Ten

            It took a while, but finally Forge started feeling like part of the world again.  He remembered he’d wanted to get some armor and an axe.  .  .  oh, and there was somebody after him.  With a slight groan he rolled out of bed and opened the door, caught a passing page, and asked for directions to where Bassano could be found.  When he got there Bassano was in the middle of some kind of briefing.  The room was full of guards.  Forge quietly slipped in just as Bassano wrapped up.

            “Just keep your eyes open and remember our charge.”  As the guards nodded and filed out, Bassano glanced up at Forge.  “Yes?”

            “You’d mentioned something about leather armor?” Forge ventured.  “An axe?  Also, somebody hunting me?”

            Bassano smiled grimly.  “I was wondering.  The armor, we can procure.  The axe you may either choose to seek out in the city yourself, or we could send a runner after one.  The man hunting you we can give you no leads on.”

            “You can give me no leads.  Do you know who it is, by any chance?”

            “Other than the thug who seemed to have connections to Lockshy, no, but at this point I’m no longer sure of Lockshy’s motives.”

            “Just for curiosity, what was the briefing about?  You seem kind of shook up about something.”  He paused.  “If I may know.”

            Bassano hesitated, torn, and finally came up with a wording that suited him.  “Antonio has entered a business relationship I find less than considerate.  I fear foul play.”

            “I understand.  Is it somebody off of the island?”

            “No, it’s local.  But one who cannot be trusted.  I cannot say more.”

            “I understand.  I think I might go after the axe myself.  Are there any good weaponsmiths about?”

            “Yes, there’s one gentleman who provides good quality work.  .  .  it’s a little pricier, but very good quality work.”  He provided Forge with directions.  “Just tell him I sent you.”

            “And where would I get the armor?”

            “If you wish, we do have a leatherworker on retainer, and I could simply have him take care of that.  The only thing he’ll need is your measurements.  If you wish, I could have him come to the manor.”

            “That’d be most appreciated.  If I’m going to be out in the town, I’d prefer not to be a pincushion.”

            “It will take some time to make the armor,” Bassano pointed out.

            “Yes, I understand, but the sooner he gets started, the safer I am.”

            “I’ll send a runner for him, then.”

            “Thank you.  I’ll be up near Tusit if you need me.”

            Bassano gave him a funny look.  “I’m not sure you’ll be able to find him.”  Forge looked a little puzzled, so he elaborated.  “He was lurking about when I last saw him.  .  .  .  and then I didn’t.”

            “Tusit?”  He wanted to make sure they were talking about the same person.  Though he hadn’t known Tusit long, gnomes on the whole aren’t generally noted for their adeptness at disappearing.

            “Yes.”

            “Okaaaayyyyy.  .  .”  Well, strike that idea.  “Do you know where Mica is?”

            “I believe she left in the company of the street preacher.”

            “Oh.”  Two down.  “Are there any pages around who are decent with taking measurements and such?”

            Bassano gave him an even odder look.  “Well, if you really wish, I could have a page try to take measurements.  .  .  it may not fit quite right, though.”

            Forge sighed.  “How long do you think it’ll take the guy to get here?”

            “Depending on the business at his shop.  .  .  possibly a half hour, possibly an hour.”

            “Okay.  Just send him up to Darwin’s room.”

            “Very well.”

            Forge went up to his cousin’s room and slipped inside as quietly as he could.  He noticed a “care package” on a chair near the bed similar to what Tusit had set up for him.  The cup with the “stuff that did this to you” was empty -- the “good stuff” cup was full.  Darwin lay in his bed unconscious, all tucked in.  Forge headed down to the kitchen.

            The cook gave him a plate.  “Would you like to go out where your friends are dining?  Last I saw them, they were in the breakfast room.”

            Forge thanked the cook and headed for the breakfast room.  It was empty except for a few peacock feathers strewn about.  He groaned, took his plate to his room, and ate there.

*                      *                      *

            Mica opened the front door and found Thistlepouch sitting on the floor, playing with a crystal ball.  “Hello!”

            “Hello!” the kita returned cheerily.

            “You have a new pretty,” Mica observed.

            “Yes, I do!”  Thistlepouch felt quite pleased with herself.

            “What is it?”

            “I don’t know.”  She paused.  “But I think that Lockshy dropped it.”

            “I just ran into him on my way here.  I followed him for a while.”

            “Where’d you follow him to?”

            “This really nasty part of town.  He practically barreled into me -- actually,” she amended with some delight, “I tripped him, if I remember correctly.  .  .  .”

            Thistlepouch grinned.  “Oh, good!”

            “He fell, and then he ran away again -- he was in a really big hurry -- and he went to this big building.”

            “I think he was trying to get away from me,” Thistlepouch admitted sheepishly.

            Mica’s curiosity piqued.  “Really!  What were you doing?”

            “I was just telling him a story.”

            “Oh.  Was it the long one?”

            “Which one?” Thistlepouch asked in a small voice.

            Mica couldn’t help grinning.  “Well, maybe we can find him again and you can finish it.  Where’s Tusit?”

            “I don’t know.  He said to keep an eye on Lockshy, and that he’d be around, but then I didn’t see much of him after that.”

            “Oh.  I should find Bassano and tell him -- but!  Oh, this is so neat!  I went to the temple of Athena, and I talked to this one guy, and he was very excited about Athena, but he was still quite young, I dunno, kinda didn’t know what he was doing.  But then he took me to his master, and it was really neat.  .  .  but he was more into the wisdom of Athena, not so much the fighting of Athena.  I’m going to attend one of the services tonight.  But it’s kind of hard telling him what’s been going on, like how I found Athena considering the circumstances of how it happened, but I’ve got a little more direction as to what to do.  Except the kid -- I forgot what is name is -- had a dream of me with an owl on my shoulder, which is the talisman of Athena, so I could have a guide or something in my life!  I don’t know what it means.  .  .  save owls, protect owls, maybe seek out owls.  .  .  .” Mica rambled off.

            “Maybe an owl will find you!” Thistlepouch suggested, happy to see her friend so enthusiastic about something.

            “Could be,” Mica allowed.  “I know Bob went out to find a falcon, so maybe while he’s out finding a falcon in the woods, I can find an owl.”

            “That’d be kinda fun.”

            “Yeah.  But anyway, I want to find Bassano and tell him Lockshy ran over me.”

            “Last time I saw Bassano, he went that way.”  Thistlepouch pointed off down a hall.

            “Okay.  So.  You took this off of Lockshy, huh?  The ball?”

            “Yeah, he must’ve dropped it.  The stick tingles around it.”

            Thistlepouch had Mica’s full attention.  “Oh really?”

            “Yeah, see?”  She demonstrated.

            Mica’s eyes gleamed. “Oooo.  .  . can I feel it?”

            “Sure!”

            “So.  .  .  you gonna be here for a while?” she asked after they’d passed it back and forth for a while.

            “Sure.  .  .  I thought maybe in a while I’d go up and see how Melissanna was doing.”

            “Oh yeah.  .  .  Have the dwarves dragged themselves out of their vomit yet?”

            “Not that I’ve seen.  .  .”

            “You wanna come with me to my religious revival tonight? It might be very interesting.” Mica was pretty sure that’d get the kita’s attention.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a religious revival before.  .  .  sure, why not.  I’ve already explored a lot of the rooms.  And the closets.  And -- oh, you should see the outfit Tusit is helping me alter!”  She ran over and grabbed it, holding it up to display.  Well, what there was of it.  It looked like a peacock that went through the blender, but without all the blood.  Just a ragged pile of cloth with a few seams.  The wings were off to one side.  “It looked better before.  .  .  it had wings on it, and I tried sliding down the banister but I couldn’t fly,” she finished in a downhearted tone.

            “Maybe Tusit can fix it for you.”

            “Yeah, he’s in the process.”

            “Okay.  Well, I’m gonna go find Bassano.”

            “Okay.  I think I’ll stay here and wait; maybe Tusit will come back and finish this because.  .  . well.  .  .  these clothes are nice and all, but they’re really plain-looking and -”

            “You need something brighter,” Mica supplied.

            “Well, yeah.”

            “Okay.  I’ll come back and find you in a little while.  My revival isn’t until later tonight.”  She found a random page.  “Do you know where I could find Bassano?”

            “Bassano?  I’m afraid I don’t know where the Guard Captain is at the moment.  If you wish, I can maybe try and find him.”

            “Yes.  It’s important.  I’d like to talk to him in person.”

            The page started slightly.  “Should I bring him to you?”

            “No, just let him know, and when it’s convenient, I can come to him.”

            “Very well,” the page said, and ran off.

            Mica wandered back over to the kita and started examining the outfit.  “You know what I think we should do?  We should make you a little feather crown that would hang down over your hair.”

            Thistlepouch nearly glowed.  Mica had such neat ideas!  “Oh, could you? That’d be so fun!”
            The project decided, Thistlepouch ran around gathering up feathers while Mica took out some of the metal from the wings and began weaving it into a crown, attaching feathers as she went.

*                      *                      *

            Meanwhile, Tusit had been making his way through the house.  The first door he tried was a privy.  Nope, nothing interesting there.  He closed the door and set off again.  .  .  and found the privy.  The next time, he didn’t find the privy.  .  .  he opened an outside door and found the compost heap.  He caught a whiff of food and decided to follow it in hopes of finding the kitchen, keeping his eyes open for a room with leather lying around in it.

            He found the privy again.

            The fourth time he came to that particular door, he didn’t even bother opening it. 

            Tusit caught the scent of food again.  .  .  and maybe the smell of tanning leather, but he couldn’t tell where either of them came from.  After a bit more wandering, he decided that food was coming from upstairs, though he’d been sure the kitchens were downstairs.  With a shrug, he went up the stairs (and passed directly over the privy).  Now the food smelled like it was another level up.  .  .  he went up.

            Hmmm.  .  .  no food, but definitely smelling a privy.

            No, wait, that door was where the food smell came from.  A door with a guard in front.  Bother. He sneaked past the guard -- just to be contrary, a board creaked under his step.  The guard looked around, puzzled.  Tusit kept walking.  After a bit he got a whiff of food not coming from behind him -- in fact, it was from downstairs.  He opened a door.

            Oops.  Privies again.

            Just then a page came down the stairs carrying a tray full of discarded food bits.  Fairly sure the page wasn’t headed for the privy, Tusit followed him until he came to the kitchen.  The gnome had his bearings again.  He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get to some of the places he’d been, but at least he knew where he was.  He headed back to his room.

            There was a guard by the door keeping watch. Tusit opened the door, did a quick step in, turned around, looked up at him, and discontinued the spell.

            “Oh!  I didn’t know you were here!” he said with feigned surprise.

            “Whatheha.  .  .  ?” mumbled the guard, looking puzzled, and shook himself.  “I was.  .  .  told.  .  .  to.  .  .  uh, give you a message.  .  .  from.  .  .  Bassano.  .  .  .  I was just.  .  .”

            Tusit looked impatient.  “Well, spit it out, man!  What’s the message?”

            “Here.”  He handed over a folded sheet of paper.

            Tusit unfolded it and read the rough, blocky letters.

            Though I appreciate your curiosity, you’re making the guards nervous.

            Tusit blinked at it a couple times, looked up at the guard.  “Who’s this from?”

            “Bassano.  The Guard Captain.”

            “Oh.  Well.  Thank you very much.”  Tusit was still trying to figure out how he knew.

            “You’re welcome.”

            A pause.

            “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Tusit ventured.

            The guard finally spit it out.  “How in Hermes’ boots did you get in there?!”

            “I was in there all along,” Tusit deadpanned.

            “No you weren’t -- I looked!”

            Tusit thought fast.  “Did you look under the bed?”

            “Nooo.  .  .  .  ”

            “Well, there you go!” Tusit exclaimed as if that explained everything.  Then, a bit irritably, “I was meditating!  Where would you go in a strange house with no privacy?  Begone with you!”

            The guard took his leave.  Tusit could hear him trying hard to hold back laughter.

            “Fine.  If he thinks I’m crazy, all the better,” the gnome muttered to himself as Forge, hearing the exchange, opened his door and walked out.  “Oh, hello!”  Then Tusit remembered and lowered his voice a touch.  “Are you feeling better?”

            “Yes, quite a bit, actually, thank you.”

            “Wonderful.  I’m glad the concoction aided your recovery.”

            “Yes, the dwarven sprites were actually pretty good.”

            “Oh, of course.  .  . I figured, the hair of the dog and whatnot.”

            “Can we talk for a bit?” he requested; Tusit gestured into the room and he followed.  Once the door shut,  “So, um, where were you really?”

            Tusit put on his best I-have-no-clue-what-you’re-talking-about face.  “Where was I really when?”

            “Now?”

            Simply, “Under my bed.”

            Forge half-smirked.  “Yeah.  Whatever.  Where were you?”

            “Under my bed.”  Geez, who else knew?  “Why would you ask?”

            Forge shrugged.  “Just sheer curiosity.  .  .  I’d been wondering what’s going on, you know, with my unfortunate sickness.”

            Oh.  Whew.  No danger there.  “To be truthful, I was wondering about a bit.”

            “Find out anything interesting?”

            “No, unfortunately not.  But I know where the privy is!”  Tusit gave him exact directions.

            “Thanks,” Forge said, “but I’m quite fine.  I have a nice silver basin in my room.”

            “I know.  I had them replace it for you.  Had them bring you an extra large one.”

            “It was only half full,” Forge protested.  “Anyway.  Would you be able to take my measurements?  I have a tanner who’s going to make my armor, and I really don’t want to wait around for him.  And do you have any money I could.  .  .  get?

            “Oh, well I can help you with.”  Tusit dug in his pouch.

            “For an axe.”

            “Oh.  An axe.”

            “A good one.”

            Tusit handed him two florins.  “I know that won’t get you an axe, but the kita has more than she knows what to do with.  She can supplement you with whatever else you need.  As for the measurements, I could give you a rough idea.  .  .”

            “Well, if you can’t get it exact, I think I’ll wait.  It’s for my leather armor.  I want it to fit -- no room for breathing or pinpoints.  Should we go find the kita?  May as well try tracking, just for the hell of it.”  He started at the kita’s room and tracked her down to the breakfast area, just for the practice.  He looked up.  He saw the girls making a peacock-feather headdress.  He stopped.  He turned to Tusit.  “Do you need anything from town?”

            Tusit pondered.  “I’m sure I do, but I can’t think of anything right off hand.”

            “Because, well, they look like they’re having an awful lot of fun.  We could get the money from Thistlepouch and then go shopping.”

            “Hmm.  .  .  possible.  Ah, Tusit!” Tusit called out, and corrected himself.  “Thistlepouch! Kita!  You!”

            “What!”

            “I don’t suppose you’ve happened across any sort of a.  .  . measuring thing, you know, for sizing and -”

            “I dunno. Let me check.”  She riffled through her pouches and pulled out several bits of cloth.  “I’ve got these, but that’s about as close as I can get.”

            Tusit sighed.  “Oh, bother.  All right.”  To Mica, “I don’t suppose you’d have any guesses as to how much a decent battleaxe would cost?”

            Mica shrugged.  “Bows cost between five and ten.”

            Tusit turned back to Thistlepouch.  “Kita, I know that you had some more coinage. . .”

            “Oh!  Here.”  She untied the sack and handed it over to him after removing one for luck -- and to remember having met the Duke.

            Tusit riffled through it and tried not to gasp.  He was pretty sure his eyes were bugging out of his head.  He cleared his throat, though his voice still held a faint note of awe.  “Um, this should cover it nicely, thank you.”

            “Oh, good.  Find a nice axe,”  Thistlepouch said offhand.  Money didn’t mean much to her -- her pouches had a nice habit of providing for whatever she needed.

            After looking over a couple pouches and his dartellero for the most secure place that he could keep it on his person, Tusit put it down the front of his pants, reasoning that no one could try to take it without his knowing.  He tied it to his belt so it wouldn’t fall down his leg or pull down his pants.  It gave him a suspicious looking bulge.

            “Thistlepouch has a ball that tingles,” Mica informed the boys.

            Tusit stopped dead, looked at Thistlepouch, looked down at his bulge, and back at Mica.  “Do tell!”

            “Here, let me show him,” Mica requested.  Thistlepouch handed over the ball and tinglestick, which Mica passed to Tusit.

            Forge saw the ball as glowing blackness.  “Um, can I touch the ball?”

            “Wait your turn!” Tusit waved the tinglestick over the crystal -- it did, indeed, tingle.  It was kind of fun; the girls had latched onto it right away, so this was the first time he’d ever gotten his hands on it.  He passed it over the darts -- they tingled, too, as did the leeches.  And so did he, Tusit discovered, and had fun running it over his arms.

            Forge noticed that the hand Tusit held the ball in begin to crumble. “Give me the ball.”

            Tusit frowned at him.  “No!  Wait your turn!”

            “Your hand is crumbling,” Forge said in an even voice.  “Give me the ball.”

            Tusit looked skeptical.  “Is this like the leeches?”

            “Leeches!  What are you talking about?”  Mica turned to Tusit.  “Is he still drunk?”

            “Give me the ball!”

            “We chased bugs,” Tusit explained.

            Mica cast her eyes heavenward. “You’re both drunk.  Oh, my gods.  You leave these guys alone for a minute and what do they do -- the bury themselves in a bottle.”

            Forge took the ball.

            “He took the ball from me!” Tusit complained to no one in particular.

            Forge watched Tusit’s hand rematerialize.  He put the ball on the ground.  He saw a leech across the room start crawling towards it.  “Oh, my god.  .  .” he muttered in an “I-don’t-believe-this-is-happening” tone.  “Tusit, could I borrow the tingly stick?”

            Tusit looked dubiously at the girls.

            “He can touch the tingly stick,” Mica granted.

            Tusit handed it over.

            Forge walked over to the leech and tingled it -- to everyone else it looked like he was tingling the floor.  “Tusit, take this.  Hold it.”  Once Tusit had taken the tingly stick, Forge guided his hand to where the spectral slimy was.  “There’s a leech there.”

            “Oh, goodness.”  He put his other hand down -- and touched the ground.

            “What are you doing?” Mica demanded.

            “We’ll explain later,” Forge said distractedly.

            “Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot!”

            “No.  .  .  it’s a long story.  Give me a chance, okay?  You remember that whole god problem I have?  I has to do with that.”

            “Oh.”  Mica subsided.  “Okay.”

            Tusit took out a bottle.  “Um, Forge?  I can’t touch it.”

            Forge picked up the leech and put it in the bottle.  “All of them are going towards the ball.”

            “Oh, neat!”  Thistlepouch picked up the ball, tried looking at the bottle through it.  Nothing.  No, wait.  .  . no, no, not seeing.  .  .   but was that.  .  . ?  no, nope, not anything.  It could have been something.  Not sure.  She looked harder.

            Forge took the stick again and ran it over the brand on his forehead and the amulet, neither of which tingled.  “Whoever wants the stick -”

            Mica grabbed it.

            “Can I see the ball again?” he requested.

            “What do you see that’s different from what we see?” Thistlepouch inquired as she gave it to him.

            “What color is it?”

            “Crystal,” she replied.  “Clear.  I could see through it.”

            “Black,” Forge countered.  He looked at the ball again.  “Hello, Hades.”

            No answer.

            Mica rolled her eyes.  “He’s talking to the ball.  .  .  is the ball answering?”

            “Are you in there?”

            “Hades is in there?”  Thistlepouch looked close.  She didn’t think he’d fit.

            “Itty-bitty living space!” Tusit explained, and rubbed the ball experimentally to see if a genie would appear.

            None did.

            Forge poked at it.  It was a solid ball of darkness.  “Anyone mind if I drop it?”

            “Yes!” Mica answered fervently.

            “Might be interesting,” Thistlepouch contemplated, taking it from Forge and promptly and purposefully dropping it.

            Tusit dove to catch it.  The ball hit the ground and bounced -- Tusit hit the floor hard.  The ball landed on his back.

            Forge picked it up, examined it.  No cracks.

            “Sure, no thanks for me stopping the second impact!” Tusit wheezed, the breath knocked out of him.

            “You and your bright ideas!” Mica scowled at Forge.

            “Let’s put it in something safe.  Let’s stop touching the blasted thing.  Something like a glass jar.  Trust me.  Your hand was crumbling.”

            Mica was rapidly getting peeved.  “Is it crumbling now?!”

            “No; you’re not holding onto it.  Mine is,” he shot back, even though it wasn’t.

            Thistlepouch looked at his hand -- it didn’t look like it was crumbling.  But then, she didn’t really understand this whole god thing anyhow.

            “If it goes away, give me the flaming ball!”

            Forge looked at his hand -- it appeared to merge with the blackness.  He handed it over as if it’d burned him.  “Here, have it!”

            “Thank you!”

            Forge watched with some relief as his hand went back to normal, and counted his digits just to be sure.  “How many fingers do I have?”

            “Four,” Mica replied.

            Forge almost panicked, then thought logically.  “And thumbs?”

            “One.”  Mica gazed into the ball, preying to Athena to give her wisdom.  She saw the image of a padlock forming within the ball.

            Tusit, seeing the Magickal paraphernalia back with the girls, put his arm around Forge’s shoulders.  “Let’s go shopping.  You need some fresh air, good friend.”

            “What do you see?” Thistlepouch asked Mica.

            “I see a lock.”

            “Does it look like this?”  She pulled out the signet ring.

            “Can I see that?”

            The kita handed it over.

            The lock did look like the one in the ring, but without the garland.  She put the ring’s face against the ball.  No effect.  “Where did this one come from?  Same place?”

            Thistlepouch nodded.

            “Oh, okay.”  She offered them back.  “Pouches?  Probably not together.”

            “Glass jar for the ball,” Forge put in as Tusit led him out.

            Mica rolled her eyes.  “Glass jar to appease the dwarf.”

            “Kay.”  Thistlepouch put it in a pouch.  “I don’t have a glass jar.  I gave him my last one.”

            “Well, we’ll find a glass jar,” Mica said.  If for no other reason than to shut him up, she added mentally.

            Thistlepouch held out a plain cloak clasp. “How about this thing?  He dropped this, too.  You know, he really should be more careful with his possessions.”

            “He really should,” Mica agreed solemnly.  “Maybe we could put it on your clothes somewhere.”

            “Nah.  I’ve got prettier ones.”  The kita pulled out a few gem-encrusted broaches.  “How about these?  Maybe we could weave it into the headdress or something.”

            Mica’s eyes lit with inspiration.  “Oh, yeah!  We could put one right in front!”

*                      *                      *

            “I’ve still gotta get my leather armor fitted.  I really would like to keep my hide in tact.  What with someone after me,” Forge told Tusit as they passed the front gates.

            Tusit stopped at Forge’s last words and changed his course.  “You know, I think the armorer is right over that way.”

            As they arrived, a man closed the door to the tanning shop and hung out a sign that read “Back in a mark.”  He was on the thin side, getting on in years; his gray hair had more than begun to thin on top.  He was clean-shaven, with dark brown eyes and many tanning stains on leather work clothes.

            “I believe that’s him,” Forge deduced.

            “Good sir!” Tusit called out.

            “I’m sorry,” said the tanner, “I must be going.  I’ve got an appointment.”

            “With him,” Tusit cut in.

            “What?”

            “It’s with me,” Forge informed him.

            “No, no, it’s with Antonio.”  He started walking off.

            Forge trotted to catch up, Tusit hot on his heels.  “Yes, I know,” Forge told the man.  “I’m staying at his house.  He’s having you come to talk to me.”

            “He is?”

            “Yes.”

            “Are you sure?”

            Forge gave him a flat stare.  “Do you think any other merchant here would have as strange of guests as a dwarf and a gnome?”

            “Actually, Antonio does have odd ones, but there’s worse.  You never saw the contingent of faeries that came through once; I can’t believe it, it was so strange -- at least, I think they were faeries -- they were short, pixie-like things, I don’t know if they were faeries or not, but they really were very odd -” the tanner rambled as he walked.

            “How long would it take you to make it?” Forge asked Tusit.

            “If I could get some decent measurements, probably not as long!”

            “- and then once I found out they were just trying to loot the castle, well naturally I -”

            “Good sir, that’s terribly interesting,” Tusit said as he grabbed for one end of the measuring tape draped over the tanner’s neck.

            The tanner noticed in a distracted kind of way that one end was slipping, and tugged on the short end.  He continued talking as he reached Antonio’s door and knocked, then noticed what was going on -- Tusit had begun tugging on the measuring tape again.

            “What are you doing?!” the tanner demanded.

            “I’m trying to borrow this!  Do you mind!”

            “Oh!  Well, why didn’t you ask?!”

            “Because you were busy!” Tusit was rapidly losing patience.

            “I was not; I was just telling you about -”

            Tusit successfully grabbed it away from him and started taking Forge’s measurements.

            ‘Well, if you wanted to -” the tanner began, highly indignant, but was distracted by the door opening.  “I’m here for measurements for Merchant Antonio, and these ruffians are -”

            “These ruffians are who you’re here to see,” the guard at the door informed him.

            “Duh!” Tusit shot in exasperation, not looking up from his work.

            “Well, why didn’t you say so?!”  The tanner tried to grab his measuring tape back, but Tusit hung on, kicking him and pulling.  The tanner started flailing in a futile attempt to retrieve it.  “Leave me alone!  Give me that back!”

            Mica and Thistlepouch, meanwhile, had begun to take an interest in the commotion by the front door.

            “Shall we go see what’s going on?” suggested Mica.

            “Sounds interesting.  I bet Tusit’s involved.”

            “Oh, I bet he is, too,” the human agreed, knowing the gnome’s knack for getting into messes.  They neared the door as Forge stepped between Tusit and the tanner.

            “Good sir, how long would it take you?” the dwarf asked.

            “Well,” the tanner began, flustered, “I’ve got enough base materials so that I could make it rather quickly -”

            “How long?” Forge persisted.

            “Possibly within.  .  .  oh.  .  .  dear.  .  .  I could presumably have it for you by the end of the day.”

            Mica got a sly smile on her face.  “Hey, Thistlepouch,” she said quietly.  “That’s the tailor.  I bet he has really interesting things in his pockets.”

            “Really?  You suppose?”

            “Yeah.”

            “If I help with some of tasks,” Tusit offered, listing the technical names of a few processes so the tanner would know he had some experience, “could I lessen the time a bit?”

            “Well, some of that takes a bit more time than just tailoring!  A majority of the time is just spent curing the leather and getting the proper rigidly to it -”

            Tusit began leading him back down the walk, patting his arm.  “Let’s get started.”

            “Good sir,” Forge explained, “I just need the armor as fast as I can, as good as it can be done, and I’ve been told you’re one of the best -”

            “Well, I am!  But this is all very irregular -- usually I take the measurements myself -- I don’t know why you’re trying to take my tape measure from me.  I just don’t understand.  .  .  .  it’s just so irregular -”

            “We’re a rather irregular group, sir.  I do understand the frustration that you must be going through, but you must understand my friend’s urgency.  .  .” Tusit continued to lead him away, comforting him all the while.

            Thistlepouch found herself standing in a vacated door holding a measuring tape. “Oh, Tusit was looking for one of these!  I’ll have to give it to him when he gets back.”

*                      *                      *

            At the leatherworker’s, Tusit was able to help mark out a pattern size, the tanner still spluttering under his breath.  They got past most of the tailoring stuff pretty quickly.  Tusit helped as much as he could, and once his expertise ran out, he started asking questions in the downtime, attempting to learn the trade for a few projects he had in mind.  Forge sat around looking bored.

            “Is there a forge around here?” the dwarf inquired abruptly.

            “Down about three shops, take the street to the right,” the tanner said off-hand.  “It’s down a little ways.  You should hear-”

            “I’ll be back.”

            The tanner looked up with some alarm.  “But I’ll have the leather armor done in time!  You don’t need to -”

            “I’m just going to do something that I can do.  I do some smithing on the side; I’m useless here.”

            “Yes, well, of course.  .  .” The tanner went back to his work.

            “Do you remember the project I was looking for earlier?” Tusit asked.

            “Yes, but I’d really like to see if I can change the shape of this.” Forge took off the medallion and held it out, the symbol carefully covered by his hand.

            “Oh, yes, I understand.  Just keep it in mind for spare parts and such.”

            “Yeah.”  Forge wandered off in the direction the tanner had indicated.  As he neared the shop, he could clearly hear the ringing of a hammer striking metal.  He entered the smithy.  “Ah, pardon me -?”

            The blacksmith looked up.  “Yeah?”

            “Would it be possible for me to borrow one of your forges?”

            “Borrow?”

            “Rent?”

            “Rent, sure.  .  . um.  .  . let’s say we go with-”

            “How about a florin.  Will that cover the day?”

            “No.  .  .” the smith drew the word out.  “It’s neither barns nor nobles.  You need local currency.  I presume you’re new in town -”

            “Yeah.  Tell you what, I’ve forgotten to change this.  Would it be okay if I did some work for you to cover it?”

            The smith considered.  “Well, I have some work.  I’m not that far behind.”

            “I’ll catch you up.  You can have some free time to spend with your friends, wife and kids or whatever.”

            A slow smile spread across the smith’s face.  “That’d be nice.  .  .  very well.  What say we work till between lunch and dinner, then you can have the forge for the rest of the day?”

            “Thank you.”

            “Very well.  We’ll get started on some of these.”  The smith started Forge off on some simplistic stuff, watching to see his skill.  He determined that Forge did know what he was doing and handed off some more difficult stuff.  There were a couple blades in the to-do pile, but mostly it was ornate stuff, scroll bits and such more for display than functionality.

            Forge finished with the smith’s stuff midway between lunch and dinner; the smith surveyed his work, pleased.

            “You’re going to be more than able, it looks like, to get some extra jobs in at this point.  You’ve really gotten me ahead.  Here’s the forge, my pleasures.”

            “No problem.  Do you have any scrap metal I could use, by any chance?”

            “Sure -- just use anything in the scrap metal bin.”

            “Thanks.”

            “My pleasure.”  With that, the smith headed off to the back of his shop.

            Once his audience was gone, Forge took his amulet off, holding it by the string, and put it in the fire.  Instead of growing red and then white, it turned black, getting darker and darker.  He pulled it out, put it down, and hit it with the hammer.  It made a loud ring -- then nothing.  When Forge pulled back the hammer, he noticed that the medallion had imprinted Hades’ symbol on it.  Grumbling various dwarven obscenities, Forge put the medallion back around his neck and started making the symbol of his true god out of scrap metal.  That finished, he started in on caltrips.

            During one of the breaks in the tanner’s project for Forge, Tusit went to find his dwarven friend.  He stepped around the corner of the smithy to find Forge working on some caltrips.  The dwarf handed him the hammer.

            “You got frustrated and hit yourself on the head,” Tusit hazarded.

            Wordlessly, Forge showed him the amulet.

            “That did this?”

            “After sitting in the forge for quite a while, actually.  Ah, is this what you wanted?”  He held out one of the caltrips.

            “Perfect.  Wonderful.”

            Forge nodded and went back to his work.  “Tusit, by the way, we need to change our money.”

            “Right.  Moneychanger.  Ever since Lockshy.  .  .”  The gnome laughed humorously.  “Good point.”  He looked at the amulet dangling down the dwarf’s back.  “Ah, mind if I.  .  .  ?”  He scraped the amulet a couple times with a file.  Parts of the file came off.  Tusit gazed at it, awed.  “This is a wonderful thing.”

            Forge didn’t want to hear it.  “Could you go and change some of the money and.  .  .  get a new hammer and file?”  He didn’t think the smith would be too pleased to find Hades’ mark branded on his hammer.

            “Sure!” Tusit kept the hammer.

            “Do you have any string on you?”

            “Sure.”  Tusit rummaged around in his pouch, found a long strip of leather, and handed it over.  “What do you need it for?”

            “Well, this was the symbol of my god, and I’d like to wear it,” he said, displaying his creation before he pulled it over his head and tucked the medallion under his shirt.  It rested nicely against his chest.

            “Are you getting an axe here?” Tusit inquired.

            “No, he doesn’t really have what I’d like; I’m going to have to go off looking.  Let me make about two more of these caltrips, and then we can go.”

            Tusit settled down to watch and hopefully learn a little bit about blacksmithing.

 *                     *                      *

            Mica and Thistlepouch were working in the breakfast room when Bassano came around the corner.

            “Sorry that took so long -- I had to check up on some of my guards.  What did you need help with?”

            “No problem,” Mica said.  “I just  wanted to tell you that as I was coming back from the temple of Athena, I ran into Lockshy -- or rather, Lockshy practically ran me over.  He was in a great hurry to get away from the direction of this house, and he fell, and he kept going.  So I decided to follow him, and he went to this building in this really nasty part of town, and he was looking all over and watching.”  She gave him quick directions to the building.  “I thought it was really strange that he was this close to Merchant Antonio’s when last I heard, he was being searched for.”

            “At this point, he’s no longer being searched for.  The matter’s being.  .  . handled.”  Bassano looked like he’d swallowed something disgusting.

            “He was sure in a hurry to tell somebody about it.”

            “At this point Lockshy has been.  .  .  cleared of all issues, you could say.  Things have been resolved.  Your concern is appreciated, but at this point -”

            “I can ignore Lockshy.”

            “I would not advise ignoring him,” Bassano hedged.  “But at this point pursuit on my part is not within my current directions of duties, regardless of how proper such a pursuit might be.”

            “I know this will definitely be a blow to Darwin -- he was so looking forward to taking him apart,” Mica observed.

            “I can understand his disappointment.”

            “Well, thanks much for your time.”

            “My pleasure.”

            As Bassano left, Mica went back to fiddling with the headdress, the kita watching in rapt fascination.  When it was more or less done, they headed up to see how Melissanna fared.

            When they reached the girl’s room, they found the door open.  Antonio was inside pouring a couple drops of some sort of potion down Melissanna’s throat.  Thistlepouch tiptoed in and stood in an inconspicuous corner to watch; Mica observed from the doorway as Antonio smoothed Melissanna’s hair back from her face, tucked her in, and turned to leave.  The priestess caught him on the way out.

            “Yes, what’re you doing here?!” he blustered.

            “I wanted to see how she was,” Mica replied simply.

            Antonio deflated a little at that.  “Oh.  She’s.  .  .  not much better.”

            “Would it be okay if I went in and visited her?”

            “Yeah.”  Antonio cleared his throat, recovered some of his gruffness with effort.  “Yeah, that’ll be fine.”  He rolled off.

            Thistlepouch’s hand got hot all of a sudden.  She looked down to see the pouch the ball was in levitating straight out.  And glowing.

            “Um.  .  .  um, Mica?”

            “Yeah?”  She was still looking after Antonio.

            “Help?”

            Mica turned and walked in.  “Woah!  Your ball is rising!”  She waved the stick over the ball.  It tingled.  And Melissanna.  She tingled.

            Thistlepouch walked a little closer to the bed.  The ball glowed a little brighter.  She opened the pouch and reached inside.  The ball was hot -- toasty, but not burning.  She pulled it out.  It tried to pull her hand toward Melissanna.  Inspiration struck; Thistlepouch looked at the comatose girl through it, saw her sitting up and looking right back, bound and gagged and not looking happy at all.  Startled, the kita looked at Melissanna without the ball.  She was still lying down.

            “Um, she’s sitting up and looking at me.  And she’s bound and gagged,” Thistlepouch informed Mica.

            “Can you tell where she is?”

            “Well, it looks like she’s on the bed.”  Where else would she be?  Honestly.  Humans.

            “Take out the ring.”

            Thistlepouch did so.

            Mica took it from her and put it on Melissanna’s finger.  No reaction.  “Is she wearing the ring?”

            Thistlepouch checked -- nothing different.  She shook her head.

            Mica removed the ring from Melissanna’s hand and tried pressing the ring face against the ball again.  Nothing happened.  Mica pondered.  “So, she’s locked up somehow in her body -”

            “I’m guessing this might have something to do with Hades,” Thistlepouch put in, “but it’s just a thought.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, because none of us ever saw something different through the ball but Forge did and he’s got that whole Hades thing going for him.  .  .  or against him.  .  .  .  ”

            “Maybe we should drag Forge up here and he can look through the ball,” Mica suggested.

            “He saw nothing but a mass of blackness.  .  .  I don’t think he could see through it.”

            The ball had begun to get uncomfortably hot, but since it wasn’t burning her yet, Thistlepouch decided to ignore it.

            Mica watched the ball strain to get near Melissanna.  “Do you think we should put it on her?  I mean, not to burn her, but if it wants to go toward her.  .  .  ”

            “Maybe it’ll cure her.”  Thistlepouch shrugged, walked over to the comatose woman, and held the ball over her.  She looked through it, but saw pretty much the same thing before, only closer and from a slightly different angle.  “It looks the same.”

            “Can I see?”

            “Sure.”  The kita handed it over.  “Maybe if you tried putting it on her?”

            Mica peered through the ball and saw just what the kita had described.  “Which part?”

            “Her hand,” Thistlepouch said after a pause.  “Probably the safest part.”

            Mica cautiously put it on Melissanna’s hand, which immediately began to turn forest green and twitch.  The priestess hurriedly snatched the ball away, and the green lessened a lot, though it remained at a tint the color of spring leaves in the rain.  Her thumb twitched.  Thistlepouch pulled a blanket up to cover her hand.

            “I think we should go find the boys now,” Mica suggested.

            “I think that would be a good idea,” Thistlepouch seconded quickly, holding open the pouch so Mica could stuff the ball into it.

            “You know, if anything happens to her, we can blame it on Antonio because he gave her that stuff in the bottle.  Okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “Do we know where the guys went?”

            Thistlepouch thought for a second.  Well, they had left with the tanner.  .  .  .  “I think to the leatherworker’s shop.  Shall we go shopping?”

            Mica hung a moment in indecision.  Tusit had almost all the money.  .  .  but then again, she had the kita.  And with a kita, who needs money?  “Okay!”  They wandered out the front door and down the street a ways; there were a good number of ornate clothing shops in the area.  “Hey, we could pick up accessories for your headdress!”

            Thistlepouch grinned.  She loved shopping with Mica.  “Okay!  Fun!

            They ducked into the first clothing store on the left.  A couple decorative scarves unaccountably found their way into the kita’s pouches, but what really caught her eye was a peacock-blue cloak with embroidery all along the edges -- kind of a scalloped effect.  Unfortunately, it was full human sized.

            “How much is that?” Mica asked, indicating it.

            A brisk-looking woman raised her head and fingered the fabric lovingly.  “This one is purchasable for 35 barns.”

            Thistlepouch sighed.  “I don’t suppose you have one in my size?  I’ve got something that’s just that color, and it’s got peacock feathers.”

            The skinny woman -- probably the shopkeeper, raised her eyebrows. “I see... I don’t think we have any peacock feathers.”

            The skinny woman -- probably the shopkeeper -- raised her eyebrows.  “I see.  .  . I don’t think we have any peacock feathers.”

            Thistlepouch waved off the idea.  Really, people were so dense.  “Oh, I don’t need anything with peacock feathers; I have lots of those.  I just need something that color.”

            “Well, let me see what I have in the back, where the fabrics are.”  She whisked into the back room; Thistlepouch could hear her rummaging around.

            “If we want to buy anything, we’ll have to get the money changed, too,” Mica reminded her companion.

            Thistlepouch wrinkled her nose.  Lockshy had not left her with a favorable impression of moneychangers.  She was of half a mind not to give him back his glass ball and signet ring at all.  “I suppose.”

            The lady came back with a couple drapes of the fabric.  “This is what we have available.”
            “How much for the fabric?” Mica asked.

            The shopkeeper looked Thistlepouch up and down with an appraising eye.  “For the length to make something for her size.  .  .  .  I would say about ten barns.”

            Mica nodded.  “Okay.  We’ll be back.  We just need to change our money.”

            “Ah, I understand.  We shall be open until the close of day.”

            “Do you know where a close moneychanger is?”

            “Not Lockshy,” Thistlepouch felt compelled to add.

            The shopkeeper’s brow creased slightly in thought.  “Lockshy.  .  . I don’t do business with him.  .  . but I do know of one that is down about three streets.”

            They thanked her and followed her directions to the moneychanger’s, where they found an old gentleman keeping a tidy shop.  He was well-groomed, distinguished looking, and in his middle years.

            “You need to change your money?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Mica replied, stepping up to the table. “I’d like to exchange ten florins.”

            The changer pondered.  “Let me see.  .  .  there’s been some trouble out that way, politically speaking.”

            Thistlepouch had liked him up till that point.  .  .  but now he was starting to sound suspiciously like an upperclass Lockshy.  And she still didn’t see how political problems -- which she figured would make the coins rare -- would make the exchange rate worse for them.  Well.  Maybe it was time to see if her close observings of Tusit had paid off.  She put on her most innocent expression.  “Really?”

            “Yes, apparently there was an assassination out that way causing problems.”

            “Oh, yes, but you know what?  It’s all clearing up now.  We just came from that way,” she explained.

            The changer looked intrigued.  “Oh, really?  Well, then maybe you can help clear up my curiosity -- all I heard was some rumors that someone in his family was killed -- do you know of anything more specific?”

            Even worse, he was jacking up the price on unsubstantiated rumors he didn’t even know the entirety of.  Thistlepouch waved it off.  “Oh, there was an attempt -- it was sort of a distant relation.  You know how rumors are.  .  .  ”

            “So most of the information was just -”

            “Exaggerated,” Mica put in.

            Thistlepouch grinned, glad for the help.  “Third-hand.  As soon as anyone gets a whiff of someone possibly being dead, of course the sailors get hold of it and start passing it to anyone they meet.”

            The changer seemed to agree.  “Oh, I see!  Well, in that case, I could give you four barns and five nobles for a florin.”

            “Okay,” Mica agreed, and made the exchange.

            Once they were outside and safely beyond hearing, Thistlepouch tugged Mica’s shirt sleeve and whispered, “We might want to find Tusit and bring him down here before the changer finds out.  .  .”

            “Okay; let’s just stop at the dress shop on the way; we could probably have the cloth sent to Antonio’s.”

            “Ah, are you going to be buying this, then?” asked the lady when they entered the dress shop.

            “Yes.  Could you possibly have it sent to the Merchant Antonio’s house, where we’re staying?” Mica asked, handing the lady the coin as she folded up the material.

            “Ah, you’re guests of his!  Very well.  .  .  who should we say this is care of?”

            Mica debated through a few titles.  Madam.  .  .  no.  .  .  . Mistress.  .  . definitely no.  .  . “The Lady Mica.”

            Thistlepouch grinned as Mica thanked the lady and they headed off to the tanner’s.  She liked the sound of that.  She wondered if maybe she should try being Lady Thistlepouch next time, but decided against it.  It just didn’t have the same ring to it.  Not even when the Duke had used the title.

            They arrived at the tanner’s to find the tanner there.  .  .  but no Tusit.  The tanner was still talking to himself.

            “It does terrible things to sausage for a long time -”

            “Do you know where the short little red-haired guy is?  The annoying one?” Mica inquired.

            The tanner’s eyes lit.  “Oh, the one with the questions.  He left.  .  . don’t know where he went.”

            Thistlepouch considered likely possibilities.  Well, he’d been with Forge, so.  .  .  “Do you know if there’s a blacksmith nearby?”

            “Three stores down, turn to the right, down the road.  .  .  you’ll hear it.”

            She looked up to Mica.  “I’m betting that’s where the dwarf went.”

            “Probably.”

            Since they seemed to be in agreement, they followed the tanner’s directions.  He was right -- once they’d gotten about half-way there the clanging alone took them the rest of the way.  They arrived just as Forge was finishing what looked to Thistlepouch an awful lot like a caltrip.  Probably for Tusit, she decided.  And speaking of the gnome.  .  .

            “Tusit,” the kita said, catching his attention, “we found a good place to change money.  He’ll give you four barns and five nobles per florin.”

            Tusit nodded in satisfaction.  “Good.  That was our next stop.”

            Thistlepouch tried to think of a delicate way to put this.  “We might want to do that before he finds out I elaborated a bit on the gossip he’d been hearing.”

            Tusit raised his eyebrows a touch but didn’t ask.  With the kita, he probably didn’t want to know.  “All right.  .  .  fair enough.  .  .  we set?”

            Forge handed him the finished caltrip and nodded.

            As they set off to the moneychanger’s, Mica filled them in on the day’s happenings.  “I have some interesting news.  .  .  we went up to visit Melissanna; the Merchant Antonio was ministering her something out of a vial -”

            “Oh, yes; I saw that vial,” Tusit cut in.  “Given to him by Lockshy.  He didn’t quite appreciate it, either, being bought that is.”

            Mica nodded and continued.  “Anyway, he left, and we went up there, and the ball started lifting.  .  . rising.  .  . levitating.  .  .  and glowing and hot.  And it was going over towards her.  Thistlepouch looked at her through it and saw that she was sitting up and bound and gagged.  I put the ball on her hand and it turned green -- then I took it away and it stopped turning green.”

            Tusit mulled this over.  “Interesting.  Do you have the ball on you now?”

            The priestess pointed to the kita.  “She does.”

            Tusit held up his vial with the undead creepie-crawlies.  “Do you see anything in here?”

            She took out the ball and looked.  “Nope.”

            “So strange,” Tusit pondered, “because the same thing happened to her that happened to this -”

            “Maybe because she’s not dead yet?” Thistlepouch suggested helpfully.

            “Possibly,” Tusit allowed.

            “Can I see it?” Forge requested, and held it up to the leeches once Thistlepouch handed it over.

            Tusit pondered,  “It’s Magickal, definitely Magickal.  .  . that’s what he was chasing on the floor with a stick, was a leech that was heading towards that when she put it down.”

            “I think we should put a leech on there and see if it turns green,” Mica voted.

            It sounded like a good enough idea.  “May I have one of those?” Forge asked Tusit.

            “Oh, sure.  Is the globe pulling toward the leeches?”

            “Nope.”  He took one out and put it on the globe.  It vanished.  “Well, that was interesting.  How many more leeches do we have in that bottle, anyway?”

            That didn’t sound promising, Tusit decided.  “Just one, and I need it for study,” he said protectively.

            “You can’t see it anyway!” Forge pointed out.

            “It’s there, and I trust you,” the gnome countered.

            Mica was feeling left out again.  “What happened?”

            Forge gave in, corked the leech bottle.  “It just.  .  .  vanished into the globe.”

            “Can you see anything in it?” Mica asked.

            “No.  .  .  it’s still black.”  He checked his hand -- it was starting to get a little on the black side.  He was only too happy to hand it over to the kita when she requested it.

            Thistlepouch promptly put it on the curb and sat on it.

            Tusit looked at her as if she’d gone completely mad.  And decided no one would ever figure out the kita mind.  “Um, random question, kita, are you trying to get it to hatch?  And would you really want to see what comes out?  It just sucked up a leech soul.”

            “I wanted to see if I would disappear!”  And even more interesting -- though she didn’t say it because she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings -- where she’d end up if she did.  But she hadn’t gone anywhere, much to her vast disappointment.

            “Thistlepouch?” Forge tried.  “You were holding it, and your hand was crumbling.  .  .”

            Thistlepouch quickly drew the obvious conclusion and leapt up with a yelp.

            Tusit fell over laughing.  “I think it hatched!  And it’s hungry!”

            Forge did a quick look-see.  “Don’t worry, your butt’s fine,” he assured her.

            Thistlepouch half-scowled at him.  The relief in her eyes spoiled it a little.  “Just fine?!  I’m insulted!”

            “Actually,” Tusit managed between giggles.  “I think it’s pretty high up on the scale, really. Do you think it’s fair.  .  .  . good.  .  . ?”

            Thistlepouch’s scowl darkened.  She was pretty sure they were mocking her, and she had a whopper of an insult for the next person who made some smart-ass comment.

            “Oh, it’s a great butt,” Forge assured her.  “I mean, in the way of kitas, which would be -”

            Luckily for Forge, Tusit distracted her.  “Now you’ve done it, kita, what will we feed it?”

            “Really?  Do you really think it’s hatching?”  She looked at the crystal -- still clear and in tact.

            “Well, what should we do with it?” Mica asked before things could start swinging downhill again.

            “Glass jar,” Forge suggested firmly.

            “We don’t have any glass jars!” Mica pointed out, exasperated, but caught sight of an alchemist’s shop and marched off.

            “Mica, ah.  .  .  chippy.  .  .  things.  .  .  glass ball, glass jar bad!” Tusit managed, wiping his eyes and recovering from the aftershocks of the giglefit.

            Mica heard him, but he made even less sense than usual, so she ignored him.  “Hello,” she said to the first person she saw in the shop -- he looked like he owned the place.  “I need a glass bottle.  One that has a mouth at least this big.”  She showed with her fingers a circle a little larger than the ball.

            Tusit toddled in a little after her and started looking around.  As did Thistlepouch, Mica noticed.  She decided to keep the man occupied.

            “Lidded?  Non?” he asked.

            “Lidded.  Tight.”

            “Oh!  Sealed!”

            “Well, able to get in and out.”

            The alchemist frowned in thought, turned around to his storeroom and brought back a large jar, which he set on the counter.  “Well, this is larger than I normally have.  You’re fortunate; I just cleaned this one out and don’t have anything to restock it with.”

            That thing was no way going to fit in a pouch.  “Do you have anything a wee bit carriable?”

            The alchemist shrugged.  “Most everything I have that’s carriable is smaller than this and also has a smaller mouth.  If you want, I could give you the name of a glass blower.  .  .”

            “How much for this bottle?”

            “This one?”  He deliberated.  Tough call.  “I normally don’t sell bottles.  .  .  but I’d have to replace it.  .  . let’s say 20 barns.”

            Mica flinched.  Twice the kita’s material!  “That’s awfully expensive.”

            “Well, it’s a good-sized, quality jar,” the alchemist defended himself.

            Mica, deciding she just didn’t want to deal with it anymore, gave him the cash, took the jar, got the ball from Thistlepouch, and put it in.

            Tusit, meanwhile, was poking around.  He’d found perfumes,  smelling salts,  and a lot of exotic, possibly Magickal items like bat wings,  dragon’s teeth,  hair from a griffin’s tail,  and whatnot.  Nothing for poison-making, and very little for healing.  A good number of battered books lined the top shelves -- the alchemist’s personal stock.  He noticed Thistlepouch covertly tingly-sticking the jars and followed behind paying close attention.  The stick mostly tugged to jars on high shelves beyond his (and certainly beyond the kita’s) reach.  He went over to the hardware and picked up a lens -- the alchemist’s attention was immediately captured.

            “Ah, excuse me.  .  .  can I help you with something?”

            Thistlepouch whirled at the alchemist’s voice, an excuse at the ready, but he was more concerned with Tusit, who had a glass lens in his hand.

            “Just shopping,” Tusit said nonchalantly.

            “I’m sorry; I don’t sell my equipment.”

            Tusit was a little surprised and disappointed.  If the shopkeeper didn’t want to sell it, he shouldn’t put it out front, he thought.  “There’s no way you could part with any of this?”

            “I could direct you toward someone who could produce more, but I like my equipment.”  He was trying to be nice, but for some reason the gnome just struck a nerve.

            “Oh.  Fair enough.”  Tusit put the lens back and toddled out, the others behind him.

            Forge perked up once they were back outside and heading toward the changer’s, though Thistlepouch couldn’t understand why he’d looked so bored in a shop full of things to explore.  The guys went inside to change their coin while the women waited outside.

            Thistlepouch checked out her pouches since she was standing around with nothing to do (and since Mica had requested it -- she was so nice, to take an interest!) Since she’d last looked she found a couple decorative scarves and a few vials -- nothing new tingly, to her vast disappointment.  Inside the first vial was a lumpy, light-blue, oatmealish substance.  Another contained what looked like bright green cinders, and a third contained some black oily substance.  The last had in it a bunch of tiny, clear crystals.

            Inside, the changer looked up as soon as he heard customers enter.  “Yes, can I help you?”

            “Would it be possible to exchange some florins?” Tusit inquired.

            “Certainly, yes, I can give you an exchange rate of one florin to four barns and five nobles.”

            “Sounds reasonable.”  He set up the large bag.  “There’s 99 in there.”  He chipped in an extra. “Make it a hundred, just so it’s even.”

            The changer, over his initial shock, nodded, and began stacking the coins up in tens.

            “Are you interested in rare coins at all?” Tusit tested the waters as the changer was stacking.

            “I’ve done some investigation.  .  . I’ve got a few clients who collect.”

            “Have you heard of the Sea King?”

            “The Sea King?  Yes, of course,” he replied off-hand, intent on his work.

            “Have you ever seen one of his coins?”

            This had his attention a little better.  “Yes, I’ve seen one.  Why, do you have any?”

            Tusit tried to look hypothetical.  “Well, I happened across one, and I wondered if anyone might be interested in it.  .  .  I know that they’re quite rare.”

            The changer paused to think a moment.  “I think I might be able to find a buyer for one of the gold pieces for approximately fifteen barns.”

            It wasn’t quite what he’d been looking for.  “I might consider selling.  .  .  I don’t know.  It’s a curiosity I’ve found in my travels.”

            “I can completely understand.  I don’t know of anyone at the moment who is actively searching for one, though,” he said, going back to his work.

            “Very well,” Tusit decided.  “I’ll just change out the florins, then.”

            “Certainly.”  The changer finished stacking and counting; he gave Tusit 405 barns. Tusit put it all in a bag and shoved it back down the front of his pants.

            Next stop was the weapons shop; as they approached, Tusit grinned benevolently.  “Shop to your heart’s content,” he told Forge.  They were rolling in the money, and if his pants happened to get a bit lighter -- well, it might be a little more comfortable.

            Forge grinned widely.  “Well, in that case.  .  .  .” He busied himself looking at weapons.  After a bit of searching he found an axe that wasn’t very ornate, but it was of good quality, had a nice balance and edge to it.

            Thistlepouch didn’t see the attraction; it looked heavy.  Give her a good staff any day.

            The weaponsmith, who had left them alone to shop, saw Forge take a fancy to one and walked over.  “So, what can I do for you?”

            “How much?” Forge asked.

            The smith checked the weapon.  “That one I can give you for fifteen barns.”

            “Just out of curiosity,” Forge said, remembering Tusit’s offer, “what one in here would you say is your best?”

            “Well, that one is one I think was rather well done.  .  .  the only one I consider of better quality is one I keep in the back.  .  .  if you like, I can show it to you.”  Figuring on a positive response, the smith went to retrieve it and came back with a really nice-looking battle-axe.  Forge could tell right away that the blade was an alloy of iron and mithril.

            “May I?” he asked, a little reverently.

            “Certainly.”  The smith handed it over.

            Forge tested it for balance and edge -- it truly was a remarkable weapon.  “Do you have anything I could test it on?”

            “Generally I have some wooden posts to allow customers to try out the edge.  On this weapon, though.  .  .  well, I’ll need a new post.  But.  .  .  just a moment.”  The smith lugged a large wooden post away from the corner.  “You can take a shot at it.  .  . I’d ask you to chop towards the top, though.”

            “Of course.  How much is this one, out of curiosity?”

            “That one is going for about a thousand.”

            Forge let out a low whistle -- he knew how much they had -- but he couldn’t resist trying anyway.  It smoothly chopped through the wood.  He whimpered.  And saw Tusit and Mica go off to confer in low tones.  He turned to the kita.  “Do you have the stick?”  She handed it over, suddenly seeing the attraction of something that could take out a wooden post so easily; he tested the blade, but it didn’t tingle.  Not that it mattered much.  He was pretty sure he was in love.  He handed back the stick -- he’d noticed the women were very protective of it.  “Is there any way I could do some work for you?  I do some smithing on the side.  .  .” he offered the smith.

            The smith shook his head.  “Normally I would consider it, but this weapon is such that -”

            “Where did you find it?”

            “I must admit that this particular weapon I did not forge; I purchased it from a dwarven merchant.”

            Forge couldn’t help a feeling of wry pride.  “How did I know.  .  .”

            “No other race has ever managed to get a good mithril alloy,” the smith answered matter-of-factly.        

            Forge decided on another tactic.  “You have a dwarf willing to work here for you, but you won’t take me on even though you know dwarven workmanship?”

            “I know, but this particular weapon was made of mithril, and unless you have that with you -”

            Tusit came out of conference with Mica.  “Good sir, have you heard of the Sea King?”

            “Yes, I know the legends.”

            “Would you recognize any artifacts of his?” he pursued.  “Weaponry and such?”

            “Weaponry of the Sea King?  I wouldn’t know what it looked like if some of it showed up.”

            Tusit hedged, “I might have a lead on a weapon reputed to belong to the Sea King.  A mace.  . .  it does have Magickal properties.  Might you be willing to make that a trade for part of the payment?”

            “For myself, all I would be able to give for it would be what you’d get for any reasonably good-quality mace.  I know naught of Magickal abilities, and to be honest, who last owned it means little to me so long as it’s not stolen.  If you’re attempting to find someone who’s interested in it for its historical value, you’d be better suited to find a collector, if such exists.  I have no way of verifying what its history would be.”

            Thistlepouch sidled up to Tusit and Mica.  “I don’t suppose we need to find the black market for those place settings?” she asked in a low voice.

            “Sure.”  Mica nodded.

            Tusit continued talking to the smith.  “Would it be possible to put down a hundred barns in good faith towards this axe?  So that you don’t sell it?”

            The smith debated briefly with himself.  “I’ve not had a buyer interested in this for.  .  .  . very well.  With the understanding that if I don’t hear back from you in ten days -”

            “Within ten days we’ll be able to either round up the cash.  .  .  or not,” Tusit assured him.

            The smith nodded again.  “Very well.”

            “Would we be able to get this hundred back if we decide against it?” the gnome hazarded.

            “Of course!”  The smith looked a little surprised that he would ask.

            Tusit gave him the hundred barns and started heading for the door, caught sight of the pained expression on Forge’s face.  “We’re working on it.  .  .  we’re working on it.  Give it back to the nice man.”

            Forge hesitated, torn.  “Could I try one more thing with this?

            “Sure.  .  .  what is it that you’d like to try?”

            “I’d like to cut a piece of rope.”

            “Very well.”

            Forge took off his medallion, laid out the rope.

            Tusit’s eyes widened slightly.  “Before you come near that.  .  .  .  remember what it did to the mallet?”

            “I’m not touching the amulet.”

            “All right.”  Tusit could see what was coming, though.  Hades was apparently one stubborn bastard.

            There was a tense pause, all eyes on the dwarf.

            Forge decided better of it.  “Never mind.”  He handed the axe back.

            Once outside, Tusit pulled the kita aside.  “The black market is a good idea.  .  .  I suggest we put together a care package, call it ‘ill-gotten goods.’  We include some of the coins and the place settings.  If we can find a chest in town.  .  .  a wooden sea chest to put them in.  While we’re on this mission, would you like to try to drum up a buyer?  Set up a meeting.”

            “All right,” Thistlepouch agreed cheerfully, and set off to find the nearest disreputable-looking dockside swillery.  She succeeded and then some -- The Bilge Pump was the seediest looking drinking establishment she’d ever seen. She walked in and all conversation stopped.  She swaggered up to the bar.  It was still dead silent.  Evidently she was going to have to get the ball rolling, and she didn’t have any leftover coin to buy a drink -- aside from the one guilder she was saving as a remembrance of her favor from the Duke.  “I don’t suppose anyone here knows Caliban?” she hazarded.  It was a long shot, that anyone would know a particular street rat on an entirely different island, but she had to say something.

            Unfortunately, someone did know him.  A chair slammed back; she whipped around to see a very large, very surly, very drunk sailor glaring at her.  “Caliban?!”  After the initial shout, his voice became deadly low and intent.  “Who’s -- looking -- for -- Caliban?”

            Oooo.  .  .  she’d really put her foot in it this time, she decided as he advanced in nothing short of a stalk.  Time to talk fast.  “Well, hypothetically speaking, I was, but if you’re already looking to settle a score with him, then I guess I don’t need to,” she concluded brightly.  He was doing a very good job of looming over her.

            “Look.  No one touches him.  But where did you last see him?”

            “Flora town.”  This was not going as she’d hoped.

            “Flora?  Where?!”

            Thistlepouch couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes.  “On a street outside the moneychanger’s.  I doubt he’s still there.”

            “I’m going to have to find him.  And you’re coming with me,” he said in a menacing growl.

            “That’s debatable,” she replied.  It was the most diplomatic way she could think of to get out of it.

            “Look, little elf twerp!” he shouted, grabbing the front of her shirt and tugging her forward as he leaned down to breathe foul, stale-ale breath in her face.

            “I’m not an elf!” Thistlepouch cried indignantly, and swung her staff at his head.  He dodged around it and brought up his other hand to backhand her, but misjudged the distance and went over her head.  Thistlepouch was suddenly glad for his stale-ale breath.  “Look, orc-for-brains! You could at least call me by my proper race!”

            “What did you call me?!” He pulled back his fist threateningly.

            Thistlepouch made her eyes as wide and innocent as possible.  A bad sign.  “Did I say orc-for-brains?  I’m sorry.”  She paused for effect, a mischievous gleam entering her eyes as she wound up for a good taunt, though by no means her Ultimate Taunt.  “An orc wouldn’t stand in front of a mirror for half a candlemark trying to figure out where he’d seen himself before!”

            The guy let out an enraged howl and punched at her.  .  .  Thistlepouch flinched in anticipation and dodged, grinning when he was the one who screamed in agony.  He’d misjudged distance again and hit the bar, and was cradling his hand.  The kita took advantage of his loosened grip to slip away, maneuver herself behind him, and jab at his left cheek with the pointed end of her staff. It got his attention -- he turned and swung his other hand at her.

            Thistlepouch made a dash for the door.  He almost caught up with her, nearly got hold of her tunic, but she managed to squirm away and dart out the door ahead of him.  He followed, hot on her trail.  She looked frantically for some crates to upend and slow him down, but they all looked too full to knock over.  She kept running, could hear him panting hard behind her.  Panting.  Good sign.  Then a thump, his surprised holler, a crash -- and, yes, that was definitely a snap.  Even better sign.  She turned to look -- he was motionless on the ground, head bleeding badly and leg twisted in an angle legs don’t normally twist. Thistlepouch quit running and just walked back to the boat, whistling under her breath.  She arrived about the same time as Forge, who had gone off to check his armor.  Judging from the fact that he wasn’t wearing it, she figured it wasn’t done yet.  The kita leaned against a post nonchalantly and put on her best “I-didn’t-just-get-into-a-barfight-why-do-you-ask?” look.  “Hi, guys.”

            “Find anything?” Tusit asked, looking up from his sea chest, full of what looked like ten gold coins, twenty silver, some assorted piddly change, and a third of their place settings.

            “Oh, yes.”

            “Anything interesting?” Mica wanted to know at the same time Tusit added, “Anything useful?”

            “Interesting, yes.  Um.  .  .  define useful.”

            “Do you know who we contact?”

            Thistlepouch hedged a bit.  “Well, I found one person who really didn’t like the name of the person I knew from Flora.  .  .  but I don’t think he’s going to be much of a problem.  .  .  .”

            “Whyyyyy?” Tusit prodded, dragging the word out.  When a kita gets reluctant to talk, it’s a good sign that you’d better drag out the whole story.

            “Because he’s lying on the docks about two hundred yards back badly bleeding from his head and his leg twisted in a bad angle.  And he wasn’t moving.”

            Tusit’s jaw dropped.  “What did you do?!”

            “I didn’t do anything!” Thistlepouch defended herself.  “He tripped while he was chasing me!”

            “Why was he chasing you?” Mica asked reasonably.

            “Because he called me an elf-twerp and I poked him in the backside with the end of my staff after he punched the bar and broke his fist.”

            “Did he have anything interesting in his pockets?” questioned Tusit.

            “I don’t know.  .  .  I was a little bit too busy running for my life to check!”

            “You didn’t loot the body?!  What kind of kita are you?!” Tusit teased.

            “A live one!” she retorted, wounded.  “And you’re beginning to sound like Bob!”

            Tusit winced.  “Oh, stop that!”

            Thistlepouch added another taunt to her list.  Though, she reflected, it would only work within the party.  She still felt a need to defend her status, so she said a bit sulkily, “And I don’t think he had anything interesting in his pockets, anyway!  His sort usually don’t.”

            Mica decided to keep the peace.  “Okay.  .  .  so is the black market kind of closed?”

            Thistlepouch adopted a jaunty grin.  “No.  .  .  just that particular alley blocked off.”

            “Is this guy gonna get up and find you again?”  Mica looked skeptical of the story.

            It did sound lame, Thistlepouch realized.  The worst part was, it was true.  Maybe she should’ve made up a great battle scene where she beat the tar out of him.  “I don’t think so.  He didn’t know who I am and he was drunker than Darwin.”

            “No offense, Thistlepouch,” Forge put in, “but how many kita are there running around the town?”

            Thistlepouch shrugged.  “He thought I was a stunted elfling.”

            “How many stunted elflings are there running around the town?”

            “I dunno.  I kind of doubt anyone’s going to remember one brawl more or less.”

            “Why don’t you try one on the other side of town?” Mica suggested.

            “The other side of the wharf, maybe,” Tusit added.

            Forge looked apprehensive.  “Should we maybe go with her and get this all taken care of at once.  .  .  ?”

            “Well, I say that we leave the chest here, but we need someone to watch it,” Tusit voiced.  “We’ll need Grog for protection.”    

            “We need you for negotiation,” Mica added, “and Forge, you’re stronger than I am, so why don’t you go, too.  I’ll stay here with the boat.”

            Thistlepouch grinned and set off with a bouncing gait. She’d defeated the last one. How much worse could it get?

***

Disclaimer: Despite Forge's weird viewings, no body parts turned black or crumbled during the creation of this chapter.