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Flint looked downstream, then upstream to the right.
Kneeling near the edge of the water, he saw an almost imper-
ceptible curve to the right in the tracks leading to the
stream. "See these, Bas?" he said, pointing to the ruts. "I
think the wagons are turning off right here, where they en-
ter the water. They follow it upstream."
Basalt peered closely, then smacked his thigh in astonish-
ment. "Why, you're right! Let's go!" The young dwarf took a
step toward the stream. Flint's hand flew out to stop him.
Water. Water that was over half as tall as Flint's four-foot
frame. Flint shivered involuntarily, considering the rapid
icy flow. The stream had no bank to speak of, what with the
severe pitch of the canyon walls that shaped it. It was
twenty or thirty feet at its widest point.
"What's wrong, Flint?" Basalt asked. "Aren't we going to
follow the stream?"
Flint struggled to keep the color from draining from his
face. He couldn't let Basalt learn that his uncle's aversion to
water went beyond normal dwarven distaste, to cold, blind-
ing fear. Flint didn't even like admitting it to himself
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