning great interest in the bare chamber. "I've been still too long."

Vil was right. The wait quickly became interminable. Bored, Martine eventually perched awkwardly on another bench, idly flipping the little silver knife Jazrac had given her. "What do you suppose is taking them so long?" she muttered.

"They're gnomes," Vil answered coolly. Thinking he'd been asleep, Martine jumped at the man's voice. The blade slipped between her fingers and stuck into the floor next to her boot with a quivering thunk. 'Me Vani have their own sense of time. You'd better get used to it. I've never seen anything hurry them," he mumbled drowsily.

"They can't have that much to do. It's only a little valley." "The Vani have their own sense of what is important," commented Vil, making idle talk as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position. "'They are important. This valley is important. I doubt anything else is. Certainly you and I rank low in their priorities. The elders are probably inside having birch-bark tea while they try to decide the fair price of a goose that was accidentally killed, or something like that. It's the right way to do things as far as they are concerned."

None of this sounded particularly encouraging. It galled Martine to be stalled so close to her goal, even though she knew a few hours, even a day or two, would make little difference. It's the same old me, wanting everything to go just perfectly, she reminded herself. I just need to relax. Trying to keep that thought in mind, she sank back into the seat. The time stretched on and on, although the boredom was

occasionally broken by visits from passing gnomes. A few even stopped long enough to give Vil an awkward greeting. They spoke with such thick accents, their r's heavily rolled and their vowels sharply clipped, that it was almost impossible for Martine to understand them, but Vil apparently did not have any trouble. He carefully responded to each by name, occasionally asking about the health of a wife or child.

Several times Martine caught glimpses of little gnome housewives with blond-brown hair bound up in a bun. Two of them peered into the room for a peek at the human woman. After a brief look, they stepped out of sight to gossip and cluck in whispered voices. Martine decided not to disrupt their women's game and kept her eyes almost closed, feigning sleep. If they weren't so short and broad, Martine decided, they would be like housewives everywhere. Here they dressed in red and blue dresses and embroidered white aprons: In other lands, the clothes might be different, but the gossipy curiosity was unchanged.

Sometimes children, more honest in their curiosity, accompanied the women. They stood staring long after their mothers stepped away in embarrassment. Martine noticed that Vil generated no such attention. Perhaps he was a familiar guest and therefore not worthy of note. "I must be pretty unusual, eh?" she finally said to Vil. She was growing tired of watching others watch her.

The man yawned and nodded. "Well," he finally allowed, "they've seen humans before me, mainly but you're the first human woman and, by their standards, not a particularly ladylike one."

'I'hank you!"

"I meant ladylike in their eyes. Fighting is a man's job among the Vani. Women raise the children and rule the home. Men hunt, farm, and deal with outsiders. You're different. You go against their expectations." "The council's in for a big surprise, then." Gods know what they might think if they learned I'm a Harper, too. The thought became the flicker of a mischievous grin on her face.

"I guess they know already," Vil commented as he stretched his cramped legs yet another time.

At last the brass-bound council door swung open. Standing in the doorway were two gnomes in blue robes girdled with sashes embroidered in red and green. Both were young gnomes, hardly elders, Martine noted. The first had close cropped, curly black hair and a contrasting full beard. 'Me other looked a little younger and had more belly on him: his face didn't look as weather-beaten, either. His hair and beard were both black, long, and braided, the tips of his chin braids just brushing his chest

Vi rose to meet the gnomes. "Greetings, Jouka Tunkelo," he said to the leaner of the two. "And to you Turi Tunkelo." "Greetings to you," the short-haired Jouka answered with a curtness that discouraged further conversation. "The council invites you to come inside." As she followed the gnomes into the chamber, Martine wondered whether the last was said with disapproval or whether it was just colored by his dour accent.

The council chamber was a small amphitheater, square in shape and higher-ceilinged than the other room. The spacious height was necessary to accommodate three tiers of benches on three sides of the hall. A scattering of gnomes, all of them old, wrinkled gentlemen, sat in every posture on the seats. One, bent with age, leaned forward on a gnarled cane until his long white beard brushed the floor. Another seemed to doze, his bald head wobbling sleepily as he leaned back against the next tier. Others sat clustered in little clumps, serious little bearded men sipping at cups of tea. Judging by their beards, not a one of them, discounting the two ushers, did Martine guess to be less than a

great-grandfather. At the same time, she knew the appearance was deceptive, for gnomes had life spans of two hundred or more years. These might be great-great-great grandfathers, for all she knew.

At the very center of the benches, in a seat of obvious authority, sat a most singularly dressed elder. While the others wore pants and jackets of linens and wool, the old gnome in the high seat wore a knee-length tunic of buckskin. This alone was not singular; several other gnomes wore items of buckskin, Martine noted. What made it notable was that the elder's tunic was festooned with iron charms that hung from leather thongs, so many that the gnome clinked and rattled with every move. The charms, which seemed to be mostly crude sigils and icons, swayed against his stout chest, sometimes tangling themselves into his curly white beard. His thick silver hair was carefully held in place with a birchbark cap, more ornamental than functional. From his dress and the position of his chair, Martine figured the gnome to be the warren's priest, although of what god she could not possibly say.

When the two humans reached the center of the chamber, the white-bearded priest rose to his feet, age and formality making his movements rigid. His charms swayed on the ends of their thongs, and their harsh tinkling signaled quiet to the rest of the audience.

"The Council of the Vani greets Vilheim, son of Balt, and his female companion."

"Gracious is the council, wise Sumalo," Vil replied. "Kind it is to be so generous with its time," Martine added. Vil's look, seen from the corner of her eye, told her she had said the right thing.

The gnome priest nodded slightly in approval. "We grant you the right to present your case." There were a few murmured grumbles at this point, although Sumalo, perhaps hard of hearing, paid them no notice. "May Gaerdal Ironhand bestow on us eyes to see through falsehood, ears to hear the truth, and tongues to speak with wisdom." The priest picked up a peeled birch rod from the seat beside him. Pressing it to his lips, he murmured a phrase incomprehensible to Martine. Sumalo held out the rod toward the humans. Vil hesitated, then accepted the branch and kissed the wood lightly. "Forgive me, Torm," he whispered.

Feeling no religious compulsions, Martine took the rod and performed the ritual to satisfy her audience. "May your god guide me," she invoked, figuring it did not hurt to ask, before passing the rod back to the priest.