“For the same reason that the ogre has not troubled your race,” Irrendal told him. “You have powers denied those of the Halfworld — power to be abroad by daylight and to wield cold iron. Uha, so named by the Northerners, knows better than to provoke a human hunt after him. We elves have already tried to get aid from men, but too much iron is in their homes, we cannot go near; and in these wilds we found none but stray peasants, who fled in terror at first sight of one like me. You do not. Moreover, you are a fighting man, and bear steel.”

  His voice rang: “Follow me to Uha’s lair. Slay him. You shall have glory among us, and the richest of rewards.”

  “Unless he slays me,” Arvel demurred.

  “Aye, that could happen.” Scorn flickered. “If you are afraid, I will not detain you further. Go back to your safe little life.”

  The rage, that had smoldered low in the man, flared anew, high and white-hot. An ogre? Had he, Arvel, not wished for something to attack? “Have done!” he shouted. “Let’s away!”

  “Oh, wonder of wonders,” Irrendal exulted. And the moon rose. Its radiance dimmed the stars that were blinking forth, turned grass and gorse hoar, frosted the starkness of stones. It did not make the elf any more clear in the man’s sight. “Follow me, follow me,” Irrendal called and slipped off, shadow-silent.

  Arvel came after. He saw well enough by the icy light to trot without stumbling; but the hillscape seemed unreal, a mirage through which he passed. Only his footfalls and smoke-white breath made any sound. The chill grew ever deeper. Now and then he thought he glimpsed strangenesses flitting by, but they were never there when he looked closer.

  Once Irrendal showed him a spring, where he quenched his thirst, and once a silvery tree whereon glowed golden fruit; he ate thereof, and an intoxicating sweetness removed all hunger from him. Otherwise he followed his half-seen guide while the moon climbed higher and the constellations trekked westward. The time seemed endless and the time seemed like naught until he came to the cave of the ogre.

  It yawned jagged-edged in a cliff, like a mouth full of rotten teeth. Despite the cold, a graveyard stench billowed from it, to make Arvel gag. The bones, tatters of clothing, bronze trappings that lay scattered around declared that Irrendal had spoken truth.

  Or had he? Sudden doubt assailed Arvel. Fragmentary recollections of the nursery tales floated up into his mind. Did they not say the elves were a tricksy lot, light-willed and double-tongued, whose choicest jape was to outwit a mortal? Was it not the case that nothing of theirs could have enduring value to a man? Irrendal had promised Arvel his heart’s desire, but what might that actually prove to be?

  Doubt became dread. Arvel was on the point of bolting. Then Irrendal winded a horn he had brought forth from somewhere, and it was too late. Cruelly beautiful, the notes were a challenge and a mockery; and they had no echoes, even as the bugler had no shadow.

  Hu-hu, hu-hu, attend your doom!

  The ogre appeared in the cave mouth. Monstrous he was, broad and thick as a horse, taller than a man despite a stoop that brought his knuckles near the ground. Eyes like a swine’s glittered beneath a shelf of brow, above noseless nostrils and a jaw where fangs sprouted. The moon grizzled his coarse pelt. Earth quivered to each shambling step he took. Hatred rumbled from his throat as he saw the elf, and he gathered himself to charge.

  “Draw blade, man, or die!” Irrendal cried.

  Arvel’s weapon snaked forth. Moonlight poured long it. Fear fled before battle joy. His left hand took his knife, and thus armed, he advanced.

  The ogre grew aware of him, bawled dismay, and sought to scuttle off. Faster on his feet, Arvel barred escape, forced his enemy back against the cliff, and sprang in for the kill.

  Uha was as brave as any cornered beast. An arm wept in an arc that would have smeared Arvel’s brains over the talons had it made connection. The human barely skipped aside. He had accomplished only a hallow slash of sword. But where the steel had been, ogre-flesh charred and smoked.

  Uha lumbered after him. Arvel bounded in and out. His sword whistled. When a hand clutched close, he seared it with his knife. Uha bellowed, clattered his teeth, flailed and kicked. Irrendal stood apart, impassive.

  The fight lasted long. Afterward Arvel recalled but little of it. Finally Uha won back into his den. The man pursued — altogether recklessly, for in there he was blind. Yet that was where the nightmare combat ended.

  Arvel reeled out, fell prone upon the blessed sane earth, and let darkness whirl over him.

  He regained strength after some while, sat painfully up, and beheld Irrendal. “You have conquered, you have freed us,” the elf sang. “Hero, go home.”

  “Will… we meet… again?” Arvel mumbled with mummy-parched tongue.

  “Indeed we shall, a single time,” Irrendal vowed, “for have I not promised you reward? Await me tomorrow dusk beneath the Dragon Tower. Meanwhile —” he paused — “leave your steel that slew the ogre, for henceforth it is unlucky.”

  The thought passed through Arvel’s exhaustion that thus far his pay was the loss of two good, costly blades. However, he dared not disobey.

  “Farewell, warrior,” Irrendal bade him, “until next twilight,” and was gone.

  Slowly, Arvel observed that the moon had passed its height. Before the western ridges hid it from him, he had best be in familiar territory; nor did he wish to linger here another minute.

  He crawled to his feet and limped away.

  Entering Seilles at dawn, he sought the sleazy lodging house where he had a room, fell into bed, and slept until late afternoon. Having cleansed off grime and dried sweat with a sponge and a basin of cold water, and having donned fresh albeit threadbare garments, he proceeded to the Drum and Trumpet, benched himself, and called for bread, meat, and ale.

  Ynis regarded him closely. “You seem awearied,” she remarked. “What’s happened?”

  “You’d not believe it if I told you,” he answered, “nor would I.”

  In truth, he was unsure whether he remembered more than a wild dream on Cromlech Hill. Nothing spoke for its reality save aches, bruises, and the absence of his edged metal. The loss of Lona was more comprehensible, and hurt worse.

  Eating and drinking, he wondered if his wits had left him. That was a thought to shudder at, madness. But life as a hale man would be dreary at best. What could he do?

  Not creep back to Lona, whine for forgiveness, and seek to become a potter. She would despise him for that, after the hard words he had uttered yesterday, a much as he would himself. Besides, he’d never make a worthwhile partner in the shop. His hands lacked the deftness of hers and his tongue the unction of a seller — not that she ever truckled to anybody.

  If he stayed on in Seilles, he had no prospect other than a continuation of his present miserable, cadging existence. Opportunities elsewhere — for instance, going to sea — where niggardly. But at least he would be making his own way in the world.

  As he had wished to do, and been sure he could do magnificently, in the New Lands. Well-a-day, how many mortals ever win to their heart’s desire?

  Arvel sat bolt upright. Ale splashed from the goblet in his grasp.

  “What is it that’s wrong, dearie?” Ynis asked.

  “Nothing… or everything… I know not,” he muttered.

  The sun had gone behind the houses across the street. Soon it would go behind the horizon. Irrendal had said to meet him at the Dragon Tower.

  What was there to lose? Simply time, if last-night’s business had been delirium after all, and time was a burden on Arvel.

  Granted, legend maintained that the elves were a shifty folk, and their powers among men weak and evanescent. He must not let any hopes fly upward. But did it do harm if his blood surged and he forgot his pains?

  Swallowing the last of his meal, Arvel hastened out. “Farewell,” Ynis called. He did not hear. Sighing, she moved toward a tableful of rowdies who whooped for service.

  Hemmed in by walls, the streets were already dark, but people moved about. Linkmen were lighting the great lamps on their iron standards, while windows and shopfronts came aglow. Since the advent of modern illumination in Caronne, city dwellers kept late hours. Even those who had no work to do or money to spend enjoyed strolling and staring in the coolth of day’s end. Arvel could understand why creatures of night and magic now avoided the homes of men.

  Sunset chimes pealed from the temple as he passed Hardan’s Port. It no longer existed save as a name; cannon had crumbled it and its whole section of wall during the Baronial War, and nobody felt a restoration was worth undertaking. Instead, the then Lord Mayor had turned the area into a public park. Trees that he planted on the borders had since grown tall enough to screen off view of surrounding mansions. Only the highest spires of the city pierced heaven above their shadowiness. Gravel scrunched under Arvel’s feet, along labyrinthine flowerbeds. Their perfumes were faint at this eventide hour. A nightingale chanted through the bell-tones and fireflies wavered in air. No lovers had arrived, which struck him as odd.

  At the center of a greensward reared that remnant of the old fortifications known as the Dragon Tower. Ivy entwined it, and the fierce heads carven under the battlements were weathered into shapelessness. Here an elf might well venture. Arvel’s pulse fluttered. He took stance at the doorway. The chimes fell silent. The gloaming deepened. Stars trembled into view.

  “Greeting, friend.” Whence had the vague tall shape come? Arvel felt after the sword he no longer wore.

  Laughter winged around him. “Be at ease,” Irrendal sang. “You’ve naught to fear but folly.”

  Arvel felt himself redden.

  “Against that, no sorcery prevails, nor the gods themselves,” Irrendal continued. With the weight of the ogre off it, his slightly wicked merriment danced free. “Nor can the Halfworld ever be more in men’s lives than transient, a sparkle, a breeze, a snowflake, a handful of autumn leaves blowing past. Still… much may be done with very little, if cunning suffices.

  “I pledged to you your heart’s desire, Arvel Tarabine. You must choose what that is. I can but hope you choose aright. I think, though, this should cover the price. Hold out your hand.”

  Dazedly, the man did. A gesture flickered. A weight dropped. Almost, in his surprise, he let the thing fall, before he closed fingers upon it.

  “A coin of some value as men reckon value,” Irrendal declared. “Spend it wisely — but swiftly this same night, lest your newly won luck go aglimmer.”

  Was there a least hint of wistfulness in the melody? “Fare you well, always well, over the sea and beyond,” Irrendal bade him. “Remember me. Tell your children and ask them to tell theirs, that elvenkind not be forgotten. Farewell, farewell.”

  And he was gone.

  Long did Arvel stand alone, upbearing the heaviness in his hand, while his thoughts surged to and fro. At last he departed.

  A street lamp glared where the city began. He stopped to look at what he held. Yellow brilliance sheened. He caught his breath, and again stood mute and moveless for a space. Then, suddenly, he ran.

  Zulio Pandric the banker sat late at his desk, going through an account book which was not for anyone else’s eyes, least of all those of the king’s tax assessors. Lantern globes shone right, left, and above, to brighten the work, massive furniture, walnut wainscot, his gross corpulence and ivory-rimmed spectacles. From time to time he reached into a porcelain bowl for a sweetmeat. Incense made the air equally sticky.

  To him entered the butler, who said with diffidence, “Sir, a young man demands immediate audience. I told him to apply tomorrow during your regular hours, but he was most insistent. Shall I have the watchman expel him?”

  “Um,” grunted Zulio. “Did he give you his name?”

  “Yes, sir, of course I obtained that. Arvel Tarabine. He does not seem prosperous, sir, nor is his manner dignified.”

  “Arvel Tarabine. Hm.” Zulio rubbed a jowl while he searched through his excellent memory. “Ah, yes. A byblow of Torric, Landholder Merlinhurst. Father impoverished, barely able to maintain the estate. Son, I hear, a wastrel… Admit him.” Zulio had long pondered how he might lay such families under obligation. Here, conceivably, was a weak spot in the independence of one of them.

  Eagerness made the fellow who entered as vivid as his flame-red hair. “I’ve a marvel to show you, Master Pandric, a whopping marvel!” he declaimed.

  “Indeed? Be seated, pray.” The moneylender waved at a chair. “What is this matter that cannot wait until morning?”

  “Behold,” said Arvel. He did not sit but, instead, leaned over the desk. From beneath his cloak he took a thing that thudded when he slapped it down.

  Zulio barely suppressed an exclamation of his own. It was a gold coin that gleamed before him — but such a coin, as broad as his palm and as thick as his thumb. In a cautious movement, he laid hold on it and hefted. The weight was easily five pounds avoirdupois, belike more; and the metal was pure, he felt its softness give beneath his thumbnail.

  A sense of the eerie crept along his nerves. “How did you come by this, young sir?” he asked low.

  “Honestly.” Arvel jittered from foot to foot.

  “What do you wish of me?”

  “Why, that you change it into ordinary pieces of money. It’s far too large for my use.”

  “Let us see, let us see.” Zulio puffed out of his chair and across the room to a sideboard. Thereon stood scales of several sizes, a graduated glass vessel half full of water, an arithmetical reckoner, and certain reference works. He needed no more than a pair of minutes to verify the genuineness of the gold and establish its exact value at those present rates of exchange which scarcity had created — four hundred aureates.

  He brought the coin closer to a lantern and squinted. The lettering upon it was of no alphabet he knew, and he had seen many. The obverse bore a portrait of someone crowned who was not quite human, the reverse a gryphon. Abruptly he knew what he held. Chill shivered through his blubber. He turned about, stared at Arvel, and said, each word falling like lead down a shot tower: “This is fairy gold.”

  “Well —” The youth reached a decision. “Yes, it is. I did a service for the elves, and it is my reward. There’s naught unlawful about that, is there? I’d simply liefer the tale not be noised abroad. Too many people have an unreasoning dread of the Fair Folk.”

  “As well one might, considering their notorious deviousness. Don’t you know —” Zulio checked himself. “May I ask why this haste to be rid of it?”

  “T told you. I cannot spend it as it is. You can find a buyer, or have it melted into bullion, and none will suspect you of robbery as they could perchance suspect me. Chiefly, though, I want to travel. This will buy me a share in Sir Falcovan Roncitar’s enterprise, and whatever else I’ll need to win my fortune in the New Lands.”

  “Could you not at least wait until morning?”

  “No. I was counselled — well, I know nothing about these matters, only that he warned me I’d lose my luck if I didn’t act at once — and I do want to leave. Come morning I’ll buy a horse and a new sword and be off to Croy, out of this wretched town forever!”

  Zulio decided Arvel was honest. He really had no idea of the curious property of fairy gold. His impatience might be due to something as trivial as a love affair gone awry.

  Yes, probe that. “No farewells, no sweetheart?” Zulio asked slyly.

  Arvel whitened, flushed, and whitened. “She never wants to see me again — What’s that to you, you fat toad? Break my coin and take your commission, or I’ll find me another banker.”

  “I fear —” Zulio began, and stopped.

  “What?” Arvel demanded

  Zulio had changed his mind. He did not need to explain the situation. He would be extravagantly foolish to do so.

  “I fear,” he said, ignoring the insult, “that I shall have to charge you more than the usual brokerage fee. As you yourself realize, a coin so valuable, and alien to boot, is not easily exchanged. It will take time. It will require paperwork, to stave off the royal revenue collectors. Meanwhile the money I give you is earning no interest for me, and I must purchase additional precautions against theft —”

  Arvel proved to be even less versed in finance and bargaining that Zulio had hoped. The banker got the elven piece for three hundred and fifty aureates, paid over in gold and silver of ordinary denominations while the watchman witnessed the proceedings.

  “Help the gentleman carry these bags back to his lodgings, Darron,” Zulio ordered courteously. “As for you, Master Tarabine, let me wish you every success and happiness in your New Lands. Should you find you have banking needs, the house of Pandric is at your service.”

  “Thank you,” Arvel snapped. “Goodnight. Goodbye.” Somehow, the immense adventure before him had not brought joy into his eyes. He lifted his part of the money easily enough, but walked out as if he were under a heavy burden.

  Scarcely were the two men gone when Zulio stuffed the coin into a satchel and waddled forth to Crystal Street by himself. He could realize a large profit this night, but only this night. If he waited until dawn, he loss would be vast.

  He did not think that Natan Sandana the jeweler, whose family and associates had been city-bred for generations, had heard anything about fairy gold. Quite probably Sandana did not believe the Halfworld was more than a nursery tale. Zulio came of backwoods peasant stock, and had dabbled in magic — without result, save that he acquired much arcane lore. Panting, sweating, he elbowed onward through crowds, amidst their babble and the plangencies of beggar musicians, underneath walls and galleries and lamp-flare, until he reached the home he wanted.

  Natan was at his fireside, reading aloud from an old book — the verses of wayward Cappen Varra, which this prudent, wizened modern man loved — to his wife and younger children. He did not like or trust Zulio Pandric, and received his guest with an ill grace. Nevertheless, manners demanded that he take the banker into a private room as requested, and have the maidservant bring mulled wine.