As Gardrania put Snipes' ashes in a bottle, she spoke the words, "Deran megla aloti." She sealed the bottle with a cork. "Let nothing happen to this," she said solemnly, handing it to Blink.
"I won't."
Race, being practical, suggested, "Why don't we take a look at those swords? Maybe if they don't got too much blood on 'em we can use 'em."
"That's disgusting," Medda said flatly.
"Is it?" Race asked, looking at the weapons. "Why ain't there any blood on these? And here's my question—if Snipes was in the back, how'd he get cut? I was next to him. All of a sudden he just fell over. Nothin' came near 'im."
Something Mush had said before suddenly came to Medda's mind. "Mush, didn't you say something about a paradox?"
"Yeah," Mush replied. "So?"
"So," Medda replied uncertainly, "Maybe when this Paul—Kelly person takes over the world, which he already has, Snipes dies. So, what if we stop him?"
"Don't we have to?" Blink asked. "If we don't, it's gonna be even worse than bein' a newsy. Think about Crutchy. How long would he survive that?"
"Who's Crutchy?" Qik interrupted.
"A friend," Race told him.
"Why wouldn't he survive it?"
"Qik," Gardrania said warningly.
"Like I was saying," Blink continued with a little annoyance, "we've gotta stop this guy. Even if Snipes is still dead, we're goin' good for other people."
Race sighed. "That sounds really corny, but you're right. So where do we—"
Gardrania! a voice boomed inside all of their heads joyfully.
Blink sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. "Could you tell her to tone it down a little? That hurts."
Gardrania barely stopped herself from broadcasting her own telepathy to everyone. Ista, where are you?
How do I know? Ista's reply came. Some damp, musty room. It's got a wooden door.
Wooden door, Gardrania thought. How helpful. Do you remember what hall they brought you down?
No, Ista said impatiently. I was drugged.
Ista, you have to tell us something that will help us find you, or we'll all be stuck here forever!
dragon burial prayer: "may your spirit guide you in all that should come"
--
Kris led Crutchy down a damp hallway with only one door. Of course, Crutchy wasn't really paying attention to how many doors there were, he was too busy imagining himself smashing millions of little insects that looked like Kris. The man was really beginning to get on his nerves. 'Crutchy, could you do this? Crutchy, stop! Crutchy, what do you think you're doing!' Is there something wrong with me? he thought. Am I somehow inferior to Mr. Voodoo Gypsy Guy? I don't think so. I ain't inferior to no voodoo witch. Ooo, yeah, I'll call 'im a witch from now on! That'll really bug 'im. His thoughts were shattered by Kris's voice.
"Crutchy. Crutchy!"
"What?"
"Do you have any lock picks?"
"What do I look like? A thief or somethin'!"
Kris shrugged. "You never know. I didn't quite catch what you said you did for a living. Can't be all prosperous."
"Listen carefully," Crutchy said sarcastically. "I—am—a—new—sie. Didja get all that?"
Kris ignored him. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a small wooden box. Flipping it open with his thumb, he scrutinized three pieces of metal.
Crutchy looked over the gypsy's shoulder. "Pardon me for askin', but if you got those, why'd ya ask me if I had any?"
"They're old," Kris replied absently. "I thought you might have some better ones." He picked one up and inserted it into the lock on the only door in the hallway. Concentrating on the lock, he said to Crutchy, "If you see or hear anything suspicious sounding, anything, tell me. Even if it just sounds like water dripping or something harmless like that. Alright?"
"Yeah, sure, I can do that."
As Kris stood bent over the lock, Crutchy's eyes roved over the silent hall. He thought it was a little strange that this was the only door in the hall. It was also wood. All the other corridors they had walked down had had at least twenty doors; many times over fifty. And they had all been metal. Every single one. So why should this one be different?
"Yes," Kris breathed. The door opened with an audible creak. It had obviously not been opened for a while. Another mystery. Why would they be going in there?
They stepped into the room which was, oddly enough, lit by candles. If the room was never used, why would there be candles in there? That was when he looked across the room and saw a familiar form. If dragons could look annoyed, this one had achieved it.
Took you long enough to get here, Ista said crossly.
"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," Crutchy responded.
Kris had obviously not heard the exchange, because he gave Crutchy a look as if he was demented. "Does she look familiar to you?"
"That's a rhetorical question," Crutchy said. "Of course she does. I sure wasn't talkin' to you."
"I feel so wanted."
"Yeah, well, ya get used to the feelin'."
Ista was pulling impatiently at the chains that were holding her prisoner. Crutchy flinched. "Sorry, Ista. I'll get you out."
Good.
Crutchy walked over to her and awkwardly dropped to one knee. Kris watched silently from a distance with his arms folded across his chest. After trying to free Ista, Crutchy sighed and looked up at him. "I need your help."
--
Stamel impatiently pushed another book across his desk. "Can't you find anything worthwhile?" he said crossly to a teenage boy.
"These are what I found," the boy said, pushing his glasses up. "I can't confirm if they're 'worthwhile' or not. But here's another one."
Stamel grabbed the offered book but hesitated to open it. The book was old—its pages were cracked and yellowed. Old things often were magic. He suddenly decided that he didn't want to look at the book. Not now. Maybe not ever. He yawned, feigning exhaustion. "You there! Boy, what's your name?"
"Dominic."
"You from the future?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, Dominic, you did well today. Get me a glass of brandy and I'll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the day," Stamel said warmly.
Dominic nodded and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Yes, he was from the future. 1997, to be exact. And he had hated traveling five centuries into the past. At least he'd had a name and personality in his home time. Here he was just some serving boy.
He shook himself out of his reverie. Dominic had seen what happened to disobedient workers. "So I'll get him his brandy," Dominic mumbled to himself.