"Stick to 'yes', 'no', or silence. Don't shrug, don't nod, and don't shake your head. Look at your boots unless you've been asked a direct question. Make eye contact long enough to answer, then knock it off."

He watched the daemon pace the small room as he listened. Darm couldn't remember seeing him visibly anxious. And he wished to blazes he wasn't seeing it now. His wings were dull ... It never occurred to him that Sleg's wings showed his mood.

Or did they? It might be the strange lighting in this place. Sleg called it the First City. It was far underground but he had no idea where - and he'd given up trying to figure it out.

They'd flown all night, then walked for what seemed like an eternity through damp, cold, twisting, winding tunnels. Darm had spent most of yesterday on his own, thawing out and twiddling his thumbs in this bare little room. And when Sleg had come back, he'd gone straight to sleep.

They'd been up for an hour but all he knew was that he'd been called by the Brethren. And that they weren't to be messed with. He had no idea who they were or what they wanted to talk to him for ... Sleg was in such a bad mood - lousy time for questions.

The daemon stopped at the door and opened it. "Time to go. It's busy today. Hang on to the edge of my wing tight. And don't stare."

Darm hadn't seen much when they'd arrived, but what little he had nearly knocked his eyeballs out. He gazed around, now, struggling to put it all into some kind of order in his mind.

The cavernous plaza wasn't noisy, but it thronged with daemons of every dazzling color he could think of and a few he couldn't. And the clothes some of them wore - the brightest, the flashiest, flowing streams of fabric that billowed and fluttered with every step. Quite the fashion statements ...

The two of them marched along following a white, glowing line on the glossy stone floor. He kept forgetting to watch it. Everything was so distracting - it wasn't that the buildings were that far out of the ordinary. It was the scale. Doorways twenty feet high and most of the windows at least that - sometimes more. There were beings here that needed housing this size?

Hanging on to Sleg's wing made him dozy, and he tagged along feeling like he was lost in a dream. The daemon finally stopped and yanked him close.

"This isn't a sight-seeing tour," he growled. "Pay attention to that line. It's made for you."

He took off so fast that Darm nearly tripped trying to catch up. His eyes stayed on the marker and, eventually, it came to an end. Sleg stopped, hauling Darm short.

They stood in front of an enormous set of doors. The daemons coming in and out were dwarfed by it. There was a statue beside the ramp leading inside and Darm gazed up, his head all the way back. It was nearly as tall as the entrance, a magnificent work of art, entirely covered by tiny scales that flickered and glowed like embers from a fire.

An elbow took him in the ribs, snapping his reverie to a painful end.

"I told you not to stare."

"I can't look at a statue?" Darm kept gawking. Then it dawned on him. The monument was - breathing. And the look on its face - his head spun, his knees turned to water and he grabbed Sleg's arm to keep from falling.

"Your companion's ignorance is unbearable. And unacceptable, Sleg."

The monster's voice was so out of line with its looks that Darm didn't believe it had spoken. He gazed around, searching for whoever was doing the talking and another elbow caught him, this time hard into his bicep. His teeth ground together but he didn't complain - what was coming next was sure to be worse.

"Please, Edannan. My poor charge is overwhelmed. The Brethren have called for him or I'd never have brought him here. If you would excuse him this once, I'd be forever grateful."

"I suppose I could do with a little of your gratitude. It's a deal. But get him out of my sight!"

Sleg's fingers dug into Darm's wrist and he was nearly dragged up the ramp, the daemon saying 'thank you', over and over, all the way up.

Once they were inside, Sleg shut up. The look on his face was warning enough not to talk to him. Darm had a sad inkling that offering gratitude wasn't just an empty social nicety around here ... Whatever his gaffe had cost Sleg would be coming out of his own hide.

He screwed up his nerve and whispered, "I'm sorry," but there was no answer. Sleg kept towing him along like a snot-nosed kid and suddenly turned sharply to the right into an empty room.

A small hole opened in the blank wall beside them and a clawed finger poked out, pointing. He was pulled to the wall in the indicated direction, and another hole appeared, admitting them to a large, rock-walled room that didn't seem to have a ceiling - catching himself, Darm's eyes went to his feet.

He'd spotted at least a dozen daemons seated around a long, ebony table. Sleg left him standing at the end of it. His book and his folder were lying in front of him. He didn't dare check to see where Sleg went, but the temptation to run after him - a harsh, rasping voice interrupted his jittery thoughts.

"You are the untutored irhandi called Darmon Zolod."

He almost nodded as he looked up to see who was speaking. "Yes."

"I didn't ask you. I told you!"

Blast. He'd put his foot in it already. The black, sparkling daemon who'd snapped at him was not happy. He dropped his head and bit his tongue to keep from saying sorry.

"The artifacts are unusual," the daemon said, his tone a little more civil. "The Book of Kamugals is specific to you. This is unheard of and the circumstances surrounding it are as well. A duplicate has been made for your use. That is what you see before you. The original will be studied. We are still examining the ub.

"While the portfolio and the keys are of interest, it would be a risk for you to part with them. They will remain with you. We'll wait for a more fortunate time. Do you consort with spirits who are created irhandi?"

Startled by the question, Darm stayed quiet. He still wasn't sure what irhandi meant. He supposed the daemon was talking about people like him. He'd met quite a few who thought they were sorcerers, but they weren't. A couple he'd run into might have been, but he'd never found out for sure. They were different from him somehow, though.

"Do you consort with spirits created irhandi?"

He made himself look at the daemon. "No."

"Is it possible you have, not recognizing them as such?"

"No."

"You would recognize your own kind?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever met your own kind?"

"No."

"That is all I have to ask. Take your things and go."

He snatched the book and the portfolio and spun around. Forcing himself to walk at a reasonable speed, he headed straight for the wall.

"You may open it yourself. Don't bother to shut it behind you," the raspy voice called from behind.

"Petu, Petu," he mumbled, his voice quivering in sync with his insides. A big chunk of the wall vanished and he rushed through. Sleg's head turned his way, a surprised look on his face. Darm didn't waste any time getting to him. "Please get me out of here."

There was no shiny line to lead them back. "Why don't you fly us?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low enough to avoid attention.

"You see anyone flying around here? No, don't look!"

It didn't take that long for Sleg to drag him back to the room they'd started from. And after a quick and silent meal, he announced they were leaving.

Darm's sense of relief deserted him. He hadn't said they were going home ...