Paithan moaned and covered his eyes with his hand.
“Rega! Run for it!” Roland screamed out the window. But the dragon thundered past them without a glance, heading straight for the gates. The Sartan runes flashed blue and red, but the dragon soared right through the magic and through the metal gates as well.
Outside the walls, the dragon reared up to an astonishing height, its head nearly at a level with the citadel’s tall spires. The tytans turned and fled, their enormous bodies moving with incongruous fluid grace.
“It saved us!” Paithan cried.
“Yeah, for lunch,” Roland said grimly.
“Nonsense!” said a voice behind them.
Paithan jumped, cracked his head on the casement. Roland whirled around, lost his balance, and nearly fell backward out the window. Fortunately Paithan, feeling the need to grab hold of something substantial, grabbed hold of Roland. Both stood staring.
An old man with a stringy white beard, mouse-colored robes, and a disreputable hat was stalking down the hall, waving his arms and looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Dragon’s under my complete control. Hadn’t been for me, you’d be guava jelly right about now. Showed up in the nick of time—whoever Nick is. Dukes ate mackinaw, you might say.”
The old man planted himself triumphantly in front of the elf and the human, folded his arms across his chest, and rocked back on his heels.
“What dukes?” Paithan asked feebly.
“Dukes ate mackinaw,” repeated the old man, scowling. “With ears as big as yours, you’d think you could hear. I flew down to save your lives, arrived right in the nick of time. Dukes ate mackinaw. That’s Latin,” the old man added importantly. “Means... well, it means... well, that I showed up... in the... er... nick of time.”
“I don’t understand.” Paithan gulped.
Roland was rendered speechless.
“ ’Course you don’t understand,” said the old man. “You have to be a great and powerful wizard to understand. You’re not, by chance, a great and powerful wizard?” He appeared somewhat nervous.
“N-no.” Paithan shook his head.
“Ah, there, you see?” The old man was smug.
Roland drew a quivering breath. “Aren’t... aren’t you Zifnab?”
“Am I? Wait!” The old man closed his eyes, held out his hands. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Zifnab. No. No. Don’t believe that’s it.”
“Then... who the devil are you?” Roland demanded. The old man straightened, threw out his chest, stroked his bearded chin.
“Name’s Bond. James Bond.”
“No, sir,” came a sepulchral voice from down the hall. “Not today, I’m afraid, sir.”
The old man flinched, drew nearer Paithan and Roland. “Don’t pay any attention. That’s probably only Moneypenny. Got the hots for me.”
“We saw you die!” Paithan gasped.
“The dragon killed you!” Roland gargled.
“Oh, they’re always trying to kill me off. But I come back in the last reel. Dukes ate mackinaw and all that. You wouldn’t have a dry martini about you, would you?”
Measured footfalls echoed in the hallway. The closer the footfalls came, the more nervous the old man appeared, although he was obviously doing his best to ignore the ominous sound.
A very tall, imposing gentleman walked up to the old man. The gentleman was dressed all in somber black—black waistcoat, black vest, black knee-breeches with black ribbons, black stockings and shoes with silver buckles. His long hair was white and tied in the back with a black ribbon, but his face was young, and rather stern about the mouth. The gentleman bowed.
“Master Quindiniar. Master Redleaf. I am pleased to see you again. I trust I find you in good health?”
“Zifnab died!” Paithan insisted. “We saw him!”
“We can’t have everything, can we?” The imposing gentleman gave a long-suffering sigh. “Excuse me, please.” He turned to the old man, who was staring hard at the ceiling. “I am sorry, sir, but you cannot be Mr. Bond today.”
The old man began to hum a tune. “Dum deedle-um dum—dum, dum, dum. Dum deedle-um dum—dum, dum, dum. Bomp—de-urn.”
“Sir.” The imposing gentleman’s voice took on an edge. “I really must insist.” The old man appeared to deflate. Taking off his hat, he twirled it around and around by the brim, darting swift glances from beneath his brows at the imposing gentleman.
“Please?” the old man whined.
“No, sir.”
“Just for the day?”
“It simply wouldn’t do, sir.”
The old man heaved a sigh. “Who am I, then?”
“You are Zifnab, sir,” said the imposing gentleman with a sigh.
“That doddering idiot!” The old man was quite indignant.
“If you say so, sir.”
The old man stewed and fumed and made a complete shambles of his hat. Suddenly he cried, “Ah, ha! I can’t be Zifnab! He’s dead!” He stabbed a bony finger at Paithan and Roland. “They’ll tell you! By cracky, I’ve got witnesses!”
“Deus ex machina, sir. You were saved in the final reel.”
“Damn the dukes!” Zifnab cried in a towering rage.
“Yes, sir,” said the imposing gentleman serenely, “And now, sir, if you will permit me to remind you. The Lord of the Nexus is in the courtyard—”
“The courtyard... Blessed Mother! The dragon!” Paithan whirled, almost fell out the window. He caught himself, blinked. “It’s gone.” Roland turned. “What? Where?”
“The dragon. It’s gone!”
“Not precisely, sir,” said the imposing gentleman with another bow. “I believe that would be me to whom you are referring. I am the dragon.” The gentleman turned back to Zifnab. “I, too, have business in the courtyard, sir.” The old man looked alarmed. “Will this end up in a fight?”
“I trust not, sir,” said the dragon. Then its voice softened. “But I’m afraid I may be gone for some considerable length of time, sir. I know that I leave you in good company, however.”
Zifnab reached out a trembling hand. “You will take care of yourself, won’t you, old chap?”
“Yes, sir. And you will remember to take your warming drink at night, won’t you, sir? It would never do to have you irregular—”
“Uh, yes, yes. Warming drink. Certainly.” Zifnab flushed and glanced askance at Paithan and Roland.
“And you will keep an eye on the Lord of the Nexus? Not let him find out about—you know.”
“Do I know?” Zifnab asked, puzzled.
“Yes, sir, you do.”
“Well, if you say so,” Zifnab said with an air of resignation. The dragon did not seem overly pleased with this, but the old man had placed his hat back on his head and was racing off down the hall.
“Gentlemen.” The dragon bowed a last time to Paithan and Roland. Then it disappeared.
“I’ve got to lay off the hard stuff.” Roland wiped sweat from his brow.
“Hey, you two!” Zifnab came to a halt, peered back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?” He pointed majestically down the staircase. “You have a guest! The Lord of the Nexus has arrived.”
“Whoever he is,” Paithan muttered.
Not knowing what else to do, having no idea what was going on but hoping desperately to find out, Paithan and Roland trailed along reluctantly behind the old man.
As they passed the door of the Star Chamber, the machine started up again.
25
Xar was in an ill humor. He had been forced to flee from a bunch of blind behemoths; then he’d been blocked from entering a gate by magic that even a mensch could unravel. Finally, he owed, if not his life, then at least his dignity and well-being to a dragon. This galled him. This and the knowledge that Haplo had been able to enter this citadel and he, the Lord of the Nexus, could not.
“Haplo was telling the truth,” said Sang-drax beneath his breath. The two stood just inside the gate. Three mensch—two females and a male—were staring at them stupidly, much as Xar might have expected from mensch.