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."
Someone jostled against Wingover, then tugged at his
sleeve. He turned, to find the gnome there, looking
peeved.
"I thought you had gone to get your horse," the small
one griped in slow clipped words. "My soarwagon is
ready and waiting, and we'll lose our light soon. Come
along, now. We have to hurry."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wingover
began.
"What are you supposed to be doing?" Jilian asked.
Wingover shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody has told
me."
'You're supposed to be pulling my soarwagon with
your horse," the gnome explained. "What could be sim-
pler than that? Come along, now. There isn't much
time."
"I'll come and watch," the elf said. "Where did you
leave your horse?"
Without much choice in the matter, Wingover was
hustled from the Inn of the Flying Pigs to the stables
where his horse waited, then across town to a clear
meadow, where a marvelous thing sat glowing in late
sunlight.
When first they had seen the gnome's contraption, it
had vaguely resembled a flat parasol, folded. It was no
longer folded, now, and no longer resembled a parasol.
More than anything else, it looked like a huge, spread-
winged seagull sitting on spindly wheels in the meadow.
Great, delicate wings of white fabric extended thirty feet
on each side of the basketlike contrivance in its center,
and its pointed nose had become a square framework of
dainty metal rods
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