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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?"
    No one spoke. The men, in loose white shirts, baggy black breeches and black boots, stood back, uncertain whether to flee or attack. The women, in loose patterned gowns, wailed and showed the whites of their eyes.
    "Who is the chief? " bawled Ifness. "Can he not hear? Can he not walk forward?"
    A hulking, black-browed man with black mustaches came slowly forward. "I am Rastipol, chief of the Ripchiks. What do you want of me?"
    "Why are you here and not fighting the Roguskhoi?"
    "'Roguskhoi?' " Rastipol blinked. "Who are they? We fight no one at this moment "
    "The Roguskhoi are red demon-warriors. They are only half human, though they show enthusiasm for human women."
    "I have heard of them. They fight the Sorukh; it is none of our affair. We are not Sorukh; we are out of the Melch race."
    "And if they destroy the Sorukh, what next?"
    Rastipol scratched his chin. "I have not considered the matter."
    "Exactly where has the fighting occurred?"
    "Somewhere to the south, out on the Plain of Blue Flowers, or so I suppose."
    "How far is this?"
    "Four days to the south is Shillinsk Town, at the edge of the Plain. Can you not learn this by magic?"
    Ifness raised a finger toward Etzwane. 'Transform Rastipol into a sick ahulph."
    "No, no," cried Rastipol. "You have misjudged me. I meant no harm."
    Ifness gave a distant nod. "Guard your