“The other wizard!” Paithan hissed. “The useful one!”
“Great Scott!” The old man froze. “It’s Dr. No! He’s found me! Don’t be afraid, my dear.” He reached out trembling hands. “I’ll save you—”
“I can’t get Lord Xar.” Rega was explaining to Paithan. “That’s what I came to tell you. He’s busy planning a party. We’re all invited—”
“A party. How wonderful!” The old man beamed. “I’m quite fond of parties. Have to get my tux out of mothballs—”
“A party!” Paithan repeated. “Yes, that would be great fun! Aleatha loves parties. We’ll get her away from that strange maze where she spends all her time now—”
“And get her away from the dwarf,” Rega added. “I haven’t said anything because, well, she is your sister, but I think there’s something sort of odd going on there.”
“What are you implying?” Paithan glared down at Rega.
“Nothing, but it’s obvious that Drugar adores her and, let’s face it, she’s not really choosy about men—”
“Oh, yes. After all, she did fall for your brother!” Paithan said viciously. Rega flushed in anger. “I didn’t mean—”
The old man, following Rega’s gaze upward, gave a violent start. “I say! It is Dr. No!”
“No—” Paithan began.
“You see!” Zifnab yelled, triumphant. “He admits it!”
“I’m Paithan!” Paithan shouted, leaning farther over the edge of the chair seat than he’d intended. Shuddering, he slid hurriedly backward.
“The fool is stuck up there,” Rega explained in icy tones. “He’s scared to come down.”
“I’m not either,” Paithan retorted sullenly. “I have the wrong shoes on, that’s all. I’ll slip.”
“You’re sure he’s not No?” the old man asked nervously.
“Yes, he’s not No. I mean no, he isn’t... Never mind.” Rega was starting to feel dizzy herself. “We’ve got to get him down. Do you have any spells?”
“Dandy spell!” the old man said immediately. “Fire... Fire... Fireball! That’s it! We set the chair legs on fire and when they burn up—”
“I don’t think that will work!” Paithan protested loudly. The old man snorted. “ ‘Course it will. The chair goes up in flames, and pretty soon the seat doesn’t have a leg to stand on and whoosh! Down she comes!”
“Go get Roland,” Paithan said in resigned tones. “And take him with you,” he added, with a dark glance at the old man.
“Come on, sir,” said Rega. Trying not to laugh, she guided the old man, protesting, out of the Star Chamber. “Yes, I do think it would be fun to set the chair on fire. I wouldn’t even mind setting Paithan on fire. But maybe some other time. Perhaps you could go help Lord Xar with the party arrangements...”
“Party,” the old man said, brightening. “I do love a good party!”
“And hurry!” Paithan’s voice cracked in panic. “The machine’s starting up! I think the starlight’s about to come on!”
As Paithan had said, Aleatha had been spending most of her time with Drugar in the maze. And, as she had promised, she had told no one about her discovery. She might have, if they’d been nice to her; Aleatha rarely troubled herself with the bother of keeping secrets. But the others, including Roland (especially Roland), were all just as idiotic and juvenile as always.
“Paithan’s involved with that stupid machine of his,” Aleatha told Drugar as they traversed the maze. “Rega’s involved with trying to uninvolve Paithan with the stupid machine, and, as for Roland, who knows—or cares—what he’s doing.” She sniffed. “Let them hang around with that horrid, ugly Xar. You and I have found interesting people. Haven’t we, Drugar?”
Drugar agreed. He always agreed with everything she said and was more than willing to take her into the maze anytime she wanted to go. They had gone the very next morning, when the star machine was on, but, as Drugar had warned her, the fog-people weren’t around. Aleatha and the dwarf waited for a long time, but no one came. The starburst mosaic in the amphitheater remained deserted.
Aleatha, bored, wandered around the mosaic, staring down at it.
“Why, look, Drugar,” she said, kneeling. “Isn’t this pattern the same one that’s on the city gate?”
Drugar bent over to examine it. Yes, it was the same pattern. And in the center of the runes was an empty place, the same as the empty place on the city gate.
Drugar fingered the amulet he wore around his neck. When he placed that amulet in the empty place, the gate opened. His fingers grew cold; his hand shivered. He backed away from the starburst hurriedly and glanced at Aleatha, fearing she had noticed, would have the same idea.
But Aleatha had already lost interest. The people weren’t here. The place was—for her—boring. She wanted to leave, and Drugar was quite ready to leave with her.
That afternoon, however, the two came back. The light from the star machine was on and shining brightly. The people were walking around the same as before.
Aleatha sat and watched them in mingled frustration and joy, tried to listen to them.
“They’re talking,” she said. “I can see their mouths move. Their hands move when they talk, help shape their words. They’re real people. I know they are! But where are they? What are they talking about? It’s so irritating not to know!”
Drugar fingered his amulet, said nothing.
But her words stuck in the dwarf’s mind. The two returned to the maze the next afternoon, and the afternoon after that. The dwarf now began to view the fog-people the way Aleatha viewed them—as real people. He began to notice things about them; he thought he recognized some of the dwarves from the day previous. Elves and humans looked alike to him; he couldn’t tell whether they were the same or not. But the dwarves—one in particular—he was certain had been there before.
This dwarf was an ale merchant. Drugar could tell by the plaiting of his beard—it was knotted in the guild braids—and by the silver mug. Hanging from a velvet ribbon around the dwarf’s neck, the mug was used to offer customers a taste of his brew. And apparently his ale’ was good. The dwarf was well-to-do, to judge by his clothes. Elves and humans greeted him with respect, bowing and nodding. Some of the humans even dropped down on one knee to talk with the dwarf, putting themselves at his eye level—a courtesy Drugar had never in his life imagined a human offering a dwarf.
But then, he’d never in his life had much to do with humans or elves, for which he’d always been grateful.
“I’ve named that elf right there Lord Gorgo,” Aleatha said. Since the fog-people wouldn’t talk to her, she’d started talking about them. She’d begun to give them names and imagine what their relationships were to each other. It amused her, in fact, to stand right next to one of the shadowy men and discuss him with the dwarf.
“I knew a Lord Gorgo once. His eyes stuck out just like that poor man’s eyes stick out. He does dress well, though. Much better than Gorgo, who had no taste in clothes. That woman he’s with—frightful. She must not be his wife—look how she’s clutching him. Low-cut dresses appear to be the fashion there, but if I had her bosoms, I’d button my collar up to my chin. What very handsome human males they have there. And walking about as freely as if they owned the place. These elves treat their human slaves very carelessly. Why, look, Drugar, there’s that dwarf with the silver mug. We saw him yesterday. And he’s talking to Lord Gorgo! And here’s a human coming up to join them. I believe I shall call him Rolf. We had a slave once named Rolf, who...” But Drugar had stopped listening. Taking hold of the amulet, the dwarf left the bench where he’d been sitting and for the first time ventured out into the midst of the people who seemed so real and were so false, who talked so much and were so silent.
“Drugar! You’re here with us!” Aleatha laughed and whirled in a dance, her skirts billowing around her. “Isn’t it fun?” Her dance ceased; she pouted.