Eleven

            Thistlepouch noticed, after a bit, that no one was following her.  Normally when you discover that no one is following you, it’s a good thing.  However, if that no one happens to include the party members you assumed were right on your tail, it changes matters a bit.  She went back to the boat.

            “What’s the hold up?”

            Forge hesitated.  “Do you think we should wait until it gets darker?  My armor will be done, then.  I’ll feel safer.”

            “You’ll feel safer,” Mica shot back.  “I’ve got a mission tonight, and while it might be really nice to go get your sword and all, I have other things to do!”

            Remembrance hit the kita.  “Oh, the revival!  Can I come too, still?”

            “Yes, we have to go to the revival.  My spiritual side is calling.”

            “No problem,” Tusit said.  “Let’s postpone this till tomorrow.  I have some things I need to look into anyway.  When is your revival meeting?”

            “It starts at sundown,” she informed him.

            “So you’re going to be there a while?”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t know how long revival meetings last.  There could be chanting and stuff, I dunno.”

            Tusit giggled.  “No problem.  I need to study some things before we attempt this again, anyway.  I’ll meet you back here midnight?  Do you think your meeting might be done by then?”

            “Oh, yeah.  We can’t take that long.”

            “I can’t sit still that long,” Thistlepouch seconded.

            “Fair enough.”  Tusit nodded.  “Meet back at our rooms?”

            Mica nodded.

            “We’re going to be staying up at the manor house today anyway, Forge, so we’re safe,” Thistlepouch comforted.

            “He just wants his sword to be safe.”

            “Axe.  Fine.  Well, let’s head back up to Antonio’s place, then.”

            As they wandered back up, they spotted Bob by a rainbarrel washing himself off.

            Forge rolled his eyes.  “Elves.  What’d you fall in?”

            “Hi guys,” Bob greeted.  “Oh, I kinda stepped wrong and kinda slipped and fell in a pile of sewage.  I’ve had better days.”

            Thistlepouch wrinkled her nose.  “Pew!  It’s you I was smelling!”

            “I have a new pet, which I am training.”

            Mica quirked a skeptical eyebrow.  “Under your shirt?”

            “Elves,” Forge grumbled.

            “I need someone to help catch a rat, or kill a rat so I can feed my pet,” Bob said.

            “Can’t you just buy a rat from some local vendor?” Mica asked.

            “Well, that would be kind of expensive.”

            The kita frowned.  “What’s your pet?  Don’t most normal people get a dog?”

            “Well, a falcon was kind of too expensive, so I had to go with something a little cheaper.”

            “What is this, like bottom-of-the-barrel econo-pet?  A lizard?” Mica tried.

            “Ferret?” Forge guessed.

            Bob hedged.  “Well, not exactly.  It’s in the bat family.”

            “Bats don’t eat rats,” Mica said.

            “Well, it’s kinda like a bat.  It’s a little different.”

            “What kind of bat eats rats?”  Mica sounded suspicious.  Thistlepouch didn’t blame her a bit.  He was trying to hide something.

            “A vampyre bat!  He’s got a vampyre for a pet!” the kita exclaimed, her respect for him dipping even further.  “Does this strike anyone else as a bad idea?”

            “I feel obligated to mention something at this point,” Forge spoke up.  “I’m supposed to kill the undead so they can return to Hades.  So if this happens to be a vampyre.  .  .”

            “Is it feeding on you?” Mica asked, appalled.

            “It’s not a vampyre,” Bob protested.  “It eats rats.”

            Forge groaned and shuffled off, Thistlepouch following.  Mica was still back there arguing with Bob.  Thistlepouch decided she didn’t want to be anywhere near Bob or his rat-eating vampyre bat.  She couldn’t wait to see the look on Tusit’s face -- he hated necromancy.  All in all, she was quite happy when she got back to the house and could shut herself in her room and look through her pouches.  Smooth stones, that was new, a length of twine, and a couple shot glasses -- must’ve fallen into her pouches in the Bilge Pump.  Oh, and a copy of the Barnicus Bugle!  With nothing better to do, she sat down to read it, hoping to find something about Melissanna and her friends and -- who knows? -- maybe even herself.

            She was not pleased by what she saw on the bottom of page two.

            “WHAT?!  STUNTED ELF-CHILD?!?!” she shrieked, highly indignant.

            Mica poked her head in.  “What’s wrong with you?”

            “Read this!”  Thistlepouch jabbed at the bottom of the second page with one small finger, so mad she was almost speechless.  This was getting monotonous!  Didn’t anyone know what a kita was?!

            “Hey!  They put the gnome before the human!  That’s not fair!  We’re not going by height, here!” Mica cried in protest.  She got to the end of the sentence.  “Stunted elf-child.  .  . well, you know.  .  . they live in ignorance.”

            “I’ll say!  They live in a couple other places, too, and I don’t think they’ve seen the sun in a while!” Thistlepouch spluttered, too mad to even come up with a good insult.

            “‘I’d love her even if she was a vegetable.  .  .’  So, does he have a thing for turnips?” Mica wondered.

            “Maybe carrots?’ Forge suggested; he’d come in, too, as had Bob.

            A warbling from outside interrupted the conversation.  Thistlepouch went to a window and opened it to get a better view.  The others peered out over her head.  A young courtier stood out front, warbling a love song to the accompaniment of his guitern.  Forge grabbed for a couple empty bottles and hurled them out the window.  Thistlepouch felt around her pouches for a smooth stone and pitched it after.

            “Get out of here, you warbling bullfrog!  Frogs sound tastier than you!” Forge bellowed as the empty bottles smashed against the great fence about five feet ahead of the startled courtier.

            “Louder!  She can’t hear  you!” Mica cried.

            A stone hit him on the shoulder.  He backpedaled, still warbling fiercely.

            “I’ll fix your banjo thing!” Forge yelled, grabbed his quarterstaff, and ran off down the hall.

            “Oh, god, what are you doing?!” Mica demanded, running after him.

            Bob tagged along.

            “I will return for you, my love!” the courtier swore, and ran off.

            “You’re an insult to all barddom!” Thistlepouch shouted after him.

            Noticing that everyone was gone, Thistlepouch shrugged and shut the door, then quickly threw on her newly cleaned leggings and tunic, belted it with her pouches, and grabbed her staff.  She glanced at herself in a mirror and wished they’d had time to finish her new outfit.  She went down to the main hall to wait for the priestess and saw the headdress still sitting on a chair, the feathers swaying slightly in a draft.  She put it on.  A few minutes later, Mica joined her, and together they headed for the temple.

            It was empty when they arrived, except for Borglum, who was busy getting things prepped.  Thistlepouch gazed in wonder at the interior, a single large open space with plain stone benches in rows.  A simple stone altar stood in front, a large portrait of Athena with an owl perched on her shoulder behind it.  Frescoes showing Athena in various aspects decorated the walls.  There was one with her spear engaged in combat with a spear-wielding warrior.  Another depicted her sitting, surrounded by scrolls and books.  A third showed her at a spinning wheel.  There were scenes from what Thistlepouch guessed to be Athena’s mythos.  In one Athena watched a woman turning into a spider in front of her.  In another, Athena sprung forth from the forehead of a god meant to be Zeus by the throne he was sitting on, the big white beard, and the thunderbolts surrounding him.  The other Athenian temple had been grander, but this one was certainly in better repair.

            Borglum looked up.  “Oh, you made it!  This is such a pleasure!  Please, have a seat!  The rest of our following will be joining us soon and my master will be coming down to conduct the ceremonies.”

            “Wonderful!”  The priestess turned to her kita friend.  “Shall we sit?”

            “Sure!”  They plopped down on a front bench.  Thistlepouch swung her feet to keep them from falling asleep.

            “How soon will the ceremony start?” Mica asked Borglum.

            “As soon as the other members get here -- I don’t know how many will be here.  I’m hoping for about twenty-five.”

            Mica turned back to Thistlepouch.  “So, I guess I can show you around afterwards.”

            “Okay.”  A peacock feather flopped down over her eye -- she busied herself trying to blow it back into place.

            By the time a quarter of a mark had passed, approximately twenty-five peasants had straggled in.  Mica eyed them critically.

            “These aren’t much for warriors,” she muttered lowly.

            Thistlepouch considered.  “Maybe, but we didn’t look much like warriors either when we got off the boat.”

            “That’s true.”

            “And at least they’re here,” Thistlepouch continued.  “Maybe they’re into the wisdom part.”

            Mica made a face.

            “I think the warrior bit would be more exciting, too, but.  .  .”

            “That’s what we have Tusit for.  The wisdom.”

            “Yeah.”

            The master came down and greeted everyone, welcoming them to the sheltering wisdom of Athena.  He began talking about Athena, and her grace, and how she’d granted her wisdom to her followers, and how they should attempt to grow knowledgeable in her ways and spread her word forth.  .  .

            Thistlepouch was just starting to get bored when Mica nudged her.

            “See that?”

            “What?” she whispered back, looking the direction of Mica’s gaze.  “Um, it’s a nice painting.”

            Mica seemed almost giddy, muttering something Thistlepouch couldn’t quite make out despite her sharp hearing.  Mica jumped up and looked around real quick.  Everyone stared at her, the master looking surprised.  She sat back down.

            “You okay?” Thistlepouch asked lowly.

            “Yup!  Just fine!” she answered in a slightly strangled voice, and nonchalantly ran her hand through her hair.  She muttered some more stuff under her breath, then leapt from her seat and started off to the back of the room.

            “Mica, where are you going?” Thistlepouch called as she hurried to follow.

            “I’m following the owl!”

            “Oh, great!  Forge is talking to invisible leaches, Bob is talking to strange gods, Tusit’s book is talking to him, and you’re following an owl I can’t see!  I think my entire party’s gone crazy,” she grumbled as she passed through the door and into the night, peacock feathers bobbing.  A couple people stifled giggles behind her.  They just didn’t understand the trials of traveling with a bunch of lunatics.

            Mica walked at a fast clip, and it was all Thistlepouch could do to keep her in sight through twists and turns of the alleyway.  She finally caught up to find Mica staring at the top of a large, stucco building with no windows and only one door.

            “What are we looking at?”

            “The owl.”

            “What owl?”

            “Athena’s owl is on top of the building.”

            Thistlepouch squinted but couldn’t make anything out.  “Um.  .  .  is it a really midnight blue owl that blends extremely well into the sky?”

            “Maybe for you it is.”

            Thistlepouch considered.  “Is this one of those god things?”

            “I think so,” Mica agreed sympathetically.

            Thistlepouch sighed.  “Oh, bother.”

            “Hello!  I’m here!  What would you have me do?” Mica called up to the owl.  “I can’t fly!  You have to come down!”

            No response.  Which really wasn’t surprising, considering that there was nothing to begin with.  Thistlepouch handed her staff to Mica.  “Hold this for a sec.”

            “What are yo- but you ca-”

            “Don’t worry, I just want to see.  Maybe I’ll see if I’m closer up.”

            “Okay.”

            Having successfully handed off her weapon, Thistlepouch looked for somewhere to climb up the wall.  There wasn’t any purchase at ground level, but determined kita are not to be trifled with.  She removed her dagger and set about making a handhold.  The stucco fell away easily, and after that, clambering up was no problem.

            “Do you see anything?” Mica called.  “It’s up there, on the peak!  Just a little farther ahead of you!”

            Thistlepouch sat next to where she thought the owl was and folded her hands in her lap, bowing her head in imitation of Mica.  “Athena, I met you once on the Sea King’s island and you might not remember me -- I mean, I know you’re a god and gods probably have really, really good memories, but people don’t tend to remember kita much -- anyway, my friend Mica sees an owl up here even though I don’t see an owl up here and I think it means an awful lot to her, so if you could help me figure out some way to get it down so she could talk to it, I think it would make her very happy,” she said humbly.  “Even though I have no idea what an owl would say.”

            “Thistlepouch!”

            She looked up, did not see an owl.  “Yeah?”

            “I think we need to get in!”

            “Kay.”  She found a chimney, but it was too small for even her little self to shimmy down.  Bother.  She sighed and managed to climb down the wall without falling.  She pulled on the door -- barred.  After a quick inventory of her possessions, she pulled out her trusty ladle, grabbed the scoop end, and attempted to use the handle to lift the bar.

            When it didn’t work, Mica came to give it a shot, but it still would not budge.  The priestess thought a minute.  “I have an idea.  When the owl first came out of the painting, it landed on Borglum’s shoulder,” Mica explained.  “Maybe she wants him to come here too?”

            Thistlepouch shrugged.  No worse than any plan they had so far -- which was none.  “Think you can get him to come?”

            “But of course!”

            “Okay.  Do you want me to come with or stay here and guard the building in case the owl leaves?”  But even as Thistlepouch said it, she knew it was stupid.  She couldn’t even see the owl -- how would she know if it left?

            “Well, I don’t think I really wanna leave you here,” Mica said, though Thistlepouch couldn’t understand why.  Most of the people were sprawled on the ground -- passed out or dead, and either way no threat.  Those standing up were just standing there, looking at them.  If they were going to attack, they could’ve done it long ago.  Still, the kita had learned that humans were peculiar creatures.

            “Okay.”  And cheerfully enough she trotted off after Mica to find Borglum.

            When they got back to the temple, it was deserted except for Borglum, who was sweeping up.  His head snapped up as he heard them enter.

            “Where did you go?  Why did you leave in the middle of the service?”

            “Something wonderful has happened!” Mica exclaimed.  “During the service, the owl of Athena presented itself to me!”

            Borglum looked at her as if she was a raving lunatic.  “What?”

            “The owl of Athena came to life.  Out of the picture!  It landed on your shoulder.”

            “I felt nothing.  I saw nothing.  .   .”

            Usually Thistlepouch held the opinion that religious stuff was boring -- except for maybe glowing goddesses and watching Mica do that neat laying-on-hands trick.  But Borglum’s reactions were funny enough to keep her interested.

            “Well, I saw it.  It was there.  It landed on your shoulder.  You must have special favors with the Goddess Athena.”

            “I don’t understand.  .  .  what happened then?”

            “Well, the owl landed on your shoulder, and then flew out -- which is why I followed it to this warehouse where it perched on the roof and then sank into the building -- and I can’t enter.  It’s locked.  So, I think Athena wants me to bring you with me.”

            “To the building?”

            “To the building to help me understand what Athena wants me to do.”

            Borglum leaned his broom against a wall.  “Very well.  .  .  I will certainly join you.  .  .  .  I am somewhat.  .  .  flabbergasted.  .  .  .”

            Flabbergasted.  That was a neat word.  Thistlepouch made a “note to self” like Tusit always did, so she would remember it for a story someday.  Though, she wondered just how many of Tusit’s notes he ever remembered.

            “Really, it surprised me too, but it was just the most amazing thing -- maybe we should consult your master on this.  I guess I’m confused as to -”

            Borglum winced and started hedging -- an old, old kita trick that Thistlepouch noticed right away.  “Well.  .  .  I fear Burliose is.  .  .  at the moment.  .  .   well, first, he is resting, and second, I believe that he is more than a little upset at you at the moment.  He felt that you had abandoned the service and just walked out on him.”

            “Oh.  Well, maybe if I explained it to him, he would understand.”

            “You can try.  I do not know how well he would be accepting it.  .  .  .  if you wish, I can wake him.  .  .” Borglum looked hesitant about that, though.

            Mica waved him off.  “Nah, I’ll try it when he’s in a better mood.  Maybe tomorrow.”

            “Probably a wiser move,” Borglum said with some amount of relief.

            Thistlepouch agreed.  In her experience, people in a bad mood tended to just yell at you.  A sudden thought occurred to her.  She tugged on her friend’s sleeve.  “Hey, Mica?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Is there an owl in that picture?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Just curious.”

            Mica frowned.  “Can’t you see it?”

            “Yeah, but I saw it in the picture before when it wasn’t in the picture.”

            “Well, it’s not moving right now.  .  .  must be because the owl’s spirit is still back at that house I can’t get into.  This is really frustrating.”

            “All we need is somebody stronger to lift the latch for us,” the kita pointed out.

            “That’s true.  We should go get Grog.”

            “Isn’t he guarding the boat?”

            “Okay, let’s go find the dwarves!”  She trotted out with purpose, Thistlepouch behind, peacock feathers bobbing.  Borglum followed bewilderedly.

            “I wonder,” Thistlepouch mused aloud.  “Maybe if you and Borglum both pulled up on the ladle at the same time?”

            “Okay!”  Mica switched directions and trotted back off towards the building.

            “Where- weren’t we going -” Borglum pointed confusedly in the other direction.

            “Just follow!”  Mica grabbed his sleeve.  “Come on, come on, let’s go!  There’s not much light left!”

            When they got there, Thistlepouch pulled out her ladle and inserted it.

            “What are you doing?” Borglum asked in a worried sort of voice.

            “We need to get in here!” Mica explained impatiently.  “The owl went in through the roof.”

            “If I may?”  And without waiting for someone to tell him if he may or may not, rapped loudly on the door.

            Mica gave him a dirty look.  “Well, what are we going to tell them, that the owl of Athena is in here?”

            Thistlepouch frowned in thought.  “It’s a warehouse -- I don’t think anybody lives there.  No windows to dump their chamber pots out.”

            Borglum shrugged.  “It was worth a try.”

            Mica rolled her eyes.  “Men.  Come on, with the ladle.”

            Borglum was getting nervous again.  “What are you doing?  Are you sure we should be breaking into this place?”

            “We’re not breaking in -” Thistlepouch started.

            “We’re on a divine mission,” Mica put in.

            Thistlepouch stored the excuse away for future use, though she wasn’t sure it worked if you weren’t a holy warrior.  She decided to explain to him the simple way.  “It’s evidently stuck.  I’m sure they didn’t mean to keep out the followers of Athena.”

            Although there really wasn’t room for two people to grab the end of the ladle, they tried anyhow.  Not that it helped.

            “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” Thistlepouch piped up.  “Here, hold the ladle,” she instructed Mica, and propped the forked end of her staff under the ladle near the door.  She pushed up.  Nothing.  “Borglum!”

            “Yeah?”

            “Help her!” Mica commanded.

            “Here,” Thistlepouch said, handing over her staff.  “You’re stronger than me.  Push up on this.”

            Borglum tried.  No effect.

            Mica sighed and leaned back against the door.  “I told you we should’ve gotten the dwarves.”

            “I don’t know where they are!”

            “Do you think the owl will wait till tomorrow?” Mica asked Borglum.

            “What?”

            “I don’t think he understands,” Thistlepouch said, looking at him pityingly, though she was fairly sure her grasp of matters wasn’t a whole lot better.

            Mica gazed up at the peak and let out the loneliest sigh Thistlepouch had ever heard in her life.  She patted the human’s hand comfortingly.

            “Borglum, do you know whose warehouse this is?” Mica asked.

            Borglum shrugged.

            The holy warrior, in an excess of frustration, pulled out her sword and beat at the door.  “Open!”

            It made a small mark.

            “The tingly stick, maybe?” Thistlepouch suggested, pulling at straws.  “The crystal ball?”  She offered them up.

            Mica took the stick and waved it at the door -- it tugged to the second floor.  “Hey, something up there tingles!”

            “Can I feel?” asked Thistlepouch.

            “Sure!”  Mica handed it over and looked through the ball at the second door.  “You had better luck with this thing, didn’t you?”

            Thistlepouch shrugged, still occupied with the tingly stick.  “You saw the same thing I saw -- and you even saw that lock, and I didn’t.  Maybe if you prayed to Athena.  .  .  ”  The kita made a quick list of what she remembered being in her friend’s pouches.  “You know,” she suggested helpfully, “I bet we’ve got the potion of strength yet, from the Sea King palace.”

            “Oh, that’s right!  The combat juice!”  Mica hesitated a moment in her enthusiasm and shifted uncomfortably.  “But I don’t know what it does -- what if it makes me go berserk?”

            “Just drink a little,” Thistlepouch coaxed.  “I’m sure Athena will watch over you.”

            Mica shrugged, tested a drop, and wrinkled her nose.  “Pink?  I hate pink.”

            Thistlepouch had no idea what she was talking about.  “Try for another color.  Here’s the ladle.”

            Mica took a sip.  “God, I hate pink!  It’s not getting any better!

            “Well, take it out on the door!”  The kita gestured impatiently.

            Mica grabbed the handle with both hands and yanked.

            It wouldn’t budge.

            Planted one foot on the door and one foot on the wall.

            Still nothing.

            “The bloody door won’t open!”

            Thistlepouch added inside bars on doors to her list of things she really detested -- almost up there with people who called her elf-child.  She climbed back on the roof with the tingly stick to see if she could find another way in, but there was no other door, no windows, not even an arrow marked “secret entrance here.”  She climbed back down and checked the doors to either side -- both looked sturdy.  The first was barred.  The second swung open to reveal a surly man on the other side.

            “Who are you?!  What do you want?!  Get out of here!!!”

            Thistlepouch smiled brightly.  “Oops!  Sorry, seem to have the wrong house.”  She hastily closed the door and went back to Mica, panting with both feet on the ground again.  “Sorry.  Tried.”

            Mica sighed.  “Well, obviously I’m not going to be getting in -- I can’t fly in and I can’t force my way in, and I can’t get through the top, and I- maybe if I dig.  I’ll dig my way in.  No.  Let’s just go back.”

            “Kay.  Shall we find the dwarves?  I bet that mithril axe would take it down.”

            “Yeah, if I only had a thousand things.  .  .  Pink.  I hate pink.”  She stormed off still muttering about pink.

            “Does this mean you need me to join you still.  .  .  .  ?” Borglum asked.

            “Maybe you should go pray on it,” Mica grouched at him.

            Borglum blanched and whispered to Thistlepouch, “I’ll come back when she’s in a better mood.”

            Thistlepouch nodded.  “Good idea.”  As Borglum disappeared into the shadows, the kita spotted three figures headed toward them.  “Mica!  Look!” she called, pointing to the two squat figures.  She studiously ignored the taller one that could only be Bob.

            “Just the people I wanted to see!”  Mica beamed, running up to them.  “You really have to come break down this door for me.”

            Darwin raised his eyebrows and grinned.  “Destruction?  Fun!”

            “Yes!  Big, heavy, wooden door!  Really pissing me off -- I’m seeing pink!” she spat.

            “Can’t we just open the door?” asked Bob.

            As if they wouldn’t have done that already if they could.  Thistlepouch grinned wryly.  Bob was so stupid sometimes.  No, most of the time.  “Don’t ask.  She drank some of the combat juice.  You don’t want to know.”

            Forge and Darwin perked up.  “Combat juice?” they chorused.

            Thistlepouch shook her head.  “Like I said, you don’t want to know.”

            Mica frowned slightly.  “You don’t need any, buddy.  You’ve got enough testosterone for the country, okay?”

            Darwin rubbed his chin in contemplation.  “I dunno.  .  .  I’m feeling a little parched.  .  .  .  ”

            “I don’t think there’s any left,” Thistlepouch lied.

            “So, what’s behind the door?” Forge asked.

            “The Magickal owl of Athena!” Mica enthused.  “Come on!”

            “It tingles!” Thistlepouch added.

            “They wouldn’t understand.  Don’t even try,” Mica told her, and started pushing the dwarves down the road.  “Come on, let’s go, let’s go!”

            Forge nodded to Bob.  “Oh, Mica, you’ve really gotta see his.  .  .  .  ”

            “Thing,” Darwin finished.

            Mica frowned impatiently.  “I don’t wanna see his thing!”

            “Neither did we,” Darwin assured her.

            “Bald chicken,” Forge added.

            “Your thing looks like a bald chicken?” Thistlepouch piped up curiously.  She had to admit, she’d never seen an elf without his britches on, so she didn’t know if that was normal for elves, but having occasionally swiped belts from people who insulted her, she knew it wasn’t for most other races.

            Mica shook her head.  “You guys should lay off the heavy stuff.”

            Darwin chuckled dryly.  “No, seeing his chicken was enough to put us on it.”

            “Bob, quit waving your chicken around,” Mica remonstrated.

            “He brought the roting thing into my room in a cage!” Darwin continued.

            Mica stopped dead.  “It’s detachable?!”

            Thistlepouch stared in disbelief.  She knew that, at least, couldn’t be normal.  “How do you get it off?”

            “I pet my chicken,” Bob informed them.

            “In public?”  Mica turned to Thistlepouch.  “You know, we’ve really got to teach this elf some manners.  He’s petting his chicken in public.”

            “More than I’d do,” Darwin snorted.  “That blasted thing looked like it’d take a finger off!”

            “I think it did,” Forge muttered under his breath.

            “Wrinkly old leather thingie,” the other dwarf continued.  “Eew.  Disgusting.”

            “It scared the help,” Bob contributed.

            Mica rolled her eyes.  “Well, that’s what you get for waving your chicken at the help!”

            A thought occurred to the kita.  Owls and chickens were both birds, so.  .  .  She tugged on the priestess’s sleeve.  “Is it anything like the hooter of Athena?”

            “No, the hooter of Athena is much better.  Much more aesthetically pleasing.  It’s not old and wrinkly and ugly.  And it doesn’t scare the help.”

            Darwin did a double take.  “You were seeing a god’s hooter?”

            “No, only I got to see the god’s hooter.”

            Forge poked his cousin.  “And they thought we were drinking too much.”

            “Ares’ codpiece, lady!  Who is your god?!”

            “Athena,” she said importantly.

            “Athena!”

            “I wanna know what she’s drinking,” Forge persisted.

            “Combat juice,” Mica told them, “but it makes you see pink.”

            “Last time I touched any part of her, I was punished,” Bob spoke up, and was ignored.

            Darwin considered with a faint smirk.  “I don’t think I’d mind seeing pink if I could see the hooter of Athena.”

            “You’ve gotta break down the door first,” Thistlepouch piped up, trying to drag the conversation back on subject.

            “Yeah, so I can go get to it.”

            “Well!  The hooter of Athena is behind this door?”  Darwin found new motivation.

            “That’s the door right there!”  Mica pointed, as they’d finally reached the spot.

            Forge gave it a quick once-over.  “Darwin, shall we just widen this crack a little?  We have axes.  They’re good for chopping wood, and that’s about it.”

            “It might make a little bit of a noise!” Bob warned.

            Mica brushed him off.  “So, you can defend us.”

            “Okay,” Bob agreed, completely missing the joke.

            “Nobody’s going to notice in this part of town,” Thistlepouch put in as Forge handed Mica his bow.

            “Here.  Take this before I wreck it.”

            The dwarves started chopping.  The first few swings went really well, but then they hit a knothole.

            “Ares’ left ball!” Forge cursed.

            “I know,” Mica sympathized.  “Doesn’t that piss you off?  It’s been pissing me off all evening.”

            Darwin grabbed onto the door and started pulling.  “Here, gimme a hand!”

            Forge and Darwin pulled until enough wood was off that they could push away the crossbar.  It clattered to the ground.

            Darwin stood panting for a moment.  “There!  There’s your flaming door.”

            “Great!  Thanks!”  Mica grinned.  “C’mon, Thistlepouch.  Hey, Bob, maybe you should keep a watch out front and make sure no one comes out and attacks us from behind!”

            Bob scowled at her.  “No thank you!”

            Thistlepouch took out the tinglestick and started following it.  And jerked to an abrupt halt as Forge caught her by the shirttails.

            “Wait, stop, woah!”

            Mica crossed her arms.  “We have to go!  You don’t understand -”

            “No, you see, I was talking to.  .  .  .  a friend.  .  .  about Lockshy,” Forge cut in.  “He supposedly has mages, and this just happens to be one of their places.”

            “Well, Athena’s owl is in here, and Athena wouldn’t lead me-”

            “I know.  Just warning you about Magick that may be.  .  .  ”

            “Oh.”

            Forge nodded in satisfaction, though Thistlepouch really didn’t see what the big deal was.  “Okay, let’s go.”

            “Hey, can I have some of that combat juice?” Darwin asked.

            “Maybe after we get into combat, I’ll let you,” Mica hedged.

            “Could I get a little buzz now?”

            “Yeah, but you see pink.  I don’t want you guys going off, okay?”

            “Just lemme have a taste.  .  .  ”

            “No.”

            “Piss.”

            Forge dug out a bottle, handed it over to his cousin.  “Here, I have some spare dwarven stuff.”  They each took healthy-sized glugs.  “Can’t go into battle without it.”

            “Yeah,” Darwin agreed, worlds happier already.

            “Next time they do that,” Mica whispered to Thistlepouch, “I’m gonna pass them the waterskin.”

            Thistlepouch giggled.

            “Could I have my bow back?” Forge requested.

            “Oh, yeah.”  Mica returned it.

            They walked through the mostly-decimated door and into a simple hallway leading back into darkness.

            “Anybody bring a torch?” Forge asked.  “If not, we could set the elf on fire.”

            Darwin grinned in an unpleasant sort of way.  “Light the elf.  I’ve heard of lighting faeries, but never an elf.”

            Forge shrugged.  “Elf, faerie, what’s the difference?”

            Bob looked down at them disdainfully.  “If you stood on top of each others’ shoulders, I might be afraid.”

            “Huh!  The elf’s got a voice!”  Darwin ripped the cloth off the front of his axe.  “You know, we could make him shorter.  .  .  give him a haircut starting at the neck.”

            Thistlepouch and Mica, though still listening, had decided to do something useful.

            “I have cloth and twine,” Thistlepouch volunteered, “but no stick and nothing to light it with.”

            “I have flint and steel,” Mica told her.  “Go grab a piece of that door.”

            Thistlepouch picked out a rough plank, wrapped it in cloth, and bound it with the twine.  “Don’t you have to soak it in oil first?”

            Mica thought for a moment.  “Dwarven spirits?  Hey, guys, can I borrow some of that stuff you drank?  I’ll give you the bottle.  .  .  ”  She held up the waterskin enticingly.

            Forge grinned.  “Well, I can make more.  This is just elf piss.”  They traded.  “You want the first sip, Darwin, or do I get it?”

            Darwin waved at him.  “Go for it.”

            “Thanks.”  He slurped.

            Mica tried not to giggle.  “Anything red yet?”

            Darwin tried it too, screwed up his face.  “I’m not impressed.”

            “Maybe it only works on girls,” Thistlepouch suggested, glad the darkness hid her grin.  Mica had a great sense of humor.  She had begun to like her more and more.

            “Maybe you guys don’t need it,” Mica pointed out, probably hoping that would dissuade them from wanting more.

            “Maybe I need a bigger hit,” Darwin countered, and took another chug.  “Strange.  Don’t think I’ve tasted that before.”

            Forge’s brow wrinkled in thought.  “Um.  .  .  hold on.  Hang on, I got it.  I think.  .  .  when I was tracking some orcs once, this human -- I don’t remember why he was there -- gave me this.”

            “Really?  What did he call it?” Darwin asked.

            “I dunno.  It got me sober.”

            “Really?” Darwin turned to Mica.  “You were getting a buzz off this?”

            “Yeah!  I was seeing pink.”

            Forge shrugged.  “Humans.”

            Darwin threw the skin over his shoulder.

            Thistlepouch thought she might explode pretty soon with repressed laughter.

            Mica handed the dwarven spirits bottle over to the kita.  “Here, save it for later.  Don’t sniff it.”

            Which, of course, just piqued Thistlepouch’s curiosity.  Of course she had to sniff it.  The world brightened slightly and began to tilt.  She blinked.  And wavered.

            “No, no, no, don’t fall on the ground!” Mica cried.

            “You hold her this time,” Bob said, and, as usual, was ignored.

            “Um, here guys.” Mica handed the bottle back after retrieving it from the woozy kita.  “Thank you.”

            “Gotta get rid of the aftertaste,” Forge declared, and took a swig, then passed it to Darwin.  “Here, have the last of it.”

            He did.

            “Don’t throw it out; we might -” Mica started

            “It’s gone, now. Just the bottle.” Forge displayed the bottle in question.

            Mica smiled wryly.  “Well, I’m sure we could light the bottle and it’d flame just fine off of that.”

            Thistlepouch, somewhat recovered, led the party down the corridor about ten feet, where it ended in a door.  The walls were plain, utilitarian.  Forge opened the door to the larger room beyond.  Wooden chairs with padded seats and backs (“Cushy mage-butt chairs,” Mica muttered, and Thistlepouch wondered what Tusit would say about that) were arranged around the walls.  Various artworks, landscapes and such, decorated the walls.  Everything was well-kept.  Thistlepouch found a couple fancy reading lanterns; she gave one to Mica and one to Bob.  She was pretty sure that if either dwarf breathed into the fire they’d create a flamespurt.

            Double doors led to the next large room, this one containing a table in the center with more cushy mage-butt chairs clustered around it, empty glasses perfectly arranged at each seat.  One chair, especially ornate, lorded over the table’s head.  Wood paneling covered the walls, but no dull sofa-matching artwork.  One wall boasted a large single door.

            The large door opened into another room, where a single desk with a chair behind it crouched against the back wall, two chairs facing it.  A couple small tables flanked the other walls.  One supported a small, ornately carved chest; the other sported a brazier.

            “Hey, Thistlepouch,” Forge said with a grin.

            “Yeah?”

            “Chest.”

            “Oh!”  It immediately had her full attention.  She poked at it a little -- locked.

            “You pick it or I do,” Forge said, hefting his axe.

            “It’d be a shame to destroy such a pretty chest,” Thistlepouch said quickly.  She held the tinglestick near it, but it wasn’t tingly.  Satisfied, she took out a couple pins and carefully worked at it, watching out for traps.  There weren’t any.  In fact, it opened easily.  She didn’t know why they bothered putting locks on those things if they were going to make them so easy to open.

             “How’re you coming on the desk?” Forge called from beyond the other door.

            “One drawer is open, and I’ve got the papers, but -” Bob said, and cut off at the sound of a loud, splintering snap.

            Thistlepouch looked over at the noise. “You are so subtle, Bob.”

            “I try.”

            “You could’ve asked for help!”  She shook her head and muttered to herself, “No professional pride,” as she went back to examining her find.  Inside the chest was a small strongbox, about a foot cubed, taking up half the chest’s space.  The remainder was filled with papers, which she tried to read but could not.  They found their way into one of her pouches for showing to Tusit later.  She set to work on the strongbox.

            “Bob, quit that!” Mica scolded.  “She can open it!  You’re breaking things!”

            “Anybody need any help back here?” Forge called.

            “Do you know how to read at all?” Thistlepouch asked.

            “Yeah.”

            “Come take a look at this for me.”

            “Thistlepouch, you’ve gotta come over here.  Bob’s breaking things,” Mica called.

            “Bob, don’t break anything.  I’m almost done with the strongbox,” the kita returned.

            Bob continued working on the drawer.

            “Stop it!  You’re going to break-”

            “Hit him over the head!” suggested Thistlepouch loudly.

            Forge shook his head and handed back the papers.

            “Oh well,” Thistlepouch said as she tucked them back in her pouch.  “Maybe Tusit knows.”  She glanced over at Bob, who was making a real mess of the desk.  “You any good at picking locks?”

            “I can break things.”

            “Well, that’s not quite what I was after.  Bob is pretty good at that too, but” she raised her voice “we’re trying not to break things.”

             “Stoppit!”  Mica gave a disgusted sigh and apparently abandoned Bob as hopeless and went out the other door, Darwin following.

            There was another loud snap from Bob’s direction, and a thump that sounded like the front of the drawer had fallen off and landed on the floor.

            Thistlepouch tried to pick the strongbox, but the lock was a lot more complicated than the one on the chest.

            “With the door broken,” Forge pointed out, “they’re going to know someone’s been in here.  Let’s just get the stuff and leave.”  He started in on the strongbox with his axe.  “Go over and work on the drawers.”

            “Yeah, I suppose,” assented the kita.  “Okay.”  And got to the desk just as Bob started in on the top drawer of the remaining side.  Thistlepouch ducked down and started picking the bottom lock.

            Bob splintered his drawer open.  “They were talking something about a spellcaster so this could be Magick stuff -- stuff they use to cast spells.”

            Thistlepouch’s drawer clicked quietly and opened without violence at the same time.  She rolled her eyes.  Like she needed it explained, right?  She bet she knew more about mages than he did.  He hadn’t even figured out about Tusit yet!  She found fungus in her drawer, looked in Bob’s.  “It’s rotten rope.  I can’t believe anyone would cast anything with rotten rope -- I don’t even know why they’d want to keep it.”

            Forge tossed over the empty liquor bottle, which Thistlepouch caught.

            “Hey, could we point the tingly stick at any of these things?” Bob suggested.

            Thistlepouch barely kept her exasperation in check.  “Nothing in here tingles.”

            “Ah, drat, I was kinda hoping these vials would be filled with something-”

            “I don’t think any of this is.  .  .  eew.”  She wrinkled her nose delicately.  “Do you want me to put it in?”

            Forge shrugged.  “I’m not going to use the bottle again -- it was elf piss!”

            “Kay.”  She gave Bob the bottle -- let the elf deal with it if he was so keen on keeping that disgusting stuff -- and set to work on the second drawer, which opened easily to reveal a drawer full of dirt.

            “Take it.  Take some of it,” urged Bob.

            Mica’s reappearance saved her from having to generate a response.

            “There are people upstairs,” the priestess whispered to her comrades.

            “So?” Forge asked, taking another swing at the strongbox.  It clattered loudly.  “We’ll kill ‘em.”

            “They’re sleepin’,” Darwin grinned.  “Makes it easier.”

            “But it takes all the fun out of it,” Forge complained.

            “So we’ll keep one and torture him,” the other dwarf said.

            Forge evidently liked that idea.  “Ooooh.  .  .  .  ”  And with one last whack, he finally beat the strongbox into submission.  Thistlepouch looked over -- it was mangled, but at least it was open now.  Inside was a load of barns, about fifty by her estimation, which he promptly pouched.  She shrugged and hoped it helped him get his axe.

            Mica frowned.  “Do we really want to go and kill innocent people?  I mean, we don’t know what they did!  I’m only after the owl.”

            “But they have dirt in their drawers!”

            “Shut up, Bob.”  Mica shot offhandedly.

            Thistlepouch was inclined to agree.

            Bob busied himself putting the fungus in the vial and collecting the dirt and rotten, icky, slimy rope into separate pouches.

            “We’ll watch ‘em while you talk to your owl,” Forge volunteered.

            “Hey, that’d be good.  That’s what I wanted anyway.”

            “We’ll watch real careful like.  .  .  .  ” Darwin assured her, testing the edge of his blade with his thumb.

            “Hey, Mica!”  Thistlepouch brandished the tinglestick.  “Let’s go upstairs!”  Without waiting for a response, she led the way to the landing.  She tingled the door.  It didn’t tingle.  She opened it.  A lot of different places inside tingled, the closest being a person sleeping on the near-left cot. “They’re tingly,” she whispered.  “I think they’re mages.”

            “They are?” Forge hefted his axe threateningly.

            The kita caught his sleeve.  “No, wait, what if they’ve got a warding spell on them?”

            Thistlepouch heard Mica praying softly as she quietly snuck around with her stick and determined that all four beds tingled, as did the far door.

            “Don’t drink it yet, please,” she heard Mica whisper.

            “Ooh, she lied to us!”  That was Forge.  The priestess must’ve given him the combat juice.

            “It was just water.”

            “Water?!” the dwarves chorused in disbelief.

            “You drink that?” Darwin asked in disgust.

            “You did,” Mica pointed out.

            Thistlepouch put one hand on the doorhandle to test it, and suddenly all four people sat up in bed.  She whirled to see Forge release his arrow, and true to its mark, it went deep into his target’s chest. Unfortunately, his opponent didn’t seem to notice.  In fact, one eye dropped out of its socket and its arm reached up.  Flesh hung in rotting strips off all four bodies.  “Well, this would be what Hades was talking about!”

            “Aaaah!  God!” Mica screamed in alarm.

            The four zombies stepped out of their beds towards the party.  Thistlepouch lunged at the closest zombie -- Forge’s, on her right -- with her torch.  She missed.  As did her second attempt, but fortunately by then Forge had dropped his bow and grabbed his axe, which efficiently severed its hand.  The zombie flailed and missed.

            “Throw the stuff we found in the drawers on the floor!” the kita yelled to the elf.  “If we burn it, maybe they’ll all die!  Again!”  She spared just enough time to see that he totally ignored her before she dove low and caught one of the rotting pant legs with her torch.  Flames began to lick up its leg.  It swung its one clawed hand at her.  She felt something wet on the back of her head and cursed softly -- it was going to ruin her headdress!  Suddenly she was glad Tusit hadn’t finished her fancy outfit -- this would ruin it for sure.  The zombie was lit, though, and there was no more she could do here, so she dove over the bed towards Bob’s.  It shuffled out of the way.  It also moved out of Bob’s way, but with all the avoiding didn’t get a hit in.  It half-danced backwards and waved one arm through the flames of her torch.  It began to smolder, adding to the reek of burning rotten meat that had already begun to permeate the room.

            Bob sliced it across its center.  Oozing zombie entrails splorted onto the floor in a gooey cascade.

            “Die, you godforsaken rotten piece of filth!” she heard Darwin curse, and glanced back to see him hacking frantically at a headless, armless, handless zombie (on the floor because one leg was also missing) scrabbling after him.  The head rolled on the ground, gnashing its teeth in an attempt to get a bite in.  If only Bob would quit being such a dolt and drop the stuff they’d found downstairs, she could set fire to it and kill them all at once!  But nooo.  .  .  .  .  Thistlepouch swung her torch again, and her zombie evaded, leaving him open to Bob’s slash, which sliced most everything off one side of its face and gave it a nasty chop to its arm.

            Out of the corner of her eye she saw Forge’s zombie collapse into a pile of writhing, squirming maggots.  The dwarf stomped around, trying to crush them.

            “Oh, that’s so disgusting!  You would have to pick a god that’s dead!” Mica cried.

            “For the sake of any god, throw the stuff on the ground!  I’ll hold him!” Thistlepouch hollered at Bob as she waved the torch at the zombie.

            “By the powers of Hades, open this god-be-farted flaming blasted door, you son of an orc, do it now!” Forge bellowed.

            Bob kept hacking at his zombie.  Darwin stood on the bed to swing at it, too, and Mica reached over the kita’s head and speared it neatly through the middle with her sword.  It glowed and collapsed in a pile of dust.

            Thistlepouch watched with wide-eyed awe.  “I want one of those!”

            “You know,” the elf said to Thistlepouch, “I would’ve done what you said, but it’s pretty hard to do that in my situation.”

            Thistlepouch scowled at him, grabbed the things out of his pouches, and threw them down on one of the piles of zombie dust with the obvious intent of lighting the stuff.

            “You might want to wait till we’re out of here before lighting that,” Mica suggested.  “We don’t have any windows in here and it already stinks really bad.  We could bury this on holy ground it would probably prove just as effective.”

            The kita sighed, but didn’t light it.  “Fine.  But somebody else gets to carry it.  That’s not going in my pouches.”  She went over to the door, squishing a few maggots under her shoes by default.  She wrinkled her nose in disgust and set about trying to pick the lock as Forge retrieved his axe.  The lock opened quickly, and they entered.

            The next room looked vaguely reminiscent of the alchemist’s shop, with strange vials lining the walls and a brazier off to one side.  The alchemist’s shop, however, hadn’t had dead bodies on tables in the middle of the room.

            “You get one -- I’ll get the other.  Chop the head off,” Forge instructed his cousin, took his medallion, and planted it on the corpse’s chest.

            Nothing happened.

            There was the sound of an axe slicing through flesh and bone, and then a head hitting the floor with a hollow thump.

            Thistlepouch tingled the walls -- there were a few tingly things in jars.

            “Whatever you find, if it tingles, grab it,” Bob instructed.

            “No!  That’s disgusting!  You take it.”

            “What is he taking?” Mica asked.

            “He’s taking the icky stuff!”

            “I’m taking the stuff that tingles!” he corrected.

            Mica glared at him.  “Don’t.  It’s necromancy.  We don’t want it.”

            “You pick up necromancy stuff, I kill you,” Forge informed him levelly.

            “All right, but I thought it.  .  .  since it tingles.  .  .  why don’t we find out if it is?  How do you know?”

            Thistlepouch rolled her eyes.  “How else do you explain zombies?”  She followed Forge into the next room -- a bedchamber outfitted with a single large bed, a stand with washbasin and pitcher, and a wardrobe.  It took up the remainder of the space on the second story.

            “Hey, Thistlepouch, can I have the torch?” Forge requested.

            She handed it over and started tingling the room.  A small lump in the exact center of the bed tingled.  Mica followed with her sword as the kita went to investigate.  Thistlepouch pulled back the covers to see a crystal ball exactly like the one she’d acquired from Lockshy.  She picked it up and peered into it -- it looked like there was a person inside.  “Forge, is my hand turning black?”

            “No.”

            “Okay.”  She put it in her pouch.  “Let’s go.”

            “Let’s light it on fire,” Mica suggested, and Forge eagerly touched the torch to the bedding.  .  .  and everything else on their way out.  As they made their way back to Antonio’s manor, cries of “fire!” began to go up.

            Forge grinned at them wryly.  “Fire?  Do you think so?”  He doused the torch against the cobblestones and left it behind.

            Thistlepouch grinned.

            The journey to Antonio’s was uneventful.  Once there, Forge and Darwin took off together, Bob went to his room, and Thistlepouch and Mica headed up to see Melissanna.  Thistlepouch took out the new ball and looked at Melissanna through it.  Through this ball, she was not bound or gagged.  Thistlepouch placed it carefully on the hand they’d set the other ball in.

            Melissanna’s eyes fluttered open.  “Where am I?”

            “At your father’s house,” Mica told her.

            “How did I get here?”

            “We brought you home,” Thistlepouch piped up.

            “Oh, well, that’s nice.  Has father paid you yet?”

            The kita shook her head.

            “Oh, well, I’m sure he will.  Ah, thank you!”

            “You’re welcome,” beamed Thistlepouch.  “You want me to get your father for you?  You’ve been sick for a while.  I’m sure he’s worried.”

            “Well, I’m sure one of the help can fetch him.  Page, ah, page!”

            A page rushed in, looking absolutely floored.  “Lady Melissanna?!” he squeaked.

            “Could you get Merchant Antonio please?” Thistlepouch requested.

            “Yes, certainly!”  He scurried out.

            Mica took the ball from the other human’s hand.  “Can I see this?”

            “Sure.  .  .  whatever it is.”

            Thistlepouch waved the tingly stick at it, but it didn’t tingle, though the other one still did.  Thistlepouch looked at Melissanna through it and saw her with a blindfold on, but no longer bound or gagged. Thistlepouch put it back in her pouch -- she seemed to be doing okay -- and waited for Merchant Antonio.

Disclaimer: Bob's taste in pets was harmed

during the creation of this chapter.