“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting empty hands, bare and unprotected palms facing out, the sign of harmless intent, a sign that he would not use his magic.
“Hush, dog. I—I thought maybe ...”
He couldn’t tell them what he’d thought, couldn’t tell them what he’d feared. They wouldn’t believe him, any more than Xar had believed him.
“Labyrinth sickness,” said another, older woman in flat, practical tones.
“I’ll take care of him.”
The others nodded. Her diagnosis was likely correct. They had seen this type of reaction often, especially to those newly come from the Labyrinth. A mindless terror takes possession of the victim, sends him racing into the streets, imagining he is back in that dread place.
The woman reached to take Haplo’s two hands in her own, to share the circle of their beings, restore his confused and wandering senses.
The dog glanced up at its master questioningly. Should I allow this? Or not?
Haplo caught himself staring fixedly at the sigla on the woman’s hands and arms. Did they make sense? Was there order, meaning, purpose in them? Or was she a serpent?
He backed away a step, shoved his hands in his pockets.
“No,” he mumbled. “Thank you, but I’m all right. I’m... I’m sorry,” he repeated again, to the first woman, who was regarding him with cool pity. Hunching his shoulders, keeping his hands in his pockets, Haplo strode away rapidly, hoping to lose himself in the winding streets. The dog, confused, fell into step behind him, its unhappy gaze fixed on its master. Alone and unseen, Haplo leaned against a building and tried to stop his body’s trembling.
“What is wrong with me? I don’t trust anyone—not even my own people, my own kind! The serpents’ doing! They’ve put this fear in me. Every time I look at anyone from now on, I’ll wonder: Is he an enemy? Is she one of them? I won’t be able to trust anyone anymore! And soon, everyone in all the worlds will be forced to live like this! Xar, my lord,” he cried in agony, “why can’t you see?”
“I have to make him understand!” Haplo muttered feverishly. “I have to make my people understand. How? How can I convince them of something I’m not certain I understand? How can I convince myself?”
He walked and walked, not knowing where, not caring. And then he found himself standing outside the city, on a barren plain. A wall, covered with Sartan runes of warding, blocked his way. Strong enough to kill, these sigla prohibited anyone coming near the wall on either side. There was only one passageway through the wall. This was the Final Gate.
The Gate led out of ... or into ... the Labyrinth.
Haplo stood before the Gate, without any very clear idea why he was here, why he’d come. He stared at it, experiencing the mingled sensations of horror and fear and dread that always assailed him whenever he ventured near this place. The land around him was silent, and he imagined he could hear the voices of those trapped inside, pleading for help, shouting in defiance, screaming curses with their dying breaths on those who had locked them in this place. Haplo felt wretched, as he always did whenever he came here. He wanted to go in and help, wanted to join the fight, wanted to ease the dying with promises of vengeance. But his memories, his fear were strong hands holding him, keeping him back.
Yet he’d come here for a reason, and certainly not to stand staring at the Gate.
The dog pawed at his leg and whined, seemed to be trying to tell him something.
“Hush, boy,” Haplo ordered, shoving the dog away.
The dog became more frantic. Haplo looked around, saw nothing, no one. He ignored the animal, stared at the Gate, feeling increasingly frustrated. He’d come here for a reason, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what that reason was.
“I know what it’s like,” someone commiserated, a voice booming right behind him. “I know just how you feel.”
Haplo had been quite alone. At the sudden utterance, spoken directly in his ear, he sprang back, instantly on the defensive, runes tingling, this time with a welcome sensation of protection.
He faced nothing more alarming than a very old man with a long scraggly beard, dressed in mouse-colored robes and wearing an extremely disreputable-looking pointed hat. Haplo couldn’t speak for astonishment, but his silence didn’t bother the old man, who carried on with his conversation.
“Know exactly how you feel. Felt that way myself. I recall once walking along, thinking of something extremely important. It was, let me see, ah, yes! The theory of relativity. ‘E equals mc squared.’ By George, I’ve got it! I said to myself. I saw the Whole Picture, and then, the next moment, bam! it was gone. No reason. Just gone.”
The old man looked aggrieved. “Then some wiseacre named Einstein claimed he’d thought of it first! Humpf! I always wrote things down on my shirtsleeves after that. Didn’t work either, though. Best ideas... pressed, folded, and starched.” He heaved a sigh.
Haplo recovered himself. “Zifnab,” he said in disgust, but he didn’t relax his defensive posture. The serpents could take any form. Though this was not, on second thought, exactly the form he would have chosen.
“Zifnab, did you say? Where is he?” the old man demanded, extremely irate. Beard bristling, he whirled around. “This time I’ll ‘nab’ you!” he shouted threateningly, shaking his fist at nothing. “Following me again, are you, you—”
“Cut the crazy act, old man,” Haplo said. Putting a firm hand on a thin and fragile-feeling shoulder, he twisted the wizard around to face him, stared intently into the old man’s eyes.
They were bleary, rheumy, and bloodshot. But they did not glint red. The old man may not be a serpent, Haplo said to himself, but he certainly isn’t what he passes himself off as, either.
“Still claim to be human?” Haplo snorted.
“And what makes you think I’m not?” Zifnab demanded, highly insulted.
“Subhuman, perhaps,” rumbled a deep voice.
The dog growled. Haplo recalled the old man’s dragon. A true dragon. Perhaps not as dangerous as the serpents, but dangerous enough. The Patryn glanced quickly at his hands, saw the sigla on his skin begin to glow a faint blue. He searched for the dragon, but could see nothing clearly. The tops of the wall and the Final Gate itself were shrouded in pink-tinged gray mist.
“Shut up, you obese frog,” shouted Zifnab. He was talking, apparently, to the dragon, but he eyed Haplo uneasily. “Not human, eh?” Zifnab suddenly put his wizened fingers to the corners of his eyelids, pulled his eyes into a slant.
“Elf?”
The dog cocked its head to one side. It appeared to find this highly diverting.
“No?” Zifnab was deflated. He thought a moment, brightened. “Dwarf with an overactive thyroid!”
“Old man—” Haplo began impatiently.
“Wait! Don’t tell me! I’ll figure it out. Am I bigger than a bread box? Yes? No? Well, make up your mind.” Zifnab appeared a bit confused. Leaning close, he whispered loudly, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to know what a bread box is, would you? Or the approximate size?”
“You’re Sartan,” stated Haplo.
“Oh, yes. I’m certain.” Zifnab nodded. “Quite certain. What I’m certain of, I can’t remember at the moment, but I’m definitely certain—”
“Not ‘certain’! Sartan!”
“Sorry, dear boy. Thought you came from Texas. They talk like that down there, you know. So you think I’m Sartan, eh? Well, I must say, I’m extremely flattered, but I—”
“Might I suggest that you tell him the truth, sir?” boomed the dragon. Zifnab blinked, glanced around. “Did you hear something?”
“It might be to his advantage, sir. He knows now, anyway.” Zifnab stroked his long, white beard, regarded Haplo with eyes that were suddenly sharp and cunning. “So you think I should tell him the truth, eh?”
“What you can remember of it, sir,” the dragon remarked gloomily.
“Remember?” Zifnab bristled. “I remember any number of things. And you’ll be sorry when I do, lizard lips. Now, let’s see. Berlin: 1948. Tanis Half-Elven was taking a shower, when—”