Nineteen

            The day of the ball, Mica's eyes popped open to the sudden and sinking knowledge that she still didn’t know how to dance.  Her costume had arrived the previous day -- everything she’d hoped it would be, and she smiled at the remembrance of delight on the kita’s small face as the little klepto marveled at both their outfits.  Still, the neatest costume at the ball would only do her so much good if she couldn’t dance.  She would need a partner for that -- she went through the list of potential candidates in her mind.  .  .  .  the gnome she doubted had much grace, Darwin was in no shape to dance, Forge was nowhere to be found, Bob.  .  .  the kita might be fun, and they did make a good team.  That decided, she went to grab some bean.

*                      *                      *

            Thistlepouch drifted awake, thankful to have sensation in her feet.  Pickles, instead of draping over her, had decided to stretch out on against her right side, his head on the pillow and his tail wrapped around her feet, making it quite obvious that he had the advantage of length.  Thistlepouch wasn’t sure if that was better than loss of circulation or not.  “Show off,” she muttered under her breath,  tumbled out of bed, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.  She looked back to see Pickles had placed his head where hers had been.  She took off the elf silky she’d commandeered for a nightshirt and wiggled into her traveling clothes.  After running a brush through her hair, she checked to see if Tusit had made it back yet -- he hadn’t; at least his stuff was there, and she didn’t figure he’d leave without it, unless he’d been spirited off to another dimension, in which case he wouldn’t have had time to grab it anyway, though with mages you never knew -- and went to find breakfast.

            She found Mica there, nose-deep in a mug of bean.

            “Morning!” Thistlepouch greeted her.

            Mica grunted.

            Thistlepouch decided to give her a little more time; she went to the continental breakfast table where most of the household grabbed their morning meal.  To her vast delight, previews for the ball’s repast were amongst the normal fare (and the kitchen was even more in a bustle than normally); she grabbed some interesting-looking tidbits along with pickles, dried fruit, cheese, and tea.

            Mica, though only half-awake, raised her eyebrows at the kita’s choice.  Is she pregnant?! she wondered.  “Busy little kita,” she muttered with a half-smile.

            Thistlepouch looked at her strangely, having no idea whatsoever what the woman meant.

            “I was thinking,” Mica said once she’d gained a little more coherency, “after my morning exercise, we need to find a dancing instructor.”

            “That’s right!” the kita cried; it had completely slipped her mind.  “We need to teach Grog how to dance!”

            “Dance?  Why does he need to learn to dance?  He can hardly speak!”

            “So he can go to the ball because Melissanna has a crush on him.”

            Mica's eyes got very wide and she leaned back in her chair, trying to process.  “Woah.  .  .  wait, I knew this.  I just blocked it out for some strange reason.  Must be morning.”  She shook her head and reflected a little on the oddity of life.  “Well, we have a mission.  Now all we have to do is find Grog.”

            “I think he’s on the boat.”

            “Okay.”  She gulped down the rest of her bean.  “I have to go do my morning exercises first; I’ll be in the practice yard, okay?”

            The kita nodded; Mica went to make her morning devotionals.  The practice yard was strangely deserted, but she figured they were all likely helping prepare for the ball.  As she worked swordforms, she thought back to the things she’d discovered during her one-night stint in the Academy.

            The textbook she’d read had been on avatars in general, but had a chapter on Athena, and mentioned two instances where “avatars of Athena” -- her Chosen -- had appeared. The most prominent was during a period of exodus from the Empire to the East -- there had been a war, and the refugees spanned several races and cultures.  He protected them in their flight, found somewhere for them to live, and helped the various societies gain a foothold in a land ruled mostly by pirates.  By the time the avatar left, the pirates had been almost completely wiped out.  There were sketchy references to another avatar that appeared many years before that -- the knowledge had been reduced to folklore that said “the great defender of the people” battled daemons of epic proportions, which, in the author’s opinion, had been either greatly exaggerated or changed in some respect.

            So, basically, it boiled down to Athena sending avatars that were the fighters for truth, justice, and the underdog.  Though, admittedly, it was hard to draw a conclusion from two data points.  Other gods, she’d noticed, occasionally employed avatars to meet certain needs, some had odd avatars (Poseidon occasionally sent serpents, and most of his avatars among the upright races were apparently chosen on a whim), and some had none at all.

            Thistlepouch went to check on Melissanna, but she wasn’t in her room.  She turned around to see a dwarf stomping down the hallway -- and then realized it was neither Forge nor Darwin.  As he neared, she noticed he wore a tabard with Antonio's livery.  “Oh! I didn’t know Merchant Antonio had dwarves in his service!”

            The dwarf looked up, startled.  “Crimeny!  No, there aren’t.  I’m just here on an extra basis.  For the ball.”

            “Oh!  We’ve got a couple other dwarves in our group, if you want to talk to some of your own kind.  Darwin and Forge.”  She gave him brief -- for a kita -- descriptions.  “Anyway.  Do you know where Lady Melissanna is?”

            “Yes, just going out there myself,” he answered gruffly.  “To help with the preparations.  In the pavilion.  Bushes and things.”

            Thistlepouch figured that in that case, she was probably really busy and didn’t want to be disturbed.  She thanked the dwarf, then went to deliver breakfast to her dragon, who lifted his head and murfled groggily at her entrance.  Catching the scent of food, he snuffled until he determined the exact direction, then sent his tongue out to scout ahead. 

            Thistlepouch offered a pickle.

            The sinuous tongue coiled around the helpless veggie and reeled it in.  Once he’d consumed it, Pickles licked his chops in a satisfied manner and peeked with one eye to see if there was more to be had.

            Thistlepouch set the tray on the bedside table and gazed at him with her fists on her hips.  “You know, you’re getting awfully spoiled, what with breakfast in bed every day.”

            Copper eyes opened slowly, and he looked at her with an ever-so-innocent expression. Murfle?

            Thistlepouch sighed, patted him on the head, and went to find Mica.

            “I’m going to go dancing,” she called as she was about to shut the door.

            The tray clattered to the ground.

            Thistlepouch turned and looked.

            Pickles stared at her, wide-eyed, bolt-upright, and fully awake. Murfle?!

            “Why, did you want to come with?”

            He blinked, a quizzical look on his face, but did not move.

            “Stay here, eat breakfast; I’ll be back later on.”  She left the door slightly open so he could get out if he so needed, though she didn’t put it past him to get wherever he wanted to go.

            She met Mica in the entryway.

            “All set?” the holy warrior inquired.

            “Yup!”

            “You bring your dragon with?” she asked, suddenly remembering, and peered around.

            “No, he’s upstairs having breakfast.  He’s not a morning dragon, and I don’t think dancing is really his style.  Maybe we should find out where the instructors are before we go to get Grog?”

            Mica looked at her oddly, a little surprised at the forethought, and snagged a random page -- a youngish man whose hair hadn’t made the acquaintance of a comb recently, purposefully unkempt-looking and with a distracted manner.  “Do you know where a dancing instructor is?”

            “Huh?”

            “In Barnicus?”

            “Yes?”

            “Could you find out for me?”

            “Uh.  .  .”

            “Do you understand the language?”

            “Yes.”  He smiled off into the distance.  Mica had the distinct notion that he’d been inhaling more than just oxygen.

            “Okay.  Will you be able to come back within a reasonable amount of time?”

            “Yes, I can.”

            “Who are you going to go find?” she pressed.

            “Oh, I already know the answer.”

            “And that is?”

            “Dancing instructors.  .  .  are all right now.  .  .  .  up.  .  .  .  by.  .  .  the ball!”  He smiled as if he’d done something brilliant.

            “I know where that is!” Thistlepouch interjected, not wanting to wait for the directions out of this one, if he was even right enough in the head to tell them.

            “Great!”  Mica thanked the page and left, shaking her head at the sorry state of youth today and wondering where Antonio found his help, the kita following.

            At the boat, they found Grog mending a fishing net.  Mica had no idea where he’d gotten it, but she knew it wasn’t theirs.

            “You picked up a fishing net?” Mica inquired lowly of the kita.

            She shook her head solemnly.  “It’s too big to fall in my pouch.”

            She shrugged.  “Can never tell.  You ever tried?”

            Thistlepouch thought for a moment.  “That’s true.”  She turned to Grog.  “Hey, Grog.  Where’d the fishing net come from?”

            “Fixing for friend.”

            “Who’s your friend?”

            “Geeth, down the way.”

            “Oh.  Okay.  You have time to come play with us?”

            “Guard the boat.”

            “But the soldiers are going to guard the boat for us,” Mica interrupted.

            “Come with.  Please, Grog? Pleeeeease?” Thistlepouch did her best to bat her huge, green kita eyes at him.  “You can guard us!”

            “We need someone to keep us company,” Mica chimed in.

            “Kee.”

            Thistlepouch led them to the pavilion, which swarmed like a hive of kicked ants -- two dwarves constructing temporary stages, towers, and a coral reef, pages running errands, organizers calling instructions.  Two children hard on a game of tag scurried around Mica's legs and dashed off to the labyrinth -- she hoped they wouldn’t get lost.  “Quite a to do going on,” she remarked.

            Thistlepouch nodded and snagged a passing female, tall and willowy, carrying a bundle with silk and wire faerie wings poking out of it.  “Could you tell me where I could find someone to teach us dance?”

            “Right now I must supervise the final rehearsal of our dancing troupe, but afterwards I could give you some lessons for a small fee,” she informed them in a soft voice.

            “That would be much appreciated,” Mica replied politely.  “Could we watch your rehearsal?”

            “Why, certainly, if you wish!”

            Thistlepouch followed, trailing Grog, who slowed.  Mica got behind him to make sure they didn’t lose him somewhere.

            “Why this ‘bout learn dance?”

            “Cause I don’t know how to dance, Grog!” Mica told him.  “I need a partner, and you’re the perfect height.  The kita is much too short -”

            “Can’t dance.”

            “That’s why you learn!” Thistlepouch chimed merrily.

            “Don’t know want to -”

            “Oh, come on, Grog, do it for me,” Mica pleaded.  “I’d really appreciate it.  Just give it a shot.  You won’t know until you try, and I’m sure you’ll be wonderful.”

            They dragged Grog the rest of the way to the recital area where a group of six willowy women warmed up.  Their guide put her bundle off to the side next to six similar heaps of fabric, then quickly but carefully stretched out.  The dance they practiced was graceful, floating and gliding and leaping.  Grog's eyes widened in horror.

            “No, no, no, don’t wanna dance, no -”

            Thistlepouch and Mica rushed to keep him sitting and provide jumbled assurances that it wasn’t the kind of dancing he’d be expected to do.

            “I’ve never seen any kind of dance like this,” Mica vouched.  “Have you, Thistlepouch?  Do you know what it’s called?”

            The kita considered for a minute.  “Floaty dance?”

            “Floaty?”

            “Well, see, they’re kind of floating.  .  .”

            “You know, that looks really uncomfortable.  Gods, look at their feet!  I couldn’t do that to my toes!  What kind of ridiculous dance is this?! What are they doing to their toes?!  Wouldn’t that hurt?!”

            Thistlepouch got a pensive expression on her face and tried standing on the ends of her toes.  It hurt.  She thumped back to the ground.  “It hurts.  They’re crazy.”

            “Maybe we should find somebody else,” Mica suggested doubtfully.

            “I doubt they’re going to try and make us dance like that.”

            “You sure? They’re smiling.”

            “I think they’re supposed to.”

            “Women can be so silly sometimes.”

            “Yeah.”

            When the dance finished, the woman they’d first met clapped her hands delicately, gave a few words of encouragement, told them when to meet back, and dismissed her troupe.

            “Do you have any money?” Mica asked the kita lowly.

            “Yeah!” she said brightly, though she had no idea whether she did or not.  More than likely some had fallen into her pouch -- pouches were like that.

            The woman glided over to the companions.  “You are interested in instruction?”

            “Not like that,” Thistlepouch added hastily, to reassure Grog.

            “What kind of dance was that, anyway?” Mica questioned, figuring the kita really hadn’t known what she was talking about.

            “Ballet.”

            Thistlepouch looked dubious.  “That doesn’t look like belly dancing to me,” she said quietly to Mica, who shrugged.

            “That’s what she called it.”  Louder, “We need to know how to dance for this ball.”

            “Ah.  You three are interested in courtly dance?”

            “Yeah,” Mica replied brightly after a pause, for all the world like she knew what she was talking about.  “Our friend Grog is exceedingly uncomfortable in dancing,” she informed the woman quietly.  “If you could.  .  .  be kind?”

            “Very well, then,” she said, with a nod, and proceeded to guide them through several forms, most of which included almost-but-not-quite touching your partner and gliding back and forth to a slow beat.  Thistlepouch, who had quite a bit of romping experience with country dances, picked up the forms easily enough, but she bounced through them as if to a jig or a reel, not with the sweeping grace the dances called for.  Mica, used to the very controlled movements of her morning devotionals, got the smooth part down, but her motions were powerful, and lacking the flowing elegance of the willowy woman.  Grog surprised them; once he got over his self-consciousness and learned the steps, he displayed quite an aptitude for it.  Thistlepouch winked at Mica, who grinned and added some bounce to her steps.  Perhaps it wasn’t exactly the way to do it, but she looked like she was having fun, so why not?

            After the pattern dances came the waltz, which Thistlepouch knew by heart since she’d been half her current size (and didn’t much like, since there was little variation and it required hardly any energy), but Mica had some problems walking backwards.  She couldn’t see where she was going, she didn’t understand why she had to be the one to do it, and it bothered her.  She took the lead, and Grog let her.

            “Most of these dances come from Highport and the eastern islands,” the instructor informed them after the waltz.  “They are elvish in nature, and the current popular style on Ventris.  There may be songs from the previous popular style, which originated in the fields of Dennik, as well as a song or two from the fishing villages of Jackaman.”

            “Bouncy, faster ones?” Thistlepouch asked hopefully.

            “Yes, ‘Walls of Wisell’ and ‘The Fisherman’s Reel’ are two of the more common forms.  From Jackaman, the style is much more sinuous.  There is one style from Jackaman that I believe your friend Grog would be quite good at.  However, I fear that it is a little less.  .  .  restrained.  .  .  than he may be comfortable with.”

            “Show me, and I’ll try it,” Mica volunteered, stepping to the proverbial mat.

            “It is a dance.  .  .  for two people,” the instructor told her delicately.

            Thistlepouch's eyes widened; she was pretty sure she knew it.  She shook her head.  “He’ll never do it.”

            Mica, horribly intrigued, frowned a little.  “I want to learn, though.”

            The instructor nodded assent, and began teaching it to her as best she could.  Grog, on the sidelines, watched, red to his hairline, and caught between staring in fascination and averting his eyes.  Thistlepouch repeated the steps to one side, pretending she had a partner.  She sighed a bit in consternation.  Anyone that was likely to be the right height to dance with her wasn’t terribly likely to do so.  Maybe if she asked Tobaltio really nice.  .  .  ?

            “This is really fun, Grog; you should try this,” Mica called mid-step, and Grog blushed even harder, muttering under her breath and shaking his head.

            “At this point,” the instructor said when they’d finished, “you know most of the dances they’ll do tonight.  If there’s nothing else you’d like to learn, I’ll just charge you my standard price for lessons, which is fifty nobles apiece, since this was a short lesson.”

            Mica handed her two barns, and the lady gathered her costume and departed.

            As the threesome entered the main courtyard, they spotted someone they hadn’t seen for quite some time: Bob!  Zed perched on his shoulder, leathery, veined wings folded over his head.  Mica wrinkled her nose.

            “Ack! It’s the vampyre chicken!” Thistlepouch cried out of reflex.

            “It’s just bald.  It’s not a vampyre.  It’s Zed,” Bob countered, as if that explained everything.

            “Hi, Bob,” Mica greeted with a marked lack of enthusiasm.  “What are you doing out?”

            “I’m looking for the gnome.  Do you know where he is?”

            “He’s not here, and he’s not at Antonio's.  I think he went out on the town somewhere,” Thistlepouch informed him, hoping it would make him go away.

            “So you don’t know where I can find him?”

            “Nope.  No idea.  He’s out gnoming around,” Mica said firmly.  “Sorry.”

            “Where did you last see him?”

            Thistlepouch cocked her head, considering the stirige, considering that the librarian at the desk probably wouldn’t like it.  She debated briefly with her sadistic streak.  The sadistic streak won.   “The Amacus Attickus Ickicus.  Big library. You should go there.”

            “And you know how get to big library?” he asked the kita, as if talking to a small child.

            “Follow the Yellow Brick Road?” Mica suggested nastily and stepped off to the side with a smirk.

            Thistlepouch gave him directions.  The wrong ones.  Bob shuffled off.

            “You know, that hedge over by where Bob's shuffling to looks an awful lot like a buffalo,” Mica commented.

            Thistlepouch considered.  “Really?  I thought it was a bear.”

            “Could be a moose.”  She shuddered.  “Bob was carrying his bald chicken on his shoulder -- it’s all leathery and veiny.  Most things I’ve seen like that just kind of hang, but his was upright!  It was hiding, though, thank the gods.  I guess it just didn’t want to show its head.”

*                      *                      *

            When Forge returned to Merchant Antonio's manor, the only member of his party there was Darwin, who glanced over when his cousin entered the room.  Darwin grunted.  “I don’t suppose you brought anything.  .  .  interesting?”

            Forge handed him the bottle of the good stuff he’d been brewing. 

            Darwin glugged quite a bit of it and sighed in bliss.  “That’s the way to heal!”

            “Enjoy.  Hey, do you know where everybody else went?”

            “I heard something about the kita, Mica, and Grog going off to learn how to prance.  .  .  something about dancing lessons.  The gnome’s up doing that study rot.”

            Forge nodded.  “I’ll be back later.”  He had no idea where somebody would learn to prance, so he went to the Library.  He’d never been before, and its construction and sheer size impressed him duly.  The suits of armor gave him a double-take, but he saw the insignia was different.  Bob, his stirige perched on his shoulder, stood at the double-doors, staring forlornly into the building.

            “You goin’ in there?” Bob asked as Forge walked by.

            “Why?”

            “If you can find the gnome, it’d be really helpful.”

            “Why?”

            “‘Cause I need him.”

            “For what?”

            “I need him to help me train my stirige.”

            “I wonder what that’d taste like,” Forge mused, a sadistic glint in his eye.

            Zed hissed at him menacingly.

            “Don’t hurt Zed!” Bob protested.  “See?  You hurt his feelings!”

            Forge rolled his eyes, nonplused, and went inside.  “My heart bleeds for him,” he shot sarcastically over his shoulder.

            The librarian glanced up.  “Yes, can I help you?”

            “I’m looking for a gnome.”

            “Ah, yes!  The one with the hurt shoulder and red hair?”

            Well, right on one account, and no knowing what he’d gotten himself into.  “Yeah.”

            “I’m not sure where he is, but he is here.”

            “Where’s your arcane stuff?”

            He hesitated.  “If you wish, I have small pamphlets, which contain maps.  You can purchase one for only fifty nobles -”

            “Never mind.  Thanks.”

            Forge walked through the next set of doors and bellowed at the top of his voice, “TUSIT!!!!!”

            Bong!  “Please keep noise to a minimum so as not to disturb others studying in the Library.”

            Forge waited for the echoes to die.

            Tusit, five stories up, put his finger on his book to mark his page and looked up.  “That wasn’t the kita.”

            He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity.  “IN-SAH'LUM!!!!!”

            Bong!  “Again, please do not make too much noise.”

            “Sorry.  It’ll just be one more time,” he told no one in particular, and waited for the echo to die.

            Tusit considered.  One of the dwarves, and Darwin was too injured to make the trek or the bellow required for him to hear it that far off.  “Bother.”

            “CYLUNZ!!!!!”

            Bong!  “Any further noise will be punished.”

            Forge shrugged.

            Tusit ripped one of his note sheets out of its binding, made a couple notes as to where he was, used it as a place-marker, closed the book, and went downstairs.  He met Forge coming up.  “You bellowed?”

            “I see my page worked?”

            “Ah, yes.  There are simpler methods; however, I got the point.”

            “What happened to your shoulder?”

            “Oh, that.  The kita and I got into a bit of mischief.”

            “And you didn’t invite me?”

            “I didn’t know where you went!”

            “I was making this.”  He proudly displayed his hammer, a work of art with a handle suited to his large, thick hands, Hades’ symbol on the head so that the amulet could lock in place, and a spike counterweight on the other end.  It glowed faintly black.

            “Goodness!  I am very impressed!”

            Forge disengaged the amulet -- the hammer ceased to glow -- and handed it to him so he could get a closer look.  Tusit almost dropped it on his foot.

            “Would you like something to drink?” Forge offered.

            Tusit smiled diplomatically.  “Thanks, but no.  I think I’ll stick to -- what did you call that? -- elf piss.”

            “Oh, I’ve got some weaker stuff, too.”  He handed him the bottle of the kita-duty brew.  “I didn’t want to knock the kita out too badly.”

            So as not to be rude, Tusit took the tiniest of sips and handed it back.  “Is there something I can do for you?”

            “Aye.”  He hefted his hammer and grinned in an unpleasant sort of way.  “Do you know where Lockshy is?”

            “Oooo!  Unfortunately, no.  The kita might, but I don’t know.  I’ve been in here for -” he tried to do a mental reckoning and couldn’t get the days straight.  “Good gods.”

            “About as long as I’ve been making this.”

            “You know, now that I think about it, I’m quite hungry.”

            “Shall we grab something to eat, find people who know where he is, and go beat him up?”

            “Yes.  I’d better put this back, though.”

            Forge held out his hand.

            Tusit looked at him suspiciously.  “What are you going to do with it?”

            “I’m going to set it down somewhere.”

            The gnome had the sneaking suspicion this involved the book becoming a projectile.  “I’ll be back.  Thank you.”  He ran upstairs, set it on the first table convenient on the fifth level, removing the slip of paper and studying it on his way down.  “You can’t believe the information in this place.”

            Forge raised his eyebrows, gave it a survey.  “Yeah, I think I would.  Find any good books?”

            Tusit chuckled.  “That’s like asking Darwin if he found any good pigs.”

            Forge winced.  “Don’t tell him that one.  He’s already in enough pain.  Well, actually, by now he’s probably unconscious.  I gave him some of my good stuff.  Oh, by the way, Bob is waiting for you with his chicken.”

            “And you’re breaking me out?”

            “I’ll keep him away.  We could take a back way,” he suggested.

            “There is none.”

            “Window?”

            “No.  There is one door, in and out.”

            “What idiot built -”

            “I don’t think it was built.”

            “Still!”

            “I agree.  It’s silly.  But I’m sure there’s a reason.”

*                      *                      *

            “Gee, Grog,” Thistlepouch said pointedly, “imagine what this place’ll look like at night.  I bet it’ll be really neat with all the lanterns.”

            “Green,” he replied sagely.  “It’ll be green.  Looks green now.  Kinda green then.”

            “Look at all the work Melissanna's put into making this pretty.  I bet she’d like it if you saw it at night so you could tell her what a good job she did,” she coaxed.

            “You tell her.”

            “I think it’d mean more coming from you,” she pressed.

            “Don’t think so.”

            “I do.  She told me.”  Even though she hadn’t.

            “Did not.”

            “Well, you’ll never find out, will you, if you don’t come and see.”

            He quietly pondered that one for a bit.

            As they neared the hedge-maze, they heard a man’s voice, familiar, but Mica nor Thistlepouch could quite place it.  “Did you find the gnome?”

            Mica stopped dead and swatted at the kita to get close and keep quiet, which she was doing anyway.

            A pause.  Then, the same voice, “Can you lure him out?”

            The bushes were too thick to see through.  Thistlepouch padded over to Grog and tugged his sleeve, pointed up.  He boosted her high enough to see the top of the hedge, but not who was on the other side.  She gently placed one hand on the top -- it was firm enough to hold her, but would make a bloody lot of noise getting her up.  She motioned for Grog to put her down, which he did.  Mica thumbed a left, thumbed a right, and headed off to the right, her quarterstaff at the ready.

            “Stay here,” the kita whispered to Grog, who had no intention of moving anyway, and headed off to the left brandishing her staff.

            “That would not be wise.  The guardians would react violently,” said the voice from the other side of the bush.  Only Grog heard it.

            Thistlepouch took a turn.

            Mica, still feeling a little hyped from her dancing, took one, too.

            “Do you think that that is possible?”

            Thistlepouch took two more turns.

            Mica took a second, and a straight.

            “I do not think that would be wise.  Perhaps it would be better to keep the normal plan.”

            On the fourth turn, Thistlepouch found herself completely lost.  She had no idea where she was, how to get back to where she’d come from, or how to get where she was going.  It didn’t phase her; she just kept going on the theory that she couldn’t be lost forever and would eventually get where she was going.

            Mica's third turn was a whim, and just as she heard “- normal plan,” she spotted Ens twenty feet ahead of her talking to thin air.  He was still paunchy, with muscle under it, but instead of unkempt and a greasy, he wore a lower merchant’s clothing with a shortsword and dagger.  He had shaved and bathed.  With a cold glint in her eyes, she slowly backed to the hedge.  She still couldn’t hear or see who Ens addressed.

            “True, but I doubt we could prevent all outside influence upon the Academy.”  Pause.  “Do you truly think that is possible?”  Long pause.  “Very well, but we need to maintain the security of the gnome’s pouch.  Especially the papers.  Above all else, remember: we must obtain those two pages.”  He turned away from Mica and started down the passage.

            Mica fumed.  He’d narked her off before, got a nice kid killed, and now he was talking about beating up on her gnome.  She didn’t want to kill him, just ask him some questions.  The kind that are generally interspersed with screams of pain.  She charged, her swing on target for his head, but at her footfalls he turned and lurched backwards out of the way, fumbling for his sword as he dodged.  He finally managed to get it out, but had no time for an offensive strike under her barrage of swings.

            “Get him, boys!”  Mica hollered, hoping to both alert her party and put him off balance.

            He spun to see the kita at the other end of the passage at the same time Grog bellowed “MICA!!!” to the sounds of breaking shrubbery.

            She hadn’t planned for it to work quite so well, but she didn’t intend to complain.  With an open shot on his back, she clocked him hard upside the head.  He dropped to his knees, badly stunned, a bleeding wound on the side of his head.

            Thistlepouch charged forward and aimed the pointed end of her staff threateningly at the enemy’s head -- his lower one.

            “Get his sword!” Mica instructed.

            Thistlepouch did so.

            Mica slammed the butt end of her quarterstaff between his shoulderblades, knocking him to the ground.  He scrabbled weakly, trying to get up.  Mica pinned him.  “Do you have any rope?”

            “I’ve got fabric.  If you hold him down, I can bind him.”

            Between the two of them, they got him gagged and bound like a pig for the slaughter.

            Grog burst through the shrubbery, bits of leaf and twig sticking to his clothing.  His sword sported several nasty nicks where he’d tried to use it as an axe.

            Thistlepouch managed to keep a straight face.  “It’s a good look on you, Grog.”

            “You okee?”

            Mica nodded.  “We’re okay.”

            “Sorry ‘bout bush.”  He looked sheepish.

            “That’s okay,” Mica reassured him as she searched the prisoner for valuables.  “I appreciate you coming to rescue me.”

            “We need him carried.”  Thistlepouch pointed to Ens.

            Grog hefted him over his shoulder, and Mica led him long way around to the entrance.  Thistlepouch took the quick way, mostly so she could say she’d been through a labyrinth.  She waited for Mica at the entrance.  “Why don’t you talk to a couple guards,” the kita suggested, “and I’ll wait here with Grog and Ens.”

            “Okay.”  She went up to one she recognized from the practice yard, a short, stocky man of middling years.  “I captured this guy who was making plans to attack a member of my party,” she informed him.  “I would really appreciate an escort back to Merchant Antonio's.”

            The man shook his head slightly in disbelief.  “You know, Bassano said nothing that happens to you folks should surprise me.  I can get someone, and the two of us could march you back.  This prisoner of yours.  .  .  ?”

            “He’s.  .  .  contained.”

            “Right.”

            Mica looked at him, wide-eyed, not understanding what the big deal was.  It seemed like just normal stuff to her.

            He walked off to confer with a fellow guard.  Midway through the first man’s whispered explanation, the second jerked upright.  A flurry of whispered conversation, and the first guard reached out and grabbed a passing page, who at first looked obstinant to his request, but the guard reached for his sword.  The page scurried off before an inch of blade was bared.  The two guards returned to Mica.

            “Problems?” she inquired.

            “No.  Just sent someone to.  .  .  warn.  .  .  Bassano.”

            She shrugged and led them to the hedge.  Ens, now conscious, watched with a bland look, apparently not concerned.  Thistlepouch pulled the holy warrior aside.

            “I’m going to warn Tusit at the library while you take Ens to Antonio's.”

            Mica nodded briefly.

            Thistlepouch set off at a brisk pace.

            Mica turned to Ens on the ground and gave him a sharp poke in the ribs.  “How ya doin’ down there, buddy?”

            No response, or even expression.

            Mica grinned evilly.  “All the better to break you with, my dear.  Shall we go, boys?”

            The first guard hesitated.  “You want to take him back like this?”

            Mica raised her eyebrows.  “You want to loosen him up?”

            “No, but -”

            “Okay, then; let’s go.”

            He shook his head.  Grog slung the prisoner over his shoulder, and with the guards flanked to either side, they started off.

            As they passed through the courtyard, waves of whispering swept through the crowd. 

            Mica frowned and decided this was a very backwater town subject to much gossip.  “You people are easily amused, aren’t you?” she asked of no one in particular.

            “It’s not everyday someone carries a man, bound, gagged, and bleeding out of the public labyrinth,” the second guard deadpanned.

            She looked at him incredulously.

            “It’s not an everyday occurrence,” the first assured her.  At least, not before you showed up.

            “They should try traveling with us,” Mica muttered under her breath.

            As they marched up the walk to Antonio's manor, the front door flung open to reveal Bassano, who looked the group up and down.

            “Don’t worry; I’m fine!” Mica assured him.

            He looked less than thrilled, but Mica was firmly convinced he was just concerned for her safety.  Bassano ushered them in, snagged one of the guards and whispered in his ear, “You should take him like that -- the whole way.”  Louder, to Mica, “Do you wish him down with the other prisoner?”

            “In a separate cell, I think, so they can’t talk.  This guy actually has quite the history with us,” Mica told the Guard Captain on their way to the dungeon.  “In another town, he had the gnome and the kita attacked, and a couple guards killed, including this kid I knew.  I’ll tell you the whole story after he’s.  .  .  secured.”

            They walked in silence a bit more, then he held open a door and Grog deposited him unceremoniously on the ground.  Bassano locked the door on the way out, and they retreated to a better insulated room for discussion.

            “Okay, here’s the situation.  We were up at the pavilion, learning to dance for the ball tonight.  The kita did okay, but Grog was really good.  You should’ve seen him.  Anyway, when we were done, we decided to check out the labyrinth, and I hear this guy talking about capturing the gnome and luring him out.  So we try and figure out who it is.  .  .  and lo and behold, it’s my buddy Ens.  The weird thing was, when I came up on him, he was talking to the air, which is why I gagged him.  Anyway, I snuck up behind him, and hit him, and he fell down, and we tied him up.  But his lack of concern about getting captured and his overall change of appearance -- he used to be really scruffy-looking -- makes me wonder.  I guess I don’t really know what to do with him.  Thistlepouch is off rounding up Tusit.  At this point, besides slitting his throat, I really don’t have a lot of suggestions.”

            “Do you remember the conversation?”

            “From what I heard he said, he was talking about capturing the gnome, and there was no response to his statements, like he was talking to air.  I snuck off, and when I found him again, he was saying ‘normal plan.  It is essential to get papers from the gnome’ you know, Tusit is in the library doing research about gnome things, looking up his family tree or something. I don’t know.  Anyway, he said, ‘yes.  .  .  yes.  .  .  do you think that’s wise.  .  .  okay.’  Maybe who he was talking to was on the other side of the bushes.  I didn’t even think to look; I was too busy clocking him.”

            “Interesting.”

            “Grog, did you hear anything else?”

            “Yeah.”  He thought.  “He want to know way to lure Tusit out of Academy, way of dealing with the guardians, didn’t like the other plan -- was risky.  Said take normal one.  Can’t think of anything else.  Think about it some.”

            “Thanks, Grog,” Mica said.

            “Kee.”

            “I guess I kind of jump before I think,” Mica admitted.

            “At the very least,” Bassano said, “I’d like to find out if he’s insane, or who he might be conferring with.  At the very least, it might be interesting to find his motives.  He is your prisoner, m’lady.  What you wish to do with him is your affair.  He sounds like he does not threaten the Merchant Antonio's security -”

            “Other than the fact that we’re here,” she pointed out, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

            “Indeed.  However, I would fear more for yourselves creating collateral damage than for those attempting to hit you.”

            Mica squirmed.  “I’m just not very tactful, you see.  It doesn’t come naturally to me.  Do you think I should just kill him and get him out of the way?”

            “I can truly say I do not know,” Bassano told her.

            “I need to find Tusit,” Mica decided.  “He’ll have a better idea of how to handle this.”  She rubbed her temples.  Her understanding of Bassano’s people was that whatever you did, they could cover it up.  They covered up the slaughter of fifteen people in the marketplace; one hog-tied ruffian was no big deal!  Why did everyone insist on making such an issue of it?!  “You know,” Mica pondered, “I’ve really had a lot of luck beseeching Athena to help me out in the wisdom part when I was questioning people; but she wasn’t too pleased with the gnome last time I checked.”

            Bassano sympathized utterly.

            “I guess I will have to wait until Tusit gets back.  Hmm.  Maybe Ens was talking to some god.”

            “Do I dare ask if you said anything to people as you brought him here tied up?” Bassano ventured.

            “No.  But your guards seemed to think it was weird.  Everybody had to look!  You’d think we were a parade!”

            Bassano sighed.  “People are not accustomed to seeing a man bound, gagged, and bleeding carried through the streets.”

            “Hey, if anybody asks, you can tell them he was trying to accost a Priestess of Athena, and she don’t put up with no centaur poop.  Walk softly and carry a big stick, that’s my motto.”

            “I shall keep your suggestions and your motto in mind.”

*                      *                      *

            Thistlepouch made it to the doors of the library, open and guarded, as always.  Funny, why had she thought they’d be closed?  From what she had heard, the library never closed.  Bob stood outside, peering through the doors.  She didn’t want to deal with him, and especially not with his stirige.  She zipped inside, his shout of “Kita!” following her.  She did not slow down, though she did wave to the librarian.  She spotted Forge and Tusit coming down the stairs.

            “- And then the ball started to get huffy,” Tusit was saying.

            The sight of the dwarf knocked her purpose right out of her head.  “Forge!  Where’ve you been?!”

            “I’ve been making this!”  He proffered the hammer -- her eyes widened in appreciation.  “And this.”  He held out a bottle.  “Would you like some?”

            Thistlepouch eyed it skeptically, remembering the last time she’d been offered drink from a dwarf.

            “I made some especially for you -- it’s weaker than the regular stuff.”

            “I tasted it; you should be okay,” Tusit vouched, “but take very little.”

            Thistlepouch, who was brought up with good manners, graciously accepted and took a little swig.  She was a little more partial to wines, herself, but this was pretty darn good.  She offered it back, but Forge shook his head.

            “It’s for you.  A gift.”

            Thistlepouch's eyes widened and shone brightly at the gesture.  “Thank you!”  She vowed to find something extra nice to sneak into his pouch at the next opportunity.

            “Have you heard anything about Lockshy?” the dwarf inquired.

            “He’s in Highport,” Thistlepouch answered promptly.  “In return for the juice Antonio thought was medicine, Lockshy demanded safe and silent passage to Highport.”

            Forge paused, and blinked.  “So why are we still here?”

            “I’ve been studying,” Tusit said.

            Thistlepouch thought about it.  Why indeed?  She was more along for the ride than anything else, and though not especially fond of Darwin, it seemed wrong to leave without him.  Though, at the rate they were going, by the time he healed, someone else might be in critical condition.  “And we couldn’t miss the ball!”

            Forge looked blankly at her.

            “Yes, there’s to be a ball,” Tusit agreed, just as if he’d ever had any intention of going, which Thistlepouch secretly doubted.

            “Yay.  Do I get to get drunk?”

            “I’m sure you could,” Tusit allowed, “though I doubt they’ll have anything like what you’ve got.”

            “Then what good is it?!”

            “Well, they were kind enough to thank us for returning the young lady,” Tusit said.

            “I’m intending to go,” Thistlepouch chimed in.

            “Did she remember any of the stuff that happened?”

            “Which time?” asked Tusit.

            “From Bob.”

            “I don’t think he’s invited,” said the gnome.  “The ball won’t be much of a delay; we can leave first thing tomorrow.  I really don’t have much interest in staying.  I believe we’ve caused enough of a stir.  I haven’t finished the story of the huffyball yet.”

            “Yeeeeeaaaah.  Well.  Darwin should be good enough to move, shouldn’t he?”

            Thistlepouch looked to Tusit.

            “Last I checked, he wasn’t in a condition to be moved, but it’s been a while, and dwarven constitution being what it is, he might be good enough to be carried down, anyway.”

            By then they’d reached the front door.  Bob fell in behind.

            “Maybe we’ll be able to lose Bob,” Forge whispered to his fellow short people.

            Thistlepouch cocked her head to one side, considering the odds.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

            “Bob, you wouldn’t- WOAH! UGLY!” Tusit cut off, taking an abrupt couple steps back.

            “It’s not ugly; it’s my stirige!”

            Zed mantled and hissed.

            Tusit tried valiantly to recall his train of thought.  “Highport, and the ball, and losing- and inviting Bob to the ball!  You were interested in attending the celebration for Melissanna, correct?  You enjoy her company?”

            “Celebration?”

            “Oh, yes, there’s a three-day gala event, and we’re planning to attend all three days.  It would be wonderful if you could come with us!” Tusit charmed.

            “Um, okay.”

            “Wonderful!  We’re heading back for food, now,” Tusit said, resuming his trek towards Antonio's.

            “I need your help with my stirige.”

            Tusit gave him a flat stare.  “Help?  With that?  I think you’ve got it under control.”

            “Yes; you’re doing a good job,” Forge complimented.  “The only better job would be cooking it.”  He grinned nastily.  “Big hammer -- small bird.”

            Tusit kept constant distance between them, trying to be polite, but still wanting to be as far away from the daemon chicken as he could get.

            Bob ignored the dwarf.  “This guy -- in black -- said you’d know how to help him.”

            Tusit giggled.  “Haven’t I told you not to take advice from strangers in black?  If not, you shouldn’t.  I’ve never seen one of those before, let alone know what to do with one, aside from possibly his suggestion of cooking it.”

            “But he said that you’d know what to do!”

            “I don’t even know what it is!”

            “It’s my stirige!  It’s a pet.  It’s Zed.”

            “And it looks like it has a taste for flesh,” Tusit added.

            “No!  It doesn’t eat people.”

            “Hey, Zed!” Forge called.  “Look!  A rat!”

            Zed tracked on him and hissed.

            Forge laughed meanly.

            Tusit rolled his eyes, trying to summon patience.  “I apologize.  Who was it that said that I’d know what to do with it?”

            “This guy.  Said to tell you he was Dryden.”

            Tusit stopped dead.  “Excuse me?”

            “He said he was Dryden.”

            “So he wasn’t wet?” asked Forge, confused.

            “Guy in black, so what do I need to do?”  He lifted off Zed and held him forward.

            Tusit took two and a half steps back again.  “I’m sorry, he was mistaken.”

            “Who’s Dryden?” inquired Forge.

            “Best I can tell,” said Tusit, resuming progress, “he was the founder of that.”  He turned and pointed to the library.  “His name tends to carry a bit of weight, though I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone who claimed that name.”

            Bob sighed.  “I guess I’ll go tell him you don’t know.”

            Forge raised an eyebrow.  “You know where he is?”

            “Yeah.  Where I found him.  Down by the place.”

            “What place?” Thistlepouch asked.

            “Where I got Zed!”

            “Where did you get Zed?” she cried in exasperation.  “Not that I want to go there!”

            “There was this merchant, and he sold pets.  He wanted to sell me this one -”

            “Familiar daemon,” Forge muttered.

            “It’s not a daemon; it’s a pet!  It’s Zed!  He wanted to sell me a monkey, but I couldn’t afford a monkey, so I got Zed!”

            “The man you claim to be Dryden could just as easily have said his name was Hades,” Tusit pointed out.

            “Ahem!  Thanks!”

            Tusit nodded to Forge.  “No problem.  Any time.”

            “He said he was Dryden!”

            “He was mistaken.”

            “Why would he lie?”

            Tusit rolled his eyes again.  “Something tells me that the founder of that wonderful Library up there doesn’t sell pets.”

            “Then who was he?”

            “Probably someone you shouldn’t have been talking to in the first place,” Tusit advised,  “and I wouldn’t trust that thing any farther than I can throw it.”

            “But he’s Zed.”

            “I can throw it pretty far,” Forge put in.

            “I’m sure you can,” agreed the gnome, “and I welcome you the opportunity.”

            “I wonder if it’d go nice in a garlic sauce?” the kita pondered.

            Forge tried to muffle a laugh.

            Tusit stared at her in disbelief.  “You’d actually eat it?!  You don’t know where it’s been!”

            “Oh, I didn’t say for me, necessarily.  Maybe feed it to Bob.”

            “I suppose,” Tusit considered, seeing stirige sauté in a whole new light.

            “Fine,” Bob sulked.

            Suddenly where Forge had the amulet attached to himself started to tingle.  He looked down at it and frowned.  How annoying.  He knew who it was, but not what he wanted.  Forge bet that someday, far in the future, they’d never have something so annoying that it just told you that you had a message without telling you what the message was.  “Hey, Thistlepouch, you got your tingly stick?”

            “But of course!”

            “Is my hammer tingly?”

            Thistlepouch wondered if that was some kind of weird pick-up line, then realized he meant the one he’d made to fit Hades’ symbol.  Not that it really mattered; the stick tugged in Tusit's direction.  “Sorry.  It’s not attracted to your hammer.”  Which answered both questions, really.

            The hammer didn’t pull in a direction like the tinglestick did, but Forge had the sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the four shadowy figures he’d just spotted in the alley about forty feet behind them.  “Tusit?”

            “Yes?”

            “There’s four shadowy figures in that alley.”

            “Not to be subtle or anything.”  He paused for half a step, continued walking, and nonchalantly looked over his shoulder.

            The need for casualness evaporated as the figures, all about six feet tall, stepped from the alley and advanced in a line, gray cloaks swishing about their knees, standard breeches and thick boots evident below the hems.  The hoods of the cloaks shadowed their faces.  Leather-gauntleted fists clutched drawn swords.

            “Hey!  Those are supposed to be peace-bound in Barnicus!” Thistlepouch protested.

            “We could offer them Zed,” Forge suggested, hefting his hammer in glad anticipation.

            “Hey, Tusit, could you make me a torch?” Thistlepouch requested.

            Tusit, in mid-think about spells, gave her an odd look.  “Torch?”

            “Yes, torch.”  She proffered the fire-breather’s torch she found in one of her larger pouches -- she’d have to return that!

            Tusit, without breaking concentration, muttered some gibberish over the torch and struck it with his flint and steel.

            Thistlepouch had a pretty good idea he was mocking her, but didn’t especially care.  She had the torch.  She grabbed for the bottle she’d gotten from Tobaltio and unstopped it with her teeth.  She spat the cork down into her pouch.

            Forge, seeing the kita with fire in her hand, got out of arm’s reach.  A human’s arm’s reach.

            Bob, who had been trailing behind, and was now between the short people and the advancing adversaries, set about getting the short people between him and the bad guys.  Tusit reached behind him, grabbed Bob, pulled him even with the group, and took a step back.  It worked, mostly because Bob didn’t see it coming, and the elf stumbled forward.  Tusit shoved him in the small of the back, which didn’t get him as off-balance as he had hoped, but oh well.

            “Hey, quit it!” Bob protested, drawing his sword.

            Thistlepouch lowered her stance so she could blow upwards.

            Forge charged.  A tactician would’ve called it “flanking the enemy.”  He called it “getting away from the kita.”

            Tusit aimed and fired off a Magick Missile so well that he could almost feel his finger smoking from it.  It hit its target dead in the face; his head snapped back, his hood falling away, and when he righted himself, they could see the skull tattoo on his face.  Thistlepouch groaned inwardly.  Another one of those.  He collapsed to his knees.  Green sparks dribbled out of a prominent red wound smack in the middle of his forehead.

            Tusit grinned at the other three.  “That was my weakest spell.  Do you want to proceed?”

            Thistlepouch backed up his statement: she took a swig from the bottle and smoothly blew a flamecloud -- definitely not the best she’d ever done.  Not enough distance; it didn’t catch anyone.

            Tusit, catching this out of the corner of his eye, made a snap decision.  Note to self: learn “create water” spell next!

            The one on his knees looked up at Tusit.  “The more of us you kill, the stronger we grow,” he growled in a strained voice, and fell.

            Forge smashed his hammer into his opponent’s left arm, which started to glow a blackness that crept towards the torso, though more slowly than anything else he’d faced.  It looked a little different, too -- where the blackness that had consumed the zombies looked like a pit descending to eternity, this blackness had an opalescent sheen to it.

            Tusit raised his eyebrows; it was the first he’d ever seen that from a being, though he’d figured out that as his compatriots had converged on the suit of armor, one of the pages the kita had given him had started to glow black.  Tusit felt an unexplained rush of combat course through him; he reached for daggers and prepared to join the fray.

            With the remainder of what she had in her mouth (and the now closer distance of her opponent) Thistlepouch spurted a stream through the flame, soaking and igniting him at the same time.  She tossed the torch at him and readied her staff -- and just barely managed to catch his sword in the fork of her weapon.  She tried to disarm him, but he followed the motion around and brought his sword back up, striking out at her; she dodged backwards with only a nick on her arm. 

            Forge grazed his opponent along the arm with the spike end of his hammer.  His next blow wasn’t so effective, but the opalescent blackness had completely enveloped his opponent’s arm, which hung useless at his side.

            Bob blocked his adversary’s blow and got a cut on the arm for his troubles.  The man who faced the elf noticed Tusit trying to get at his back and tried to keep himself somewhat defensible.  Bob, seeing his opponent retreating, did not pursue.

            Tusit, running, stumbled a bit as the opponent he thought he’d defeated tried to grab his ankle -- and luckily missed.  “They don’t die!” he yelped, and cast invisibility.  “Run away!”

            Bob decided it was good advice and ran. 

            His opponent, unable to spot Tusit, backed up to Thistlepouch's adversary.

            Thistlepouch ducked below her opponent’s swing and caught him in the back of the knees with her staff, knocking him off balance, then reversed the stroke and pounded him in the chest with the spear-tipped end.  The warrior fell backwards (the one behind him dodged to the side and whirled to face the kita), the small hole in his chest leaking green sparks.  Her staff had blood on it, though.

            Forge, annoyed that the warriors were so hard to kill, charged full force.  The warrior blocked Forge's first swing, but the dwarf swung around, using his opponent’s momentum,  and crushed his hammer into the side of his ribcage, which began to leak glowing green sparks.  He staggered and dropped to one knee under the force of the impact.

            Tusit yelled “CLEAR!”

            “Clear?” Forge puzzled as he crushed his opponent’s shoulder, but Thistlepouch knew exactly what he meant.  She made sure she wasn’t between Tusit and any potential targets.  She wasn’t, so she tried to spike her adversary’s privates.  Small target; she missed and drove the spike of her staff into the cobblestones  just as Tusit cut loose with flaming hands. He hit the man facing Thistlepouch square in the back and concentrated the fire over his heart.  He spun to face the threat, and Tusit moved the fire up to his face, which began to burn, his hair catching in a nimbus of flame.  Thistlepouch used her staff as a point of leverage and launched herself at the downed opponant feet-first.  He’d begun to get up, but the boot to the head knocked him back again.

            The man Forge faced screamed in pain as the black opalescence reached his heart.  “Pardon me,” Forge said as he planted his foot in the man’s face, twisted his heel, and yanked the hammer out of his shoulder.

            Tusit caught sight of something brown zooming toward him from the direction Bob had run; he took a step back and focused his fire toward it, but it dodged nimbly out of the way.  The fellow he’d flamed turned towards him and drew his sword.  He obviously couldn’t see physically -- his eyes had melted; his face was a ruined mass of blisters and charred flesh -- but he advanced as if he could.

            Thistlepouch felt heat against the right side of her face, and the man opposite her suddenly was bathed in fire.  She glanced quick to see Pickles, smiled, and clocked the human upside the head.  He fell.

            Tusit ran; the creature he identified as the stirige flew at his pouches.  Forge, catching sight of Bob's bald chicken, threw a dagger that grazed it, though the stirige paid it no mind.  Tusit stopped and fired off Magick Missile as his momentum carried him backwards; the hit knocked the creature tail over whiskers.  It turned and sped away.  The gnome rolled to his feet and, seeing Forge running to his rescue, ducked.  The dwarf slammed his hammer into the faceless man’s chest.  The human fell backwards to the ground, crawled to his knees, and Forge reversed the blow and spiked him through the gut.  He went down.

            The kita’s opponent reached up to grab her, but Pickles leapt at him, landed squarely on his chest, and blew a spurt of flame point blank into his face.  It crumbled to a pile of ash under the intense flame.  Thistlepouch grinned at her companion and went to help the guys.  She speared their downed opponent in the neck with her staff.  He twitched.

            Forge removed his hammer and went to the first one Tusit had attacked, then to the one that had no head, slamming his hammer over the heart of each.  When he got back to his first opponent, he saw that there was no longer a black mark.

            Thistlepouch removed her staff and speared him again, just below the ribcage.

            Tusit, meanwhile, grabbed the dagger Forge had thrown at the stirige and tried to stab him through the heart, but missed because he was busy evading the warrior’s lunge -- which just impaled the man further on the kita’s staff -- Tusit spun away and ungracefully fell on his face.

            The blackness reached the human’s heart, and he slumped back with a groan, twitching.

            Thistlepouch removed her staff again, stepped back, grounded it, and brushed some wayward strands of hair out of her eyes.  “Oh, by the way, Tusit, there’s some people trying to kill you.”

            Tusit slowly raised his head and blinked at the kita.  “They wouldn’t, by chance, be these somebodies, would they?”

            “Actually, it would be Ens,” she told him.  “And whoever else he’s working with.  He’s here, you know.  Mica captured him.  Though I suppose these guys might have something to do with it.”

            “Oh, bother.”  Tusit very laboriously got to his knees, then his feet, brushed himself off, and returned the dagger to Forge.

            Forge was looking at his hammer, which no longer vibrated.  “You paged?” he asked Hades, but got no response.

            Murfle!

            Thistlepouch’s eyes widened at Pickles’ characteristic greeting.  She braced herself for impact.  She didn’t have to wait long.  Soon she lay flat on her back with a small blue dragon planted on her chest.  “One of these days,” she sighed, “you’re going to give me a concussion.”

            Murfle?

            Tusit sighed in consternation.  “It’s here.  You get used to this.”

            Forge raised an eyebrow.  “What’s here?”

            “She’s got a  .  .  .  friend.  An evil little -”

            “Evil?”

            “Not evil!” the kita protested from her supine position, between spirited dragon licks.  “He just saved my life again!”

            Forge watched the kita apparently being mauled by air, went over, and poked about a foot above her.

            Pickles rolled away and looked up at the dwarf.

            Thistlepouch crawled to her feet and brushed herself off.  “He’s not evil -- just a little over-enthusiastic.  He saves my life.  Frequently.”

            Forge pressed a hand to her brow.  No fever.

            Thistlepouch couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed that he didn’t believe her or flattered that he cared.

            Tusit walked up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder, and in his opposite ear whispered, “It saves her life now, but before, it tried to get us both killed.”

            Forge grunted noncommittally as the gnome turned.  “Shall we go?  Leave the bodies?”

            “Loot the bodies,” Tusit said over his shoulder as he trotted happily over to one of the intact foes.  He wore leather britches, a doublet, and dull-colored clothing.  Their only distinctive marking was a steel medallion  depicting a jet egg supported within a crown of gold, which was cradled by carnelian flames.  Much the same he had seen on the suits of armor, except that had been paint, and the egg had been cracked jaggedly down the center and parted slightly.  For that matter, it put him in mind of- he took out the papers Thistlepouch had given him and compared them.  “So that’s why they were after me!”

            “The guy in armor that we turned into squishy goo had his face tattooed like that, too,” Thistlepouch pointed out.

            “Bother.”  Tusit sighed.

            Forge frowned, went over, and crushed one of the skulls with his hammer in remembrance.  He then caught sight of the medallion.  Experimentally, he clasped the two medallions, about to bring them together, then thought better of it.  He stared cross-eyed at the symbol on his forehead (though of course he couldn’t see it), took each pendant by their strings, and swung them together.  They impacted with an explosion; the Hades medallion swung back, glowing black, and the other crumbled to the ground.

            Tusit gathered up the rest of the medallions.  Thistlepouch stared in shock.

            Forge took a moment to recover from witnessing an explosion at close range, then looked up at Tusit.  “I want to try one on the bodies.  You get two, I get two.”

            The gnome frowned, and sighed at the waste, but tossed him one anyway.

            Forge gingerly placed it on the chest of the nearest body, stood as far away as he could, and swung the Hades medallion at it.

            Another explosion pocked the air; the medallion crumbled; the body took a nasty blast wound to the chest.  Not that it really mattered much anymore.  Thistlepouch retrieved her torch.  “Can we go home now?” she requested.

            “So shall we just leave the bodies in the street?” Tusit asked.

            The kita stared at him incredulously.  “Do you want to take them with us?”

            “We could at least drag them to the side of the street,” he suggested.

            “Why? It would look more suspicious,” the kita pointed out.

            Tusit got an odd gleam in his eyes -- the one Thistlepouch had learned meant his sick sense of humor was about to manifest itself.  “I don’t know -- I had just envisioned four corpses, one of them headless, just kind of doing the casual thing up against the building on the side of the road.”

            Forge considered.  “That’s worthwhile,” he allowed, and started dragging.  The others helped.  With some work, they sat the one Tusit melted the face off of on a small crate, his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist, as if thinking something serious.  The remaining three they propped on the ground before him, facing the street.  The one without a head sat in the middle, his arms around the remaining two, whose elbows met where his head should’ve been.  Forge stepped back to consider, then scratched “With love, Hades” with his dagger on the wall over the one on the box.  He changed his mind, crossed out “love,” and scratched in “hate.”

            Pickles watched them all exceptionally oddly.

            As the threesome giggled at their morbid handiwork, the clanking of mailed footsteps sounded from down the street.

            “Time to go?” suggested Forge.

            Tusit's “Yes” blended with Thistlepouch's “Sounds good!”

            They darted around a corner a couple streets down to watch.  The guardians from the Academy marched past the living -- er, dead -- sculpture without a glance.  Tusit zipped down the street as fast as a gnome can zip.  Forge kept up with Tusit easily.  Thistlepouch had learned through hard experience that a kita running through the streets attracts attention, and so opted for a walk.  Thus it was that only she saw the guardians make the turn into the alley, obviously following them.

            To tartarus with attracting attention.  She sprinted after her friends.

            “The kita’s out of view,” Forge remarked with some concern to Tusit.

            “The kita can take care of herself,” Tusit huffed.  “The kita doesn’t have people out to kill her.”

            “FORGE!!!!!”

            “You were saying?”

            They both stopped and turned.

            The kita came hotfooting around the turn.

            Tusit bolted.

            “Want a lift?” Forge offered as soon as he spotted the kita.  Without waiting for a response, he picked the kita up and ran.  He blew past Tusit, waving as he went (as did Thistlepouch) then jogged backwards to catch up with him.

            Tusit grumbled under what little breath he had.

            Forge grinned mischievously and adjusted the kita so she would sit on his shoulders.  “Hey, Thistlepouch, look back!”

            She saw the guardians bouncing towards them -- striding, actually, the bouncing due to Forge's running.  The did not gain, but neither did it look like they could lose them.  She said as much to her friends.

            “Shut up!  Run, damn you!” Tusit gasped between pants.

            Forge set the kita down, picked up the gnome, and kept going.

            “Thank you,” Tusit wheezed.  “Where’s Bob when you need cannon fodder?”

            They made it to the door; Forge pounded heartily.  The peephole opened, then the door, then the doorman’s mouth.  Thistlepouch wondered if it would be possible for his jaw to hit the ground.  He must’ve seen the guardians.

            “Hide me!  Hide me!  Put me down!” Tusit demanded urgently of Forge.

            “Hi!  Where’s Bassano?” the dwarf inquired calmly of the doorman, ignoring Tusit.

            “Would you put me down!  Put me down, put me down!” the gnome cried, beating futilely on the top of Forge's head.

            “He’s downstairs.  .  .  .  interviewing with.  .  .  .  what -”

            Forge plowed through and set down the gnome, who shot up the stairs, hoping to find Mica in her room.  “Oh, and could you keep our ‘friends’ entertained?” Forge requested politely before charging off to find the Guard Captain.

            Thistlepouch, meanwhile, was quite curious, and enjoying the fact that (for once) it wasn’t her being chased.  At least, she was pretty sure.  .  .  she quick checked her pockets.  Nothing of theirs had fallen in.  She peeked through the crack in the mostly-closed door.  The doorman stood directly outside, valiantly guarding the portal. 

            “State your business?”

            The doorman had the good sense to get out of the way when the guardians of the library, not slowing a whit, straight-armed the door open and started for the stairs.

            The kita bounced around them in circles like nothing so much as a little yappy terrier, firing a string of questions without pause.  “Is that stuff hot?  You know, I met somebody else in a suit of armor once, only he wasn’t very nice and he collapsed in a pile of goo.  Maybe you knew him?  And was that really Dryden in the basement -?”

            Both helms turned to face her.  They stopped, seemed to think for a moment, then continued walking.

            “I think that was some sort of answer, but it wasn’t very clear.  Was it something I said?  Was it Dryden?  No?  Okay.  Maybe basement?  No -” and continued jabbering as they mounted the stairs.

            Tusit, meanwhile, found Mica's room empty, cursed, and bolted for the stairs at the end of the hall, kita chatter and the clank of advancing footsteps loud in his ears.  As he ran, he pulled two papers the kita had given him from his pouch.  On the third level, he pulled open the door of an unused room, tossed the papers in, slammed the door, and kept running.  When he reached the end of the hall, he pounded down the staircase and paused briefly to catch his breath.  He heard them get up to the third level, go down the hall, and a door open.  He took off running again, toward the basement.  If only he could find Mica.  .  .  he knew she looked on him with disdain, but she was the party’s best fighter.  .  .  and his best chance of protection, especially since she had high connections.

            Thistlepouch peeked into the room when the guardians opened the door and spied two pieces of paper on the ground -- one of them glowing green.  She scrambled around armored legs to get a better look, and grabbed the papers just as one of the guardians, kneeling, also got hold of them.  She had a brief moment to recognize them as the papers from the zombie building (though she wondered how Tusit had gotten one to glow like that) before the guardian grabbed hold of the front of her shirt and lifted her off the floor.  She grabbed his wrist to avoid having her shirt ripped.  Once she let go of the papers, the guardian put her down and released her, then turned and continued down the hall.  Thistlepouch kept up with them, chattering.  She’d made them stop once; maybe she could do it again.

*                      *                      *

            Forge made it to the basement as Bassano emerged from a room and closed the door behind him.  He looked up.  “Greetings.”

            “You know those guards at the library?” Forge asked without prelude.

            “The guard force of the Acadamus Magickus Ithicus?”

            “Yeah.  They’re here.  Like to help me fight them?”  He turned around and started back up the stairs -- and met Tusit coming down.

            “Wrong way!  They’re back there!  Is Mica down there?” the gnome panted as soon as he caught sight of his companion.

            “I don’t know.  Why?  Isn’t my god good enough for you?”

            Tusit didn’t answer.

            Bassano, at the base of the stairs, called up, “You are being followed?”

            “You could say that!”  Tusit tried to sneak past the Guard Captain, who was having none of it.  He caught the gnome as he tried to scoot down the hall.  Tusit hid behind Bassano.  “I really don’t have time to chat.  Is Mica down here?”

            “Trust me, you have time.  What did you do?”

            “Nothing!”

            Bassano gave him a flat stare.

            “We were ambushed by people wearing this” he proffered one of the medallions “and we took them out, and all of a sudden those flaming guards came after me!  I don’t wanna know what they want!”

            “Have you considered what you’re holding?” he asked calmly.

            “No!” Tusit cried, considerably less calmly, and tried to make a break for it.

            Bassano grabbed his shirt front.

            Tusit started smacking his hand.  “Put me down!” he protested, even though his feet were on the ground.  “Let me go!”

            Bassano stared at him with a frustrated look.

            Tusit dropped his hands to his sides and returned the stare with exasperation.  “What?!”

            “What am I going to do with you?”

            “I’ve got a good idea: keep me away from them!”  He pointed up the stairs.

            Forge, at the top of the basement stairs, could hear the kita’s piping voice and the guardians’ footfalls descending the hall stairs.  He caught sight of them, the kita’s vibrant colors a stark contrast against the guardians’ steel.  He slowly backed down the stairs.  “They’re coming this way!” he warned Tusit and Bassano.

            “Tell me something I don’t know!” Tusit shot back.

            “The kita is with them?” he offered.

            Tusit wiggled, trying to get free.

            “Are they wearing their helms?” Bassano inquired.

            Wiggle.

            “Yes.  Don’t they always?”

            Wiggle.  Wiggle.  Slap-slap-slap.  Wiggle.  “Good sir, if you don’t release me, I shall be forced to -”

            Bassano opened a nearby door and pointed inside.  “Hide.”

            “Thank you!”  The gnome zipped inside -- and found himself in a cell.  Works for me.  Designed to keep people in -- and, preferably, people out.  He flattened himself against the stone wall, visions dancing through his head of steel-gauntleted hands punching through the door, grabbing him, and attempting to pull him through a hole much too small for a gnome.

            Bassano slammed the door and locked it.

            “Do we attempt to stop them?” Forge asked.

            Bassano looked at him like he was crazy.  “No.  Our only hope is to get them to talk.  So.  Wait till they try the door.”

            Forge squatted, waiting.

            As Thistlepouch neared the twosome, she sighed, vexed.  “They’re not very talkative.”  She had the presence of mind not to ask where Tusit was.

            The guardians marched over to the oaken door hiding Tusit.  One grabbed the handle and yanked repeatedly, each failed attempt followed by a terrified whimpering squeak from the gnome within.

            Forge couldn’t help grinning.  He wished he could see the gnome squirming.  Thistlepouch decided she was surrounded by sadists.

            Bang!

            *squeak*

            Bassano looked calmly on.  “I just hope I don’t have to buy a new door.”

            “The gnome can pay for it,” Forge decided.

            Bang!

            *whimper*

            “I don’t think I’ll see the gnome again.”

            “Good point.  The gnome’s got most of our money.”

            Bassano raised his eyebrows, looked pointedly at the kita, and back at the dwarf. 

            Thistlepouch wondered what he was getting at.

            Bang!

            *merp*

            Thistlepouch went up to one of the guardians.  “You know, there are easier ways to do that.”

            Bassano stared at her, incredulous.  “I would advise not helping.”

            BANG!

            *eeeee*

            Thistlepouch glared at him with a look that clearly said I know what I’m doing!

            Bassano cocked an eyebrow and shrugged.

            “You ever done this before?” Forge asked the human.

            “No.”

            Bang!

            *meeheehee*

            “They can talk without their helms on,” Bassano said.

            “So we need their helms off,” Thistlepouch concluded.

            Forge, still looking at Bassano, made a grab for Thistlepouch -- a reflex most people traveling with a kita quickly develop.

            He got her jacket, which she easily slipped.  There’s a reason kita dress in layers, and it isn’t just for warmth.

            Thistlepouch scrambled up the nearest suit of armor (the one not yanking on the door) and tried to pry the helm off.  The guardian reached up to remove her, so she wrapped herself around the helm.

            Bang!

            *yeahha!*

            “Try a can-opener,” suggested Forge.

            “They haven’t been invented yet!” the kita protested.

            The guardian succeeded in removing the kita -- and his helm, too, since she refused to let go.  The face revealed was clean-shaven, with jet-black hair in curls and startlingly gray eyes.  He set her down and reached for the helm.  “May I?”

            Bang!

            *ooooowoooowo*

            Thistlepouch looked at Bassano, who nodded.  She let the man have his helm.  He put it under his arm.  She set about getting the other one’s helm off.

            The man turned to Bassano.  “Why have you hindered us?”

            “Why have you invaded my master’s home?”

            The kita hung off the second guardian’s shoulder by one hand.  He reached for her; she squirmed away.

            “We seek the gnome.”

            “Why do you seek the gnome?”

            Thistlepouch got up on the second guardian’s shoulders and grabbed onto his helm.

            “I cannot say.  However, there are risks here for him -”

            “You!” Forge cut in.

            “- and he is to be offered an opportunity to return.”

            The guardian got a hold on Thistlepouch and pulled.

            “Return to.  .  .  ?” Forge asked.

            “The Academy.”

            “Permanently?” asked Thistlepouch; her hold slipped and she almost let go.  She curled around the helm tighter.

            “For a semi-extended stay.  Until the current crisis is past.”

            “Crisis?  Where can I find it?  It sounds exciting,” the kita said as the guardian pried her (and the helm) off.  This man had light brown, short-cropped hair and hazel eyes, as well as a slight beard.

            “It will find you,” assured the first man.

            Forge knocked on Tusit's door.  “Hello?”

            “Go away,” Tusit whimpered unsteadily.

            “Do you want to go back to the Library?”

            “Why do they want to take me there?”

            “It’s a crisis.”

            “You’re bloody well right, it’s a crisis!  There’s four dead people out there that we just posed!”

            Forge turned back to the armored men.  “Does this have anything to do with the posing bodies?”

            They said nothing, nor did expression cross their faces.

            Bassano, however, stared at him, mortified.  Gods preserve us.  What have they done now?

            “Why did you want the papers?” Thistlepouch asked, now that the strangers seemed to be in a talking mood.

            “Danger in them.”

            Tusit levered himself up so his bulbous nose stuck between the bars of the door.  “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

            “You are a risk -- as well as an opportunity.”

            “You’re going to dog me.  Wherever I go, you’re going to follow me.”

            “Yes.”

            Thistlepouch, meanwhile, took advantage of the fact that Tusit was locked behind the door and couldn’t get his hand over her mouth.  Her questions began with, “How come there aren’t any kita members of the Academy?” went to such things as, “Where do the voices come from in the library, and how do they know you’re trying to climb the shelves, anyway?” continued through subjects like, “Where did you get all the marble to make the building?” and kept on from there.

            Forge went off into a corner to talk to trahnesI, which he didn’t really expect to work because trahensI, as a rule, keeps a hands-off policy.  He was right.  After a few curses, he grumbled, “Damnation, I wish I had a more useful- I mean, my god is great, but still!”  He looked skyward -- remembered who he was dealing with -- and turned his attention to a lower court.  “Does this gnome thing have anything to do with the whole dead body thing?  Why were you paging earlier?”

            A gravelly voice sounded in his head -- or maybe from somewhere in the room.  It was hard to tell.

            the bodies needed disposal.  their souls came to me.

            “Good.  I  hope you enjoyed the feast. The symbols that exploded when I touched them to yours, what are they for?  I’m sure you felt that.”

            The response was heavy with relish.

            Yes. do it again.  those are the symbols of a brotherhood whose souls are bonded so that each one, until their symbol is destroyed, or their heart is touched with my.  .  .  glow.  .  . 

            “I take it you like my hammer?”

            If Hades could have purred, be would have.  

            yes.  it has been a long time since i have felt life’s blood coursing over one of my symbols.

            “What about the papers?”

            do you have them?

            “I could.  .  .  maybe.  .  .  get them for you -”

            destroy them.  the one that glows holds a soul.  the other one has the potential for a soul.

            “How?  Whose?”

            the how is irrelevant, other than the fact that it was done by those that flaunt my authority.  as for the who.  .  .  the first is irrelevant; he is but a warrior who has fought and died many times, each time brought back by that abomination of a paper.  the other belongs to one whom you’ve been searching for: Lockshy.

            “So I need to go kill Lockshy -”

            if you kill him without destroying the page, you accomplish nothing.  you only kill the shell.

            “Okay.  What about this gnome thing.”

            an interesting question.  the two have been assigned to his protection, but they would prefer to protect him in an area which they know to be safe.  their form of protection is more.  .  .  violent.  .  .  than you may be familiar with.    he’s been offered multiple paths, but his soul is.  .  .  undecided.  perhaps i’ll offer him protection.

            “Maybe I could put in a good word with him, then he could have this medallion instead of me.”

            no.  .  .  your word still binds you.

            “I’m helping!” Forge replied defensively.  “I’ve destroyed some symbols, killed some people-  I could pass it on to somebody else.”

            you no longer wish to hunt down those who killed your son?

            “I’m still going to kill them; I still want to, especially the necromancers, since they hurt my cousin-  I just thought maybe I could pass it on to him, let him have a try at your wonderful powers, the symbol, and -”

            oh, he’ll have a symbol.

            Forge didn’t want to go there.  “Well, before I promise anything, I’ll go see if I can get those papers for you,” he said, quickly changing the subject.  “Should I leave those guys alive?  And who are they serving?”

            they serve the academy.  they are the academy. i would advise you not take direct action against them. i yet have need of your services.

            “Ah.  Well, I’ll see what the kita can do.  If you need anything, just buzz again.”

            Tusit, tired of Thistlepouch's jabber and not seeing any way out of this, looked past the guardians to Bassano and sighed.  “Open the door,” he said in a resigned voice.

            Bassano hesitated.  “I don’t know if I can.”

            “Unlock it, then.  I’m sure they’ll be able to finish the job.  Put your bloody helmets back on and do your worst.”

            The Guard Captain unlocked the door, motioned to the guards, and stepped back.  He looked to Tusit.  “My apologies for not being able to better aid you under this roof, but my first duty is to my master, and my master cannot survive a dispute with the Academy.”

            Tusit lowered himself to the ground and stepped back.

            The men nodded to Bassano, saluted Tusit (who mockingly saluted them back), and put on their helmets.  One of the guardians grabbed the door handle and gave it a yank.  After a few tries, the door splintered open.

            Tusit reached down and picked up a couple splinters to put in his pouch.  “I’m not walking,” he informed them.

            Forge caught his eye and mouthed, “walk! walk!”

            Tusit sighed and started off.  One took position in front, one in back; they’d played that game before.  Thistlepouch tailed the last guard.

            Forge sidled up to her and returned her jacket.  “If you can,” he whispered, “get the papers.  Burn them.  Then run for the boat.”

            She frowned.  “I’m not leaving without Tusit,” she insisted.

            “I’ll be taking care of Tusit.”

            She nodded, but said nothing.

            Forge fell back to speak with Bassano, who also followed the procession.  “Could you ask Mica and Grog to gather Darwin and their things and tell them that we’ll be leaving shortly?  And Bob, if you see him.”

            He nodded.  “Very well.  It shall be much less.  .  .  interesting.  .  .  without you around.”

            “Thank you very much for your hospitality.  Here’s some of the weaker dwarven stuff for you guys to share.”  He proffered one of the bottles he’d worked on.

            “Thank you.  I am undeserving of this.”

            “Well, you have dealt with us quite a bit -”

            “Yes.  Yes, I have.”  He paused, considering.  “I owe you an apology.  I have told you a falsehood, and what’s more, I have manipulated you.  When you first arrived with the thug that had attacked Lady Melissanna, I knew that I could not pursue those that had attacked her, while I knew that you, and your party, could.  And thus I told you a falsehood to give you additional incentive to follow them.  I implied that you were the target of the target of the attack, when it was not you, but Lady Melissanna.”

            “If you’d asked, we would’ve done it anyway.”

            “I could not risk, nor did I know you that well.  I now know that it was unnecessary, and I apologize.”

            “You have helped us out several times since then.”

            “I have done what I could, but apologies are still in order.  I thank you for your aid and help.”

            “You’re welcome.  Yours has been appreciated as well.  Your apology is accepted.  Do us a favor, though -- if Lockshy ever shows up, put him out of our misery.”

            “So long as it does not interfere with my primary duty, which is my master and those in his keep, I will.  Good luck and smooth sailing to you.”  He grabbed a short, hairy page, pulled him to one side, and gave him hushed instructions.

            Thistlepouch wondered where her dragon was as they passed the front gates.  She hoped he showed up before they had to sail.  She wondered if she’d ever see Melissanna again, if the merchant’s daughter would understand her leaving without saying good-bye.  She wished she didn’t have to miss the party.  And what about Tobaltio?  A poor way to repay his kindness, and she still needed to return the things he’d dropped.  She sidled up next to Tusit.  “Is there any way we can get those papers?  Forge says to burn them.”

            Tusit glanced back to see the guard behind him holding quite firmly to the papers.  “Get ready,” he said softly.  “Stand next to the man.”

            Thistlepouch did as she was bid.

            Tusit waited a bit, timing it, and when the guardian behind him was mid-stride, jammed the spear he’d been using as a walking stick between the armored man’s legs and ran to the side. 

            The guardian stumbled; the staff sprang back, and Tusit became a projectile gnome.  He landed on his back a few feet away, clutching his staff.

            At the same time, something jerked the kita off her feet and hauled her backwards down the street by the scruff of her neck.  Not even a murfle of warning.  She yelped in surprise and tried to wriggle free, but Pickles had her by the shirt collar -- damn him for a fast learner.

            Forge, meanwhile, had done a long-way-about and was waiting in an alley not quite half-way to the library (mostly because everything happens half-way to the destination, and he hated to be cliché), intending to make off with the gnome and haul him back to the boat.  He heard the kita scream.  He cursed under his breath.

            He ran.

            Tusit tried to roll to his feet, which would’ve worked if the guardian hadn’t snagged him quite so effectively.  He had a clear sight of the papers in the guardian’s other hand; something must’ve gone amiss with the kita.  Probably the dragon.  He cast the spell that shot flame from his hand and aimed it at the papers.  One caught and incinerated almost instantly.  The green glowing one shriveled and twisted and tried to crawl up the guardian’s arm as it burned, as if in attempt to escape its fate.  Finally it, too, crumbled to ash, leaving only a sickly-sweet smell, as of rotting meat and opium-laced incense.

            Forge arrived just in time to see the last of the flames die and the ash fall to the cobblestones.

            Thistlepouch saw it, too, and hoped Pickles would let up.  .  .  but evidently Pickles was of the opinion that taking hold of the papers wouldn’t hurt her, but narking off the guards could be deadly.

            Tusit took hold of his dagger, and as the guard flipped him over his shoulder like a sack of turnips, the gnome stuck out his arm so it wouldn’t get pinned, and tried to pry off the helmet with his dagger.

            The dagger flashed blue.

            Tusit's hand burned in agony; the wooden handle charcoal, what had been the dagger a molten lump of metal.

            He heard a horde of voices talking in his head at once, then one, clearly:

            “Intruder.  Kill.”

            Tusit passed out.

***

Disclaimer: Several people got their butts kicked during the creation of this chapter.