"Well, what do they say, scholar?" Boпndil demanded impatiently. "Maybe that's your calling, to be a learned scribe or an engineer. The dwarves are renowned for being prodigious inventors."

"I can't make head or tail of them." To his immense disappointment, even the wording on the spine was written in scholarly script. "They were written for magi." In some ways it was surprising that Gorйn, an ordinary wizard, had been able to read them at all.

Tungdil tapped his forehead and scolded himself for being so slow. He had forgotten that the elf maiden would have been familiar with the workings of high magic. She must have helped Gorйn unlock the secrets of the books.

He stroked the leather binding of the books. Why are their contents so important to the дlfar? Since when have the elves' dark relatives been afraid of parchment and ink?

"We'll find out soon enough from Lot-Ionan," he said, trying to rally their spirits. He was just returning the books to their wrapping when his gaze fell on the bag of artifacts. It had suffered visibly from the journey. In spite of the hard-wearing leather, the pouch was bleached from the sun and scuffed in several places, and there were sweat marks and grease stains where it had come into contact with his food. A faint line stretched across its surface like a scar, an eternal reminder of its run-in with the orcish sword.

The longer Tungdil looked at the pouch, the more he desired to look inside. He had been fighting the urge to undo the colored drawstrings for some time.

What harm is there in looking? Surely I've got the right to know what I've been lugging about all this time. Besides, Gorйn is dead. Tungdil's self-control failed him.

Trying to look nonchalant, he reached for the pouch. He didn't want the others to know that the magus had forbidden him to look inside. He untied the knot and the drawstrings came open.

At that moment an ear-splitting, bone-shattering bang rent the air. A volley of sparks shot upward and exploded in a blast of color.

"By the hammer of Vraccas and his fiery furnace!" Leaping to their feet, the twins stood back-to-back, weapons at the ready.

Tungdil swore and tugged at the drawstrings, but the fireworks continued until he tied the knot exactly as it had been before. Lot-Ionan had booby-trapped the bag. He must have reckoned with his inquisitive nature and decided to teach him a lesson.

"What in all the peaks of Girdlegard was that?" Boлndal asked peevishly. "Not some magical nonsense, I hope."

"I just wanted to see…Well, I wanted to see if the booby trap worked," fibbed Tungdil, trying to breathe evenly. He was every bit as startled as the twins. "The magus put it there to, er, he put it there to stop the bag from being stolen!"

"All that noise from a little leather pouch?" Boпndil stared incredulously at the bag. "I still don't see what the fireworks are in aid of, unless the magus wanted whoever stole it to earn a fortune as a street magician."

"It's so I'll know where it is and be able to get it back," Tungdil told him, inventing an explanation that was rather more flattering than the truth. He didn't want them to know that his nosiness was to blame.

"If he didn't want it stolen, why didn't he put a proper spell on it?" growled Boпndil. He spat contemptuously in the bushes. "I always said that the long-uns' magic was no good."

His brother joined in. "He could have conjured a hammer to whack the villain on the head!" he suggested.

"Or a drawstring that crushes his wrists! That would teach the blackguard to keep his hands off other people's belongings."

Boлndal sat back down. "The magi work in mysterious ways. All that power and no common sense."

Tungdil swallowed, thankful that his punishment had been mild by comparison. "I'll pass on your ideas," he promised.

"We'll tell him ourselves!"

"No," he said quickly. "It would be best if you didn't. He doesn't take kindly to anyone interfering in his business, especially if they're strangers." He could feel his cheeks burning as he spoke, but luckily for him, the twins were busy poking about in the fire, trying to retrieve a portion of cheese that had been dropped in the confusion.

"A stunt like that could have been the death of us in Greenglade," muttered Boпndil. He looked at Tungdil sternly. "Leave the bag alone in the future!" Sighing, he impaled the morsel on a stick, dunked it briefly in some water to wash away the ash, and popped it into his mouth. "No harm done," he said.

But Tungdil had taken the lesson to heart. From now on I won't touch the bag except to sling it over my shoulder and take it off at night. For all he cared, it could be stuffed full of gold; nothing could persuade him to open the drawstrings.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Rantja scanned the crowd. Assembled in the atrium were 180 trainee wizards, the best famuli in Girdlegard, all waiting to be welcomed by Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. At the behest of their respective magi, they had journeyed to Porista to lend their magical power to the crusade against the Perished Land. The high-ceilinged room echoed with their expectant chatter.

"The girdle must be in trouble if lowly apprentices like us are being summoned to keep out Tion's hordes," said a voice in her ear. "You look prettier than ever, Rantja."

"Jolosin!" she exclaimed in delight, shaking his outstretched hand. It was then that she noticed his navy blue robe. "Oh my, you're a fourth-tier famulus already. How long did you have to pester Lot-Ionan before he caved in?"

"Only thirty-two cycles old and already in Nudin's fifth tier! I'm impressed," teased the dark-haired famulus admiringly. "How are you?"

"Fine." She smiled, then said soberly, "At least I was fine until I heard about the threat to Girdlegard." She pointed to the cuts on his fingers. "What happened there?"

"Don't ask," he muttered gloomily. "But between you and me, I'm working on a spell to make potatoes peel themselves. It's a relief to be out of the kitchen and doing something useful." He glanced around. "Have you seen the council?"

"No. Even my magus has disappeared," Rantja said anxiously. "What do you make of it?"

"All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later," he said uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. "Has it ever been this bad before?"

Rantja shook her head.

The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn and tired.

"Welcome to Porista," he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people, a man and a woman, were talking at once. "These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the Perished Land has done." The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.

"Are you sure he's not wearing heels?" Jolosin whispered, surprised. "He's bigger than when I last saw him-and fifty pounds heavier at least."

"I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller."

"Much taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren't supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?"

They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.

Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn't reached out and caught her in time. "Thanks," she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.