Nine

            Mica finished her morning devotions when she heard a knock at her door.  “Come in!” she called.

            A servant poked his head in.  “Milady, there’s a man downstairs here to see you.”

            “And who’s that?”  She didn’t think she was expecting anyone -- she didn’t know anyone here outside the manor house, and not even Tusit would send someone to announce him.

            “He gave his name as Borglum.  He wanted to speak to you about an owl.”

            An owl.  Athena’s symbol.  That would explain it.  “Aaaahhhh.  .  .  .  tell him I’ll be right down.”

            “Very well then.”

            “Thank you,” she said as he departed. She finished readying for the day and headed downstairs. A servant waited for her at the bottom.

            “This way, milady, to the main entry area,” he said and led her there.

            A man with short-cropped brown hair and average looks stood in the main entry area.  He wore peasant clothing -- very functional garments in earth tones.  His only distinguishing characteristic was the amulet around his neck; like Mica’s, it bore the symbol of Athena.  He looked up as Mica entered; she saw a light of recognition gleam in his eyes.

            “Ah!  I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance,” he greeted her, shaking her hand.  “I’ve been.  .  .  .  told.  .  .  .  about you.  Would you be willing to go for a short walk while we discuss?”

            Normally she might’ve been a bit wary, but he did have Athena’s symbol.  “Sure!”  When they were strolling in the direction of the docks, Mica broke the silence.  “So, you’ve heard of me, but who are you?”

            “Actually, I haven’t caught your name; it was just the fact that.  .  .  well.  .  .  I dreamed of you and this location,” he admitted.

            “Really?” she asked, intrigued.  “What was the dream?”

            “I saw your face along with an owl perched on your shoulder, and when I awoke I knew where you were staying,” he said.

            “Oh.  My name is Mica.”

            “Nice to meet you.  My name is Borglum; I am currently the only.  .  .  well.  .  .  my master and I are the only two disciples of Athena in this area.  My master is an ancient believer; the tradition of the faith has been very long in his family.”

            “I’d be interested to meet him -- would that be possible?”

            “Yes, certainly, actually, I was going to bring you to meet him as well.  I fear, though, that he is a less fervent follower,” Borglum confessed.

            Mica found this puzzling.  “His faith is long, yet he is not fervent?”

            “He holds a quiet faith.  He is a peaceful man.”

            “Ah.”  Suddenly she understood.  “He follows the wisdom of Athena.”

            “Yes.  Unfortunately, his faith and his family are from days when Athena was more well known in the world; very few now know of her name.”

            “Well, we’ll fix that,” Mica stated with confidence.

            “That has been my mission,” Borglum agreed.

            “Oh!  I like you,” Mica declared with a wide grin.

            “I have long attempted to at least make her name more well known, to raise her up to the level which she deserves.”

            “Well, tell you what.  We’ll order breakfast, we’ll chat about Athena, I’ll send word back to my friends of where we’ll be going, and I’ll meet your master and we’ll discuss Athena’s ways.”

            Borglum smiled as well.  “Ah, that sounds wonderful.  Actually, I was headed in the direction of our main temple.  .  .  for lack of a better word; I fear it is yet nowhere near the quality which she should deserve, but it is all that we can afford at this point.  But I was hoping to head down there and allow you to meet my master.”

            “I would be very interested in such, however, I need to get word back to my party of where we are going.”

            “Certainly!  Would you like to return at this point?”

            “Actually, I’d kind of like breakfast.”

            “Okay.  We could find a street vendor and purchase breakfast as we talk.”

            “Good.”

            Once he’d gained Mica’s approval and a plan, Borglum started striding more purposefully down the main area.  “Might I ask, how did you find Athena’s faith?”

            Mica hedged a bit.  “Well.  .  .  .  it’s a long story.  The gist of it is that Athena spoke to me, spoke to my heart” and saved my lowly butt she added mentally “and I decided that in return I’d devote my life to her and her ways.”

            Borglum contemplated her words.  “Interesting.  .  .  very seldom has Athena intervened directly either for us or to show us her ways.”

            “I don’t question Athena; I just follow her word,” Mica cut him off.

            “Obviously.  It’s a good plan, I guess.  .  .  ” Borglum was quite noticeably flustered by all this, and decided to change the topic to something a little safer.  “So, have you had any luck in spreading her word?”

            “Well, there was a town down the coast, named Jakiton, that was receptive to Athena’s word.  It’s a small village.”

            “Is it on Ventris?” he inquired.

            Mica shrugged.  “I dunno.  Navigation isn’t my strong point,” she lied.  “We beached, there were people, I talked.”

            “Ah. I understand.  Is there someone there to preach Athena’s will at this point?”

            “Well, I charged someone with keeping the faith, and spreading the word, made him the director so to speak.  And I promised them a true priest as soon as I found a temple with a large following that could spare a priest.”

            Borglum frowned slightly.  “That is difficult.  I believe we are the only temple for Athena that exists in the archipelago at this time.  There may be one on the mainland, but I don’t know.”

            “Maybe they are true Athenites, but just don’t know it.”

            “We are doing what we can to revive her religion.”

            Finally, a chance to ask a question she’d been wondering for a while!  “Why has her religion faltered so?”

            Borglum did a quick mental review of his lessons.  “Well, according to my master, the time when her religion was primarily in resurgence was in the age of the Sea King -”

            “Who is that?”

            “The Sea King?”

            “I have a long and strange history,” Mica explained.  “Suffice to say, I’m far away from home and don’t know the local history.”

            Borglum nodded.  “I understand.  The Sea King was actually a great and noble ruler who apparently immigrated to this area with a large number of his followers from the empire to the East.”

            “Do you know if any of his empire to the East is still in existence?”

            “The empire to the East still exists, yes.”

            “And are there still followers of Athena there?”

            “We do not know.  We thought so, unfortunately, the empire to the East is also much more.  .  .  violent.  .  .  .  very expansionist, as well as decadent.  Some of their practices are.  .  .  well.  .  .  less than.  .  .  .  good.  Human sacrifices and such.”

            “Ah.”  Mica had a strong suspicion about that one.  “You speak of necromancy?”

            “I believe they also do engage in that.  But this empire does indeed.  .  .  well, they may still have those followers of Athena there, but we cannot tell.  I do believe the time of Athena’s growth was when the Sea King ruled these lands.  He came from this empire for reasons he did not disclose, along with many of his followers.  It is rumored they either were fleeing from oppression or that they were seeking an area that they could possibly expand upon the realm.  But they came to these lands and formed a large number of these islands -- Barnicus itself was strongly influenced by most of those who came from these lands.  The Sea King placed his island to the far west of the archipelago and fought off most of the pirates that inhabited the archipelago at the time.  Unfortunately, he perished in pirate raids and generally the populace at that point, with the death of the Sea King, felt that Athena had not saved the Sea King, and was a less noble god than others would be.  And at that point most of the populace either turned away in reaction to her not saving the Sea King or simply drifted away, finding other gods they thought more powerful.”

            “That’s very interesting,” Mica said as they picked up a strange round roll with a hole in the middle and a tough crust, as well as some dark liquid that smelled a lot like the bean-brew of her home.  On their way back to Antonio’s place they chatted more about religious stuff -- she found out that Borglum had discovered Athena from a revelation one day after hearing his master talk.  He obviously cared for and venerated the old man a great deal, but also did not agree with his “Athena will provide” mentality -- Borglum was more of the “active helping of Athena” opinion, which suited Mica just fine.  She also found out that about a hundred people in the town regularly showed up to worship Athena, but their donations were just barely enough for them to be able to support themselves.  The church hadn’t had much luck getting people fired up; Borglum attributed this to the Barnicus mentality of, “that’s nice, but will it make me money?”  When they reached the house, Mica sent the page at the gate for Bassano, who came out shortly.

            “Yes, milady?”

            “I’m going to be visiting the temple of Athena with this man today,” she told him.

            “Ah.  The preacher.”

            “Yes.  Would you be so kind as to inform the rest of my party of my whereabouts?”  Then, to Borglum, “Please give the good man our location.”

            Borglum gave sketchy directions; Bassano nodded.

            “Okay.  I could find it.”

            Mica smiled to Bassano.  “Thank you very much, sir.”

            “Pleasure.”

            And with that, they set back off again.

*          *          *

            Tusit woke to the sound of someone being sick -- almost an echo effect.

            “How interesting,” he mused, not entirely coherent yet.  “Middle C, I do believe.”  He rolled over and entertained thoughts of another forty winks, but the racket continued on either side.  “Note to self: ask for better quarters.”  With that he tumbled out of bed and stumbled over to Forge’s door and gently rapped on it.

            The sound of retching answered him.  Then, scarcely audible, “Quieter.  .  .  .  please.  .  .  .  .  ”

            Tusit turned the latch and opened the door with as little noise possible.  He stuck his head in to see Forge bent over an exceedingly overfull chamberpot.  He whispered, “Are you all right?  Should I.  .  .  um.  .  .  find someone to get you a new one.  .  .  ?  It looks like you’ve topped off.”

            Forge nodded.  And wished he hadn’t when the world shifted on him again.

            “I’ll see what I can do,” Tusit said, grimacing as he recognized dinner.  “Is there anything else I can get you?  The hair of the dog.  .  .  ?”

            “More sprites,” Forge croaked out.

            “If it’s any comfort,” Tusit informed him, “I do believe your cousin Darwin is in similar states.” He padded down the hall to poke his head in on Darwin, in a similar situation.  .  .  only he looked considerably worse off.  “Ooohhh.  .  . ah, I’ll be back to assist you shortly.”  He headed down to the kitchen.

            The cook, in the middle of making a laaaarrrrge breakfast, looked up at his entry.  “Hello.  Breakfast will be ready pretty soon here.  Do you want that with Antonio, or would you like a plate separate?”

            “Well.  .  .  ah, um I hadn’t given much thought to my own nourishment yet.  My companions upstairs are in rather rough shape.  Do you have a spice cabinet or something I might be able to.  .  .  .  ? I play with herbs; I was hoping to mix something up for them.”

            “Okay, yeah, we’ve got spices back through the dry room.”  He pointed.

            “Wonderful.  I’ll get back to you about our food, although I do think that they’ll be eating light, both of the dwarves.”

            “They okay?” he asked in concern.

            Tusit smiled weakly up at him.  “Um.  .  .  .  they’ve got rather full chamber pots.  .  .  they imbibed a bit too much.”

            An understanding expression crossed the cook’s face.  “Oh!  Right.  .  .  .  . ”

            “And if it’s possible to pass the word, you might want to tell whoever brings the food to them to be quiet,” Tusit added, and couldn’t help but chuckle a little in sympathetic remembrance.

            The cook nodded shortly.  “I understand. Kay.”

            Tusit wandered into the dry room to sort through the herbs.  To his delight, the dry room looked like it was the herbal stock for the entire household -- some herbs for cooking, but a lot of them for purely medicinal purposes.  Tusit mixed up the most potent thing he knew of for the pain, stomachache, headache, dehydration, and general ick that accompanies a hangover.  That done, he scanned for fun stuff; he’d lost his supply on the slavers’ ship, and had only been able to pick up an irritant and a pain-numbing herb since.  He grabbed a bunch of fellis, which was a lot more potent for pain-numbing than what he had.  The herb itself when rubbed on the skin would cause it to tingle and go numb; a cup of the distilled “juice” would knock somebody right out.  He also found ipecac sprouts -- spew-inducing -- and one out-of-place herb: cleod, a hallucinogenic with no medical or seasoning use.  Done for the time being, he grabbed some hot water and a couple rolls from the kitchen, then turned again to the cook.

            “I don’t suppose you have anything mildly strong alcoholic?  I’m sure you don’t have any more of the spirits they were drinking.”

            The cook gave him directions to the primary liquor cabinet, in which he discovered a bottle of the “weak” dwarven-make alcohol.  He took his supplies to Darwin’s room and knocked gently on the door.

            A moan answered him.

            “I’ve come with assistance.  .  .  .  .  ” He eased himself in.

            Darwin lay next to the chamber pot in a puddle of his own spew.

            Tusit wrinkled his nose, put the bounty on the table, and gingerly hauled the dwarf out of the puddle and helped him into bed.  The gnome pulled a chair over to the bedside and set on it one of the herb concoctions, a roll, and a glass of the liquor.

            “This is the good stuff,” Tusit explained, pointing to the tea, then to the spirits, “this is what did this to you.”  Once again to the tea.  “This is what will help it all go away.”

            Darwin reached for the spirits.

            “It’s up to you.  And there is a page coming up with a brand new sparkly pot for you.”  He carefully exited and closed the door, then carried some of the supplies to Forge’s room.  Forge, thankfully, was not lying in a puddle.  “Oh.  .  .  goodness.  .  .  your cousin is not in good states.”

            “Good,” Forge croaked out hoarsely.  “Misery loves company.”

            “Well, you two would love one another right now.  Shall I set up a date?”

            Forge did not reply.

            Tusit went through the same routine of setting up the chair and such, but left Forge the bottle. “This is.  .  .  well, I believe you call it ‘elf piss.’  I didn’t think you’d want the really strong stuff.”

            “Not yet anyway.”

            Tusit left him to his own devices and made a quick stop at the kitchen for some snacks (it was a continental-style breakfast.  .  .  as opposed to Antonio, whom Tusit wryly mused probably had the continent for breakfast) and tea.  These items obtained, he trundled to the breakfast area and plopped himself near a window to sun as he read.

*                      *                      *

            Thistlepouch awoke to warfing and a loud, sodden thump, followed not long after by the door opening to Darwin’s room next door.  Then came some grunting and incoherent muttering that sounded distinctly like Tusit.  A pause.  Then, muffled, by the thick walls,

            “This is the good stuff; this is what did this to you.  This is what will help it all go away.  It’s up to you.  And there is a page coming up with a brand new sparkly pot for you.”

            Thistlepouch made a supreme effort not to giggle.

            She heard the door close.

            After about five minutes she got curious to see just how bad off Darwin was.  She flopped out of bed and started to grab her clothes, only to realize they were still at the laundry.  Her only option (besides the over-long tunic she’d used for a nightshirt) was the dress from last night.  It was pretty, true, and had been kind of fun, but it wasn’t practical.  She rummaged through the closet in search of something better, but only came up with dull-colored dwarven clothing.  Shaking her head in disgust, she went off to raid the elven rooms.  When she was mid-rummage (standing on tiptoe to see in a top drawer, to be exact), she heard footsteps and turned to find Bob staring at her in curiosity.

            “Oh, good morning!  Are you looking for clothes, too?”

            “Not exactly.  .  .  .  what exactly are you doing in this room, anyway?”

            “I’m trying to find something that looks nice and might possibly fit,” she explained, turning once more to her search.

            Bob could see this getting them both into all kinds of trouble.  “Let me help you,” he offered in the evenly spaced words of one talking to someone slightly less than all there.  “I’m sure there’s something in here that would really look nice.  This nature scene is really wow.  .  .  it could be you!”

            Thistlepouch gave him a flat look.  She’d spent her entire life in stuff like that.  Why perpetuate the misery? “It’s brown.”

            “But this one is green!”

            “Green.”  She found it hard to work up much enthusiasm over green.  “Can’t we find something blue or red or yellow or something bright.  .  .  .  something the color of my leggings, maybe?”

            Bob winced.  Her leggings were jellybean purple.  “Well, we might find some fluorescent green, but I think that’s about the best we could do.”

            Thistlepouch sighed.  “Well, if we could find something in a bright green that would be okay, I guess.”  Bob started to go through the drawers, and she figured he had this room pretty well covered, so she went to check out the next one.  (Bob did eventually manage to find some bright greens -- but when he turned around to share his find with the kita, he noticed she was gone.  He shrugged -- there really was no way to tell where she’d gotten off to, kitas being kitas.  Thinking breakfast thoughts, he headed downstairs.)

            A grin split her face as soon as she opened the wardrobe door of the third room-- the clothing inside was splashed with every wonderfully bright color she’d ever seen.  .  .  .  and a few she hadn’t.  Her spirits plunged, however, when she discovered that not only had they been built for someone tall and thin, but they were all dresses.  And on closer inspection, she decided she had no idea how one person could get into any of them without a team of attendants.  Still, it was an improvement; she kept it in mind but went to try the next room, hoping for the male version of this one.  A good call -- in fact, the costumes were designed to compliment previous room’s outfits.  Some of them had large wire frameworks billowing off the arms -- she couldn’t see how anyone could pick up or handle anything while wearing them.  And while the effect might look impressive, it would be very boring not to be able to explore while wearing it.

            She finally settled on one that looked like it had been designed to give the impression of some bird.  Large wing-like structures sprung from the back, but she could cut them off for travel.  Other than that, the ensemble was a straightforward tunic and breeches in a brilliant peacock color with odd irridescent feathers for decoration.  Thrilled with her find, Thistlepouch dragged it to Mica’s room.  No one home.  The same with Tusit.  She sighed.  Tired of dragging the thing around, Thistlepouch clambered into it without removing her nightshirt.  The sleeves and pants were too long; she rolled up the sleeves and tied the pants up with some spare bits of ribbon.  She walked a couple steps, then remembered the wings.  Her eyes lit as sudden inspiration hit; she ran down the hallway as fast as her little kita legs could carry her, hoping against hope she could get up enough velocity to actually take off.

            It didn’t work very well, which made her stop and pout in disappointment for almost a good minute before she noticed the polished wooden banister on the stairs going down.  With some effort she scaled the post and sat straddled over the banister, then pushed off, screaming in delight as she zoomed down.

*                      *                      *

            Tusit and Bob, in the breakfast room, heard a high-pitched “wheeeee!!!!!” from down the hall. Tusit glanced up to see a small, peacock-clad form with large wings covered in feathers zooming down the banister.  It took a moment or so for recognition to set in, whereupon he promptly nosed his tea.

            “That would be the kita.  .  .  I hope,” Bob mused as she became airborne.

            Tusit, suppressing gigglefits and mopping his nose, watched in utter amazement as she landed.

            Thistlepouch didn’t get much lift the first time; disappointed but not discouraged, she picked herself up and scrambled to the top of the stairs for another try, resolving this time to flap her arms.        Tusit had been in the process of going to help her, but when she trotted back up the stairs he figured he was in for a show, so he rotated his chair around, sat down, and watched.

            Just then a page walked in.  “Excuse me, sir,” he said as he stopped directly in front of the banister.

            “Um -?” Tusit started to warn him.

            “Yes?”

            It took only a millisecond of debate for Tusit to decide it would be far more fun not to interfere. “Nothing.”

            Thistlepouch, however, had other ideas -- albeit a little delayed.  “Lookout!” she yelped.

            The confused page turned in time to see the kita bearing down on him full force.

            “Zeus’s Thunder!”

            A split second later came the impact that sent them both tumbling head over heels in an explosion of feathers -- Thistlepouch, with a bit more momentum, managed an extra couple rolls.  She heard a snap and distantly hoped it wasn’t from her or the page.

            Tusit flipped to the back page of his book, wrote down “9.6”, and held it up.

            The page lay on the floor, stunned.

            The kita remained spread-eagled, staring up at the ceiling, trying to determine if that snap had belonged to her.  She hurt in several places, but none of them hurt badly enough to have merited a snap.  Peripherally she noticed the page she took out lying on the floor, stunned, and Tusit holding up a scorecard with “9.6” written on it.  How disappointing.  A landing like that deserved at least a 9.8.

            “Are you done?” asked the gnome tentatively.

            “Done?”  She hauled herself up.  She felt the wings -- one was definitely busted -- and likely the source of the snap.  “I think I broke it.”

            “I think you did too, dear.  I don’t think they were meant for lift.”  He put his book on his chair and went over to the page, helped him to his feet.  “Terribly sorry about that, good chap.”

            The page blinked dazedly and swayed on his feet.  “What in the name of Poseidon’s mighty piss-stream was that?”

            “That.  .  .  would have been a kita,” Tusit informed him.

            Thistlepouch took a moment to decide if that was a compliment.

            Tusit went over to the kita to dust her off.  He couldn’t help but chuckle.  To begin with, the outfit was about eight sizes too big for the kita -- she’d apparently rolled the sleeves up to keep her hands free, but one had unrolled and trailed limply past where he guessed her hand was -- that one had some nasty scuff marks on it.  The ties that had kept the pant legs from trailing on the floor loosed sometime during the ride, and now at least a good two if not three feet of fabric flopped off the end of each foot.  One of the wings hung at a skewed angle, and feathers stuck haphazardly out of the peacock-colored fabric.  He could see where she’d lost a good number more of them on the trip down -- and especially on impact with the page.  In fact, he could trace out where they’d collided by the fallout of feathers, like somebody’d tried to play stick-ball with a brightly colored chicken.

            “Does this happen often?” inquired the page.

            “When she finds a banister, it does,” Tusit chuckled.

            Thistlepouch frowned contemplatively at the banister.  “I think with a bit more polish on that thing, I might’ve gotten airborne.”

            “I think it might have been the wings,” Tusit put in.  “I’ve had some ideas.  .  .  if you want me to, I can discuss them with you.”

            Thistlepouch brightened.  “Okay!  Do you think you could make me fly?”

            “I’m sure we could give it a darn god shot.”

            Bob thought for a moment.  He decided he did not want the kita to have a glider.

            Now that most of the commotion had died down and his world stopped spinning, the page took the opportunity to deliver his message.  “I was coming to let you know that the lady Mica is going to be absent today; visiting the temple for Athena, I believe.”

            “I’m glad that impact hadn’t erased your memory.  That’s good information.  Where did you say it was?” Tusit asked.

            “If you wish, I’ve got directions to the locale,” offered the page.

            Tusit ripped out the page he had used for a scorecard.  “You could just jot them down.”

            “I could just tell them to you, good sir.”

            “All right,” Tusit replied brightly enough, not making a big deal out of the fact that the page probably couldn’t write.  He took the directions down.

            “If anyone else here wishes, I could have the cook bring out breakfasts for you,” the page suggested.

            “That would be nice,” Tusit voiced for the group.

            Thistlepouch tried to pull up her pant legs a bit and nearly pulled herself off her feet.  “Um, do you think you could help me make this a bit more my size?” she asked Tusit.

            Tusit grinned again at the sight.  “I was wondering.  .  .  sure.  .  .  I have my materials here, if you want me to -”

            “Okay!”  Without hesitation she started shedding clothing -- luckily for modesty’s sake, she still had her nightshirt on under it.

            Tusit pulled up another chair and set to work.  “Well, let’s see what we can do about this.”

*                      *                      *

            Mica was wandering toward the temple area when Lockshy’s face poked out of the crowd, then disappeared.  It looked like he was headed back up the way she had come -- toward Antonio’s house.  Mica kept it in mind and continued on.

            Borglum brought Mica to a large building that looked like a house, except for Athena’s symbol carved over the doorway.

            “This is what we currently use,” he explained.  “The master and I live in the upstairs rooms, and we’ve converted most of the downstairs rooms into a simple large temple.  .  .  .  but please, come see what we have.”  He led her into a sparsely furnished area with a small altar near the front.  “This is all, unfortunately, we’ve been able to do, but if you like, we can go up and speak to the master now.”

            “That would be good.  You’ve done well with what you have -- any effort is good.”

            “I wish we could do more, but unfortunately it isn’t always easy trying to find those who are willing to listen to her word.”  He brought her upstairs.  The first room sported only a simple cot and a small trunk for belongings; he passed through without explanation and knocked at the next door.  A shaky voice answered.

            “Yes?”

            “Master Burliose, the young lady I spoke of is here.”

            “Ah! Come, come, come.”

            Borglum opened the door to reveal an thin, old, wizened man with sparse, graying hair.  The man -- apparently the master Borglum spoke of -- sat in a chair and looked as if he’d just woken from a nap.

            “Yes, yes, come closer.”

            “Hello, my name is Mica,” she greeted respectfully.

            “Aaahhh!  So good to find another of the flock who have joined us.  You are a follower of her?”

            “Yeah.  I’m a newcomer to her faith; she kind of spoke to me and wanted me to be her fighter, but I’m kind of a simple person.  I was hoping maybe you could help me figure out what it is exactly I’m supposed to be doing?  I mean, I’ve never even prayed to a god before.  I don’t know what to do -- I don’t know what she expects.  .  .  what I can and can’t do.  I mean, what if I piss her off?  Will she hit me with a lightning bolt?”

            Burliose was stuck on something she’d said quite a bit earlier, though.  “Well.  .  .  um.  .   .  my.  .  .  this is very unusual, actually; I’ve never heard of this.  I must say that I’m not familiar with Athena asking someone to be a warrior for her.  .  .  it’s very odd.  What signs has she given you?”

            “Well, she’s given me this pendant,” Mica said, pulling it out from under her shirt.

            “Granted to you by the goddess?”

            “And she gifted me with this sword.”

            “A sword?  May I see it?”

            “Sure.”  Mica presented it, scabbard and all.

            “Well.  .  .  this is.  .  .  .  very odd.  May I?” he requested, reaching out to touch it.

            “Yeah!  Sure!”

            Burliose grasped the hilt and drew the sword from its scabbard.  “This is.  .  .  .  very odd.  .  .  ”

            “Why do you say that?” Mica asked as the old man handed it back in a manner that showed he obviously had no idea how to hold a sword.  Mica took it from him carefully and returned it to its scabbard.

            “Well,” Burliose explained, “the only times we ever know of there being a warrior sent that Athena has given a blade unto was.  .  .  well.  .  .  legends of times before wars or battles in which Athena had some sort of a stake, but I know of no wars or even battles.  .  .  we are at peace.  .  .  .  ”

            “No wars between gods?” Mica suggested.

            “Oh!  No, no, the gods never fight.  There are times such as.  .  .  .  for example, legend says the battle of Troy, Athena backed the side of those who were attacking troy versus Ares, and Aphrodite, who backed the side of the defenders.”

            “Well, I was captured as a slave and escaped.  I’m journeying with my fellow escapees, maybe she wanted to back me on that?”
            “It’s possible that she has some urge to fight these slavers.  .  .  .  I don’t know.  .  .  it’s hard to know the will of the gods,” Burliose said.

            “Are there any big no-nos you know of that I shouldn’t be doing?”

            The old priest thought for a moment.  “The only thing Athena truly despises is acting without thought.  She has always focused on wits, the clever solution over a trial by force.  She is a goddess of combat but avoids slaughter.”

            Mica nodded.  “That’s nice.  I’m not.  .  .  well, a real violent person.”

            “This is good,” Burliose approved.  “She focuses upon the skill of swordplay  but not upon the slaying.  She finds more worth in incapacitating an opponent than in killing, though she understands and accepts that as necessary at times.  Indeed, this is where she and her brother Ares come into opposition.  He focuses on battles, death and slaughter whereas Athena focuses on tactic and strategy.”

            “Aah.  .  .  slight change of subject, but are you having a gathering tonight?”

            “Certainly.  We gather regularly to ask for her wisdom and blessings,” Burliose informed her.

            “May I attend?” she requested.

            “Certainly!  We generally have a worship session at sundown,” said Burliose.

            Mica was fast winding down.  She searched for something else to say.  “Um.  .  .  .  was there anything you wanted to ask me?”

            “Only this.”  Burliose paused briefly to sneeze, then continued.  “We were not aware that there were other enclaves of Athena.  We had feared that we were the only remaining area within the archipelago.  Where did you learn even of Athena’s existence, for most do not know of her?”

            “I did not know of Athena until she spoke to me, and came into my life.  However, I have journeyed to a town called Jakiton back down the coast and did find people receptive to Athena’s word there.  If indeed you decide that Ventris is not the place for you, I’m sure you could find a welcome there.  I’m not sure how strong their faith will be; I promised them a priest as soon as I could find a temple, but when I left they did seem devoted.”

            “This is good.  Borglum, are there any in the flock that you feel would enjoy going and sharing Athena’s wisdom with them?”

            The apprentice took a moment to recall.  “At this point, master, there may be some, but let me think.”

            “Okay, then!  I guess I’ll see you at sundown!  I greatly look forward to seeing a service of Athena.  I have never witnessed it; but I think I’d better return to my party now.”  With respectful well-wishings, Mica took her leave and headed back to Antonio’s house.  She briefly debated stopping at some of the merchants’ booths, but she couldn’t think of anything else she needed.  .  .  and shopping without the kita wasn’t much fun, anyway.

*                      *                      *

            While Tusit was busy mangling the outfit, servants came in with breakfast -- Tusit nibbled as he worked.  When Bob finished he soon got bored with watching the gnome work and decided to go out to the marketplace in search of a hawk.  Thistlepouch, however, was completely entertained; she happily swung her short legs to keep them from falling asleep as she munched on a pastry and chatted with Tusit about the theories of flight.  Tusit glanced up to see a page lead Lockshy in.  He immediately stopped, set the sewing aside, and reached for his belt dagger.

            Mid-chatter, Thistlepouch, noticed Tusit’s expression grow cold and his hand reach for his belt-dagger.  She looked up with a chocolate-smeared face.  “Isn’t that -” she asked in a hushed voice.

            “Mmmm-hmm.”

            “What’s he doing here?”

            “Let’s watch.”

            The page led him up the stairs toward the family quarters.  Thistlepouch hopped off her chair to sneak after them; Tusit followed along, just walking. The page led Lockshy up the next level of stairs and started down the corridor towards a door Bassano stood near, waiting.

            Tusit sidled up to the kita just long enough to whisper, “I’ll be around. Keep an eye on him.” At her slightly distracted nod, he fell back a couple paces, cast invisibility on himself, then hurried to catch up and match his steps with the moneychanger.

            Bassano opened the door and motioned Lockshy in.  Thistlepouch tried to slip thorough, too, but Bassano shook his head.  Tusit, however, managed to get through thanks to his invisibility.  Bassano entered behind Lockshy and closed the door.

            Thistlepouch tried quietly testing the door -- she couldn’t believe they’d really meant to leave her outside -- but it was locked.  She tried looking through the keyhole, but it wasn’t enough to see through.  Next she crouched down and tried for a view under the door, but that only showed her a bunch of feet.  In exasperation she pulled out a couple pins she’d found at the temple -- maybe these would be Athena-blessed since Thistlepouch had found them in her temple -- and attempted to unstick the door’s lock as she listened to the conversation inside so she could relay it to Tusit later -- wherever he’d gone off to.  Maybe the privy.

            Inside, Merchant Antonio sat in a large chair behind a desk with two guards flanking him.  He didn’t look at all happy.  Lockshy walked in and sat down in a chair across the desk from him; Bassano took up a post behind his chair.  Tusit stood to one side of Lockshy.

            “Did you bring it?” Antonio asked roughly.

            “Certainly sir.  .  .  of course.  .  .  I would not question anything other than -” Lockshy simpered.

            “Shut up and give me the flaming vial.”

            “Of course, I mean, I’d be more than happy to.  .  .  .  but of course I do need your assurance that you will do exactly as was -”

            “I’ll do it; just gimme the flaming vial.”

            “Certainly.”  The weasely man reached into a pocket and pulled out a small vial, then placed it on the desk.  Tusit watched the men closely, hoping they’d get distracted so he could nab the vial.

            “Gods-cursed blackmailer.  I hate slimeballs like you!” Antonio cursed.  He took a deep breath and huffed it out.  “So. This it?”

            “Certainly, sir.  .  .  .  I would never do anything but offer you the goods which you requested -”

            “Shut up and get the hades out!”

            “Of course.  .  .  and of course I’m sure that as a man of your word, you will -”

            “Apollo’s privates -- leave!” the merchant bellowed.

            “Of course, sir!”  Lockshy stood with alacrity and quickly headed toward the door with Bassano following.  Antonio motioned one of the guards over to the vial -- the guard picked it up.

            Thistlepouch, upon hearing the advancing footsteps, quickly removed her improvisational lockpicks -- it would impolite to leave them there to jam up a door that already stuck.  She stood to one side so no one would trip over her and waited with one of her best “I haven’t been getting into any trouble at all, why do you ask?” look on her face -- though no one in his or her right mind would trust any kita wearing than expression.

            Bassano followed Lockshy to the door, reached around him to insert the key and unlocked and opens the door.  Lockshy walked out, as did a guard carrying a vial, who turned toward Melissanna’s quarters.  Thistlepouch glanced back and got a glimpse at Antonio still sitting at his desk, brooding, before she double-timed to catch up to Lockshy.  She decided to strike up a conversation; he looked like a sort that might have useful things in his pockets, and humans, she’d noticed, tended to mind less if you talked to them while you found out.

            “Hello!”

            “Oh, yes!  Little miss, and how are you today?”

            “Oh, pretty good.  You know, I found a neat outfit, and it had wings on it, and I almost flew!”

            “Really.  .  .  well, that’s interesting.”

            Tusit, walking on Lockshy’s other side, checked him out for anything obvious he could lift -- which there wasn’t, so he left well enough alone.  Instead, he focused on watching Thistlepouch.  He noticed that as she walked and carried on conversation her left hand rifled the moneychanger’s pockets.  Tusit poked him, but just then realized that she had finished and the distraction was useless.  His eyebrows raised; he was incredibly impressed.  Once he realized he was too late he settled down to just watch her, fascinated.

            “I did not know that elven children could fly like that!”

            Thistlepouch winced inwardly; that was as bad as picking on her height or her freckles.  She decided politely not to fly off the handle; it really wasn’t his fault he didn’t know any better.  If he’d been trying to be mean, then she would’ve taunted him.  “Oh, I’m not an elf, really.”

            “Oh, I see.  .  .  .  then.  .  .  .  what is your race?”

            “I’m a kita.  Do you know what kita are?”

            “No, I’m not exactly familiar-”

            “Oh, we’re from somewhere quite a ways off -- it’s really neat; everyone’s my size.  .  .  well, actually I’m kind of short for a kita,” she added justly -- if she was going to educate him she figured she should do it right, “but they’re a little bit taller than me, and the doorknobs are all my height.  But it’s been a while since I’ve been there; I’ve gone lots of places and had really interesting adventures.  .  .  would you like to hear one of my stories?  I’m going to be a bard, you know -”

            “No, that’s quite all right, child, really -”

            There was that child thing again.  Evidently he hadn’t gotten the hint.  “Actually, I’m kind of -- well, I’m not very old for a kita, but I’m old enough to be on my own, even if I am kind of short, though people keep thinking I’m an elf child.  .  .  maybe it’s the pointy ears?”

            Tusit watched as she pulled something very interesting-looking out of his pouches.  I’ve gotta learn that.  .  .  .  . he vowed silently, amazed.

            By that point, however, they’d gotten near the front door, and Lockshy hurried out with some muttered, vague pleasantries.

            “Have a nice day!” Thistlepouch called after him, and settled down to go through her pouches since she’d nothing better to do.  She found a signet ring depicting a padlock with a garland around it (that was fairly interesting), a plain cloak clasp (boring), and a fascinating glass sphere about the size of her fist.  That last one really caught her attention.  She pondered a moment, then looked around, remembering Tusit’s warning about taking the tingly stick out in public, but there was no one to see her.  She riffled through a couple pouches and found the tingly stick -- which got very tingly indeed around the ball.  With nothing better to entertain her, she set about seeing if she could make the ball work.

            Tusit meanwhile had followed Lockshy out the door as surreptitiously as possible for an invisible gnome, though he knew he couldn’t anywhere near match the kita for sneaking.  He matched him for the first few paces -- but stumbled.

            Lockshy stopped, looked around, then hurried off at a distinctly faster pace.

            Tusit tried again, but he could hear his own scuffling -- he stopped.

            Lockshy ran.

            Tusit mentally kicked himself for being such a clod.  Note to self: quieter shoes.

*                      *                      *

            Mica, heading back to the manor house, suddenly caught sight of Lockshy plowing towards her at full boar.  With a grim smile she put out her quarterstaff to trip him and sent the moneychanger sprawling.  Just before she could pin him with the butt end of the quarterstaff in the small of his back, however, he jumped to his feet and scuttled off.  Mica followed.  After ten or fifteen feet he glanced behind him, but the priestess ducked into an group of people.  He continued -- she followed.

            It didn’t take many streets before it became obvious he was headed into a less-than-reputable part of town.  He glanced behind him more often, and Mica was pretty sure he got at least one good glimpse of her.  Mica pulled the hood of her cloak up, gave him a little more distance.  He took a direct route to one building that looked much like all the others, opened the door, walked in, and closed it behind himself.  Mica made a note of the building’s location, intending to tell her companions of it.  She headed around to the back, which just opened into an alleyway; she couldn’t make out much from that, though she noted that there were windows on all sides.  That discovered, she headed back to Antonio’s, periodically checking for anyone following her.

            After a few times of seeing a rather homely looking man with brownish hair and a nose that had been broken and healed poorly, she decided she’d acquired a tail.  She turned into the first available shop -- the guy kept walking past and turned off a couple streets down.  Mica nonchalantly exited, keeping an eye out for him, and browsed a few more shops.  He did not reappear; she decided it was probably coincidence.  She shrugged, but just to be on the safe side made a bee-line to Antonio’s.

*                      *                      *

            Tusit, meanwhile, wasn’t in the mood to give up his invisibility quite yet, so he headed off to see if he could find the servants’ entrance.  There were two doors in the back of the house; after five minutes of waiting when no one appeared, he picked the one he figured was the safest and opened it, then stepped inside.  He found himself in a hallway with lots of doors -- few of them closed.  The room closest contained a man sprawled on his cot staring up at the ceiling.  At the sound of the door opening he called out, though did not turn, “That you, James?”

            Tusit stood still, did not close the door.

            When he received no reply, the man looked around. “Hey!  Who opened the door?”  Grumbling, he rolled out of his cot, went to the door, peered outside and around a bit, but could not find the perpetrator.  He shrugged -- it could’ve been the wind -- closed it, and trundled back to his room.

***

Disclaimer: No pages were injured in the creation of this chapter.  One did, however, gain a phobia of peacocks.