"The charts are of small benefit henceforth," said Ifness. "Kreposkin mentions no settlements along the middle Keba, although he refers to the Sorukh race, a warlike folk who never turn their backs in battle." Etzwane studied Kreposkin's rude maps. "Two thousand miles south along the river, into the Burnoun district: that would take us about here, to the Plain of Blue Flowers."

Ifness was not interested in Etzwane's opinions. "The maps are only approximations," he said crisply. "We will fly a certain distance, then undertake a local investigation. " He closed the book and turning away became absorbed in his own thoughts.

Etzwane smiled a trifle grimly. He had become accustomed to Ifness' mannerisms and no longer allowed himself to become wrathful. He went forward and looked out over the tremendous purple forests, the pale-blue distances, the bogs and swamps of mottled green, and, dominating the landscape, the flood of the river Keba. Here was where he had come, to wild Caraz, because he feared staleness and insipidity. What of Ifness? What had urged the fastidious Ifness to such vicissitudes? Etzwane started to ask the question, then held his tongue; Ifness would give a mordant answer, with Etzwane none the better informed.

Etzwane turned and looked south, into Caraz, where so many mysteries awaited illumination.

The boat flew all night, holding its course by the reflection of the blazing Schiafarilla upon the river. At noon Ifness lowered the boat toward the river, which here ran irregularly about ten miles wide, swelling, narrowing, and encompassing a myriad of wooded islands.

"Be on the lookout for habitation, or even better, a riverboat," Ifness told Etzwane. "We now require local information."

"How will you understand? The folk of Caraz speak an outlandish yammer."

"Nonetheless, we will manage, or so I believe," said Ifness in his most didactic drawl. "The Burnoun and the Keba Basin are linguistically uniform. The folk use a dialect derived from the language of Shant."

Etzwane looked sidewise in disbelief. "How can this be? Shant is far distant."

The circumstance derives from the Third Palasedran War. Cantons Maseach, Gorgach, and Parthe collaborated with the Eagle Dukes, and many folk, dreading Pandamon vengeance, fled Shant. They made their way up the Keba and imposed their language on the Sorukhs, who ultimately enslaved them. The history of Caraz is far from cheerful. " Ifness leaned over the gunwales and pointed to a straggle of huts on the riverbank, hardly to be seen behind a covert of tall reeds. "A village, where we can gain information, even if only negative. " He reflected. "We will employ a harmless hoax to facilitate the matter. These people are indomitably superstitious and will enjoy a demonstration of their beliefs. " He adjusted a dial; the boat slowed and hung motionless in mid-air. "Let us now ship the mast and raise the sail, then make a change or two in our costume."

Down from the sky floated the boat, sail billowing, with Etzwane at the tiller ostensibly steering. Both he and Ifness wore white turbans and carried themselves in a portentous manner. The boat settled upon the flat before the huts, still puddled from the rainstorm of two days before. A half-dozen men stood stock-still; as many slatternly women peered from the doorways; naked children crawling in the mud froze in place or backed whimpering away to shelter. Stepping from the boat, Ifness sprinkled a handful of blue and green glass gems upon the ground. He pointed to a portly elder who stood dumbfounded at hand. "Approach, if you please," spoke Ifness in a coarse dialect barely intelligible to Etzwane. "We are benevolent wizards and intend you no harm; we want information in regard to our enemies."

The old man's chin trembled, agitating his dirty whiskers; he clutched his ragged homespun tunic about his belly and essayed a few steps forward. "What information do you require? We are only clam-diggers, no more; we know nothing beyond the flow of the river. " "Just so," intoned Ifness. "Still, you are witness to comings and goings, and I notice a shed yonder for the storage of trade goods."

"Yes, we have modest dealings in clam cake, clam wine, and crushed clamshell of good quality. But for knowledge of loot or precious things you must ask elsewhere. Even the slavers pass us by."

"We seek news of a tribe of invading warriors: large, red-skinned demons who slaughter men and copulate with the women to notorious degree These are the Roguskhoi. Have you had news regarding these folk?"

"They have not troubled us, the Sacred Eel be thanked. The traders tell us of fighting and an epic battle, but in all my life I have heard nothing else, and no one has used the name 'Roguskhoi! "

"Where then was the fighting?"

The clamdigger pointed south. "The Sorukh regions are still far: it is ten days' sail to the Plain of Blue Flowers, though your magic boat will speed you there in half the time… Are you permitted to teach the lore which propels your craft? It would be a great convenience for me."

"Such a question best had not be asked," said Ifness. "We now proceed to the Plain of Blue Flowers."

"May the Eel expedite your passage."

Ifness stepped back into the boat, gave Etzwane a formal signal. Etzwane worked the rudder and adjusted the sheets, while Ifness touched his controls. The boat rose, the sails caught the wind; the boat sailed off across the river. The men ran down to the water's edge to stare after them, followed by the children and women from the huts. Ifness chuckled. "We have made memorable at least one day of their lives, and fractured a dozen rules of the Institute."

"Ten days' journey," mused Etzwane. "The barges move two or three miles an hour: fifty miles a day, more or less. Ten days' journey would be five hundred miles."

"By just such a degree are Kreposkin's charts inaccurate. " Standing up in the cockpit Ifness raised his arm in a final flourish of benign farewell to the gaping folk of the village. A grove of waterwood trees hid them from sight. Ifness spoke over his shoulder to Etzwane: "Lower the sail; unship the mast."

Etzwane silently obeyed the command, reflecting that Ifness seemed to enjoy the role of wandering magician. The boat moved south up the river. Silver-trunked almacks lined the bank, their silver-purple fronds glinting green to the motion of the breeze. To right and left flatlands disappeared into, the dove-gray haze of distance, and always the great Keba reached out ahead.

Afternoon waned; and the banks remained desolate of life, to Ifness' muttered disgust. The sun sank; twilight fell across the landscape. Ifness stood precariously on the foredeck, peering down into the dark. At last an array of flickering red sparks appeared on the riverbank. Ifness swung the boat around and down; the sparks became a dozen leaping campfires, arrayed in a rough circle, twenty or thirty yards in diameter.

"Ship the mast," said Ifness. "Hoist the sail."

Etzwane thoughtfully appraised the fires and the folk who worked within the circle of light. Beyond he glimpsed large carts with crooked eight-foot wheels and leather hoods; they had come upon a band of nomads, of a temperament presumably more edgy and truculent than the placid clamdiggers. Etzwane looked dubiously toward Ifness, who stood like a statue. Very well, thought Etzwane, he would indulge Ifness in his mad Jokes, even at the risk of flowing blood. He set up the mast, lifted the great square sail, then adjusting his turban, went back to the tiller.

The boat settled into the circle of firelight. Ifness called down, "Beware below; move aside."

The tribesmen looked up; jumping and cursing they sprang back. An old man tripped and spilled a tub of water upon a group of women, who screamed in fury.

The boat landed; Ifness with a stern mien held up his hand. "Quiet! We are only two wizards of the night. Have you never seen magic before? Where is the chief of the clan?"