Four

            Thistlepouch Doorringer wished she’d ended up on a really large, interesting continent.  She reasoned that no matter how long you travel on land, there’s always something interesting to stop and look at.  In a boat, however.  .  .  well, after a while, all the waves pretty much look the same.  She was grateful to be anywhere at all, but somewhere with a bit more variety would’ve been nice.  The kita had rapidly begun to develop a strong dislike of boats.

            Luckily, it wasn’t far to the next sizable town.  There were catapults mounted on the cliffs leading into port to dissuade pirates and brigands from entering.  They made Tusit nervous, and with a good deal of shouting and arm-waving he emphatically stated that they were friendly and on a mission from the Goddess Athena.  .  .  .  which, although not entirely true, at least sounded impressive.

            The second the boat reached a pier, Thistlepouch jumped out and moored it up to the dock, impatiently waiting to get underway while Tusit talked to the dockworker, learned they had to get all their money changed within two days, yadda yadda yadda.  . .  .  She watched Tusit hide their booty from the Sea King palace -- and as soon as he was gone the kita discreetly re-hid it.  Just because he hadn’t done as good a job as she could didn’t mean she had to hurt his feelings about it.

            Finally, they got underway. (Well, everyone except Bob, whom they’d left to guard the boat, and the girl, whom they’d left with explanations that she’d be safer there until they found an inn.)  Thistlepouch was so busy drinking in the sights all around her -- the merchant shops, the people hurrying home to candle-lit windows and dinner -- that she completely missed the half-orc until she’d run into him.

            “Oops!  Sorry!  I didn’t see you there! Though I don’t know how I missed you; you’re awfully b-”

            “Worship Cerebus!”  He demanded in a gruff voice.

            Thistlepouch puzzled.  “Who’s Cerebus?”

            “Cerebus dog.  You worship!”

            She shook her head.  “No thanks -- I’m traveling with a Priestess of Athena, and I don’t think -” she cut off with a squawk as he picked her up by her braid.  Her eyes tearing with the pain, Thistlepouch tried desperately to grab onto his wrist before he pulled all her hair out.

            “You worship Cerebus!”

            “Leave Thistle alone!” a wonderfully familiar voice boomed out, and suddenly Grog was behind her.  He grabbed onto her braid, too.  Thistlepouch decided to grab for his wrist instead.

            “You!”  The half-orc turned his attention to Grog.  “Worship Cerebus!”

            Grog considered.  Religion really wasn’t his strong point.

            “Um, could you two talk about this once I’m on the ground?” the kita requested -- quite reasonably, she thought.  “Guys?”

            About then the rest of her party showed up, and the half-orc decided there were things more interesting than the kita.  He dropped his hold on her, leaving her dangling from Grog’s grip.

            “Grog?”

            “Oh.  Sorry.”  He dropped her; the kita landed inelegantly on her backside.  She massaged her head with her fingers, quite relieved to find she hadn’t lost any hair.  It wasn’t grey as it should be, but it was certainly better than going bald!

            “Are you all right, Thistlepouch?” Mica asked with some concern.

            “Yeah, fine, except this smelly lump of gullydwarf refuse is trying to get me to worship his dog!”  A wild boar snuffled her with mild interest.  He was covered with a deep red coat of coarse hair, and his wild green eyes peered at her as if sizing up her edibility.  His tusks were crusted with dirt and blood.  Snot slowly dripped from his nostrils.  Thistlepouch raised her staff threateningly.  The boar didn’t seem impressed.

            “The meeting of the minds,” Tusit groaned, looking between the half-orc and Grog.

            “Worship Cerebus!”

            “Uh.  .  .  who Cerebus?”

            “Cerebus dog!  You worship!”

            “Worship dog?”

            “No!  Worship Cerebus!”

            “You Cerebus?”

            “No, me Orlog.  You worship Cerebus!”

            “Who Cerebus?”

            This looked like it could go on all day.  Quite easily.  And it wasn’t the least bit interesting. “Let’s just go,” Thistlepouch suggested.

            “Sounds good to me,” Tusit agreed.  He turned to Grog.  “Um, Grog, would you mind terribly helping Bob guard the boat and the girl?  With ruffians such as this about.  .  .” He glanced pointedly at the half-orc.  Brown, shaggy, crusty hair covered his head and all six-foot five inches of his body, most of which was quite plain to see -- especially his overly large gut, which had caught drippage from many of his last meals.  Around his neck was the medallion of Cerebus, but other than that he sported only a club and a leather loincloth like an old lady would a coat and an umbrella.  His dark brown eyes twinkled dumbly in the setting sun.  A prime example of the sort they didn’t want around their boat.

            “Kee.” Grog headed back for the boat.

            “Thank you,” Tusit said, and started walking away; the others followed.

            Unfortunately, so did Orlog.  And his pet boar, still snuffling about for food.

            “You!” he grabbed Tusit by the collar.  “Worship Cerebus!”

            “Hey!  Leave him alone!”  Thistlepouch grabbed the nearest handhold on the smelly half-orc to get his attention and pulled.  Unfortunately, the nearest handhold was the corner of his leather loincloth.  He hadn’t tied it on very well.  It came off in her hand.

            The half-orc stood bare-arse (not to mention other parts) naked to the world.

            After a moment of shock wherein the kita decided she was mentally scarred for life, Thistlepouch blushed profusely and handed up the loincloth, averting her eyes. “Um.  .  .  sorry ‘bout that.”

            The half-orc, feeling a breeze where he wasn’t used to feeling a breeze, let go of the gnome and took the leather to refasten it around himself.  At least, Thistlepouch figured that was why he let go; he certainly didn’t seem very embarrassed about the whole thing.  She couldn’t figure why -- if she’d been caught naked in a city street, she would’ve died of mortification.  While he was doing that, the party headed off again.

            Orlog caught up.

            “Would you stop following us?!” Tusit demanded.  “Go away!”

            Suddenly the half-orc stopped dead in his tracks, a stricken look on his face.  The boar stopped with him.  Mica smiled smugly.

            “What?” the kita asked.

            “Athena just collared his puppy.”  Mica looked quite pleased with her goddess.

            Thistlepouch couldn’t help but grin in return.

            “Come on,” the holy warrior said.  “Let’s go find an inn.”

*                      *                      *

            Thistlepouch awoke the next morning to the rapid thumping of feet past her door.  Curious, she slid out of bed, went to the door and peeked out just in time to see Tusit rounding a corner in a big hurry.  Wonder what he’s in a rush for, this early? she contemplated, and stretched.  And grinned.  She felt more well-rested than she had in just about forever.  Not only had she gotten to sleep on dry land, but on a soft (if somewhat lumpy) bed.  And she’d gotten to wash her clothes and bathe.  She took a little time to wash the sleep out of her eyes and rebraid her hair, then strapped on her pouches, grabbed her staff, and headed downstairs to the Dancing Dog’s common area for breakfast.

            About half-way through her stir-about, Thistlepouch looked up to see Bob and the girl (what was her name?) walk into the common room.  Tusit’s plan to take her down a notch or two hadn’t worked.  He’d returned from getting Grog last night without her and explained that if she was going to be haughty about the food she could very well sleep on the boat -- maybe that’d make her appreciate what she had.  The girl, far from humbled, looked haughty and detached, though there was a slight gleam of hope in her eyes.  Thistlepouch suspected it was at the prospect of a bath.  Bob looked like he wanted to offer up an excuse.  The kita suspected that was because he’d made some unwanted passes at her.  She smiled into her stir-about.  Served him right.  She bet that was why Tusit had left in such a hurry.

            After Bob had gotten himself clean, Thistlepouch dragged him, protesting, back to the boat, where they met Tusit.  “Brought your relief.”  She grinned, all too happy to leave the annoying elf to the mind-numbing task of guarding the boat.

            “Oh, good.”

             “We going to explore today?”

            “Well, we should make a side-trip to moneychanger’s, first.  He gave us a good deal yesterday, and we’ll need more than just the pocket change I used to get us a room and baths if we intend to have new clothes.  And we should find bright-boy back at the Happy Puppy -”

            “Dancing Dog.”

            “Whatever.  Get him something with a little more coverage than a loincloth.  If for no other reason than so we don’t have to look at him.”

            “Can I come with? I’d like to pick out my clothes -- so they fit.”

            “Sure.”

            And so, less than a candlemark later, Thistlepouch found herself at the changer’s listening to Tusit haggle a better exchange rate.  Watching him awe the crowds of Jackiton had been fascinating.  Watching him bargain was downright dull.  The gnome must’ve sensed her impending boredom because he firmly ordered her to wait for him outside.

            Thistlepouch watched the people pass by for a while.  .  .  after a bit she noticed a ragged street-rat on the corner.  She sidled up to him.  “Don’t suppose you know where a person might sell some things,” she asked, too casually.  It wouldn’t hurt, she decided, to find the black market so they could offload those place settings and such before some customs official found them.

            He grinned wolfishly.  “Two streets down, turn left into the alley, go to the red door, knock three times.  Tell ‘em Caliban sent you.”

            She nodded, flipped him a florin as she started off.  “Thanks.”

            His eyes widened when he caught sight of the coin, grabbed her sleeve before she could go more than a couple steps.  “Friend -- a word of advice.  Go past the red door.  Knock on the next one down.  Four times, then once.  Tell ‘em Caliban sent you.”

            She nodded with a knowing smile.  She hadn’t really expected the first directions were right, anyhow, not from the way the people in the slave hold with her had talked.  “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, catching sight of Tusit across the way.  She went to join him.

            “There you are!”

            “Just finding out where we can sell some stuff,” she said with a rakish grin.

            Tusit smiled back.  “Good.  But first, let’s get some clothes.”

            It didn’t take long for them to buy garments for the entire party.  There wasn’t much in her size, but the storekeeper did admit to having some bright-colored party clothes for elf children.  It galled her a little, but the kita swallowed her pride and picked out a pair of jellybean purple leggings and a vibrant crimson tunic, consoling herself with the thoughtnow she was really and truly out on an adventure and could dress however she liked. No more grey and brown and beige, not ever, not if she didn’t want to.  They took their goods back to the Dancing Dog to distribute them, then set back out.

            Shopping with Tusit, Thistlepouch found, could be quite an experience.  Especially if the gnome had a mission -- which, apparently, he did, though she didn’t understand why he was so intent on coming up with an odd present for Mica.  The kita trotted down the street with a smile on her face; all was right with the world -- she had friends, adventure, a staff, and nice new clothes.

            It came as a complete surprise when Tusit grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a doorway.

            “Keep quiet!” he instructed in an urgent whisper.

            The world went dark.  Oh, she could still hear well enough -- it sounded like Mica, Orlog, and Grog walking by -- Mica was saying something about finding a temple.  Tusit stood next to her, tensed as if ready to spring, one hand warningly on her arm.  The voices receded.  A minute or two went by.  Sight returned.  Tusit let go.

            Thistlepouch bounded out of the doorway, eyes round with wonder.  “That was neat!  I wonder what happened?”

            “I don’t know,” Tusit said, a thoughtful expression on his face.

            “Maybe I can get it to do it again!” The kita stepped in the next doorway down.  “Keep quiet!” she commanded.  After a second, the world flickered out.  She stepped forward.  Yup -- everything was still there.  She turned around.  The door looked the same as ever.  Thistlepouch grinned.  Magick!  And she’d made it happen!  She wasn’t sure quite how.  .  .  but the idea of being a mage intrigued her.  Thistlepouch spent the next quarter of a candlemark making the dark turn on and off.  Tusit was remarkably patient, and in fact even wore a little smile on his face.

            When the kita had sufficiently bored herself with that activity, she and Tusit started off toward the fancy sector of town.  They stopped in a fancy clothing store with a snooty seamstress that Thistlepouch didn’t care much to deal with, so she left Tusit to his bargaining while she explored.  The store itself was quite interesting -- there were beautiful, soft fabrics, lots of pretty, gem-encrusted broaches, hats of odd and exotic descriptions, and many wonderous gowns.  When she’d seen everything, she went back to wait patiently with Tusit (after all, he’d done the same for her).  He eyed a strange robe of silver and white that almost looked like it had wings on it.  She bet it was for some masquerade -- her mother had once told her a story of an elven festival, where the masquerade costumes were a sight to behold.  Of course, the moral had been that all their outlandishness had gotten them in trouble, but now that she had found out they existed, Thistlepouch hoped one day to see an elven festival.

            “What do you think?” asked Tusit with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  “For our dear Priestess?”

            Thistlepouch cocked her head to one side and scrunched her nose in thought.  It was beautiful.  .  .  but she bet it would take up a lot of room in the boat if Mica wore it.  And it would get dirty really fast since it was white.  Not very practical.

            The lady quoted a price.

            Tusit whistled.

            Thistlepouch agreed.  She didn’t know much about how much things like that were worth, but she was pretty sure it was much beyond their budget.

            Evidently the gnome agreed; he politely excused himself.

            “Well, where to now?” she asked once they were outside.

            “Well, maybe we could get her a fancy bow.  A white one with silver arrows or some such.  Let’s try the boier/fletcher’s.”

            “Okay.”  She looked up at the sun’s position.  “Then maybe we should head back and drop off our stuff.  And get some food; I’m kinda hungry.”

            “Right,” the gnome agreed.

            Thistlepouch had never been interested in archery, but she had been in a boier/fletcher’s shop once before.  This store resembled the one of her experience in function only.  The walls were lined with carved bows and fancy arrows with exotic feathers.  Tusit immediately pointed to the bow hanging on the wall behind the counter.  Thistlepouch smiled wryly; the best of the best was usually kept back there to protect it from thieves.  Tusit, she was rapidly learning, had very expensive taste.

            “How much for that one?” he asked.

            The shopkeeper shook his head.  “Sorry, but I can’t sell you that one.  It’s being made as a present for the Duke’s son’s birthday in another week.”

            Tusit looked crestfallen.  “Oh. I don’t suppose there’s any way.  .  .  ?”

            The shopkeeper shook his head again.

            Tusit sighed and turned to examine the other wares, eventually settled on an arrow with peacock feather fletchings.  Very non-functional, and only two guilders.

            When they reached the Dancing Dog, they found that only the girl with the disturbingly hard-to-remember name was there, happily immersed in her bath.  They left her to it and peeked in the other rooms -- Grog’s had a barrel sitting in the middle and a washtub -- in several pieces -- off to the side.  The kita decided she didn’t want to know.  Tusit, with some delight, left the decorative arrow on Mica’s pillow.  The kita and the gnome shared a light meal in the common room before parting ways; Tusit wanted to see if he could find a library of some sort, which Thistlepouch thought could be interesting, but she wanted a tip for her staff and some new maps rather badly.  The maps she had suggested more out there, and Thistlepouch wanted to see everything of this big, beautiful world.

            Once she was out on her own, Thistlepouch made her first order of business getting a staff tip.  To this end, she found the weapons section of town and followed the sound of a hammer striking metal to the blacksmith’s forge.

            “Can I help you?” he asked, turning from where he’d quenched a new blade with a hiss of steam.

            “Yeah,” she said brightly.  “I was wondering if you could make a metal tip for this for me?”  She held out the bottom end of her hoopak.  “It needs to be pointed.”

            The smith considered, took a couple measurements.  “Yeah, sure. I think I could do that for you.”

            “How much?”

            He thought a moment.  “Five guilder -- it’s specialty piece, so it’ll run you a little higher than a regular blade.”

            She nodded, dug out the correct coinage from her pouch.  “When will it be ready?”

            “Oh, I’m sure I can have it done for you by tomorrow.”

            “Great!  Thanks!  I’ll come by then.”  She smiled brightly at him and waved as she skipped out, headed off to the charter’s. 

            “Do you have any maps of the area?” she asked brightly.  “Something of the island, maybe, or of the waters nearby?”

            He pulled out a ream of paper and started leafing through.  “Well, I’ve got this.  .  .  and this.  .  .  and -”

            “How much each?”

            “Five guilders.”

            Her eyebrows shot up.  That was much more than she was willing to pay.  She did need the maps, though.  .  .  “Maybe I could trade for one of them? I have some unusual ones, from the outer islands.”  And though she hated to part with any of them, she really didn’t intend to return.  Pirates might be exciting, but pirate slave holds were most definitely not.

            He scanned over the maps.  “Hmmm.  .  . I could give you as much as three.  .  .”  He paused on one.  “This one you should show the duke.  I think he would have much more interest in it.”

            She started rolling them up.  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep them for that.  They are rare, I went through quite a bit of trouble to get them, and they are of sentimental value.”

            “Of course, I understand.  But I do think you really should show that map to the duke.”

            “I think I will,” she declared, and strolled right out the door and to the Keep.

            She was met there by guard who thought she was a human child.  When she showed him her pointy ears, he decided she was an elf.  Thistlepouch, near to mortal humiliation (though it certainly wasn’t the first time it’d ever happened to her) wished to any kind god who happened to be listening for freckles like all the other kita so that people would stop taking her for an elf.  And worse, a child.  Not, she supposed, that being an elf was a bad thing.  .  . if you really were an elf.  .  .  and as long as you weren’t Bob.  But Thistlepouch was invested with a certain amount of racial pride.  Not, she reflected, that freckles would probably help; if she had thought humans were made-up creatures, why should they think differently of her kind, if they even remembered them?  She gave the guard the benefit of the doubt, though, since he didn’t know what kita were even when she told him she was one of them.

            The guardsmaster he brought to her led her down a plethora of hallways, deposited her in a huge room with maps tacked to the walls and a big table in the center, left a guard at the door, and departed.  Thistlepouch busied herself looking at the map because it was the most innocent thing she could think of with which to occupy herself.  And really, it was fascinating enough that she didn’t even have to pretend to be interested.  It was rich with color and hard-to-read calligraphy.

            At length she heard someone clear their throat behind her -- she turned to find herself face-to-face with an honest-to-goodness duke.  (Oh, and the guardsmaster was standing at his elbow.)

            Thistlepouch suddenly realized she had no idea how to behave in front of an honest-to-goodness duke.  Maybe bow -- but girls were supposed to curtsey, and she’d never been good at that.  Instead, she offered up her small hand.  “Hi!  I’m Thistlepouch Doorringer.  I bet you’re the duke.  I’ve never met a real duke before.”

            He looked wryly amused as he took her hand.  The guardsmaster made choking noises -- maybe he’d inhaled some smoke from the torches? -- but the duke just gave him a Look and turned back to her.  “I’ve been told you have something of interest you’d like me to see?”

            “Well, I think it’ll interest you, anyhow.”  She spread out the map the mapmaker had told her about.  “I don’t personally see why anyone would want it -- it’s just a map of the pirate-infested waters.  Which is interesting if you’ve been there -- which I have -- but not real useful unless you intend to go back -- which I don’t.  And, no offense, your dukeship, but you don’t seem the type to want to be put in a slavers’ galley, like I was.  .  .  not that I intended to be there, of course, but you know, I always thought getting captured by pirates would be a little more fun than that.”

            “Excuse me, where did you say you got this map?” the Duke asked politely, but there was an odd intensity in his eyes.

            “From a crashed pirate ship on an adventure.  I’d been a captured slave, but I escaped with my friends.  I’m not sure which island we were on -- not that it matters much, because it isn’t there anymore.  But this one does show where the pirate hideout is -- I think that would be awfully exciting, don’t you?”

            “Yes,” replied the Duke, a little distantly.  “I do.  Guardsmaster, I want you to prepare the troops.  We’ve finally got the bastards right where we want them!”  He turned back to his guest, handed her a sack that clinked heavily.  “Thank you very much, Lady Doorringer.  If there’s ever anything I can do to be of assistance, it shall be done.  Here is a note to show anyone who does not believe you have my support.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.  .  .”

            “Of course!”  She smiled brightly at him.  “Glad I could help out!”

            As she was shown out, Thistlepouch couldn’t get over the fact that she’d just had a real, live duke shake her hand -- and he’d even been nice, and called her a Lady, and he hadn’t called her an elf!  This was better than an undead Sea King in a lot of ways -- for instance, he hadn’t hit her with a mace.  She hoped her friends had had as much fun in their quests -- Mica for some armor and Tusit to find the guru and his library.  It would be good to see them again.  After all that time on the boat and such, her companions no longer looked awkward in their height (except Bob, who still looked like an oversized half-human kita, and Tusit, who was only about six inches taller than her own three feet).  A human city, though, she found a little overwhelming, with giants and too-tall buildings everywhere.  It was even worse without someone nearby she knew.

            Thistlepouch skipped merrily back into the inn, eager to tell her story to her friends.  She didn’t even have time to get out a “guess what I did!” before Tusit perked up.

            “Looks like the kita did well for herself,” he appraised, eyeing her heavy moneypurse.

            Mica and Bob looked up at his comment.

            Thistlepouch beamed.  “Yup!  The duke gave it to me!  He was very grateful for the service I provided,” she added importantly.

            “And what ‘service’ was that?” Bob added skeptically.

            “Bringing him a map that shows where the pirate hideout is,” she informed him.  “He was so happy, he said that if there was anything I needed, to just ask him.  And he shook my hand.  He was very polite, I thought.”

            Tusit chuckled.  “Really?  Well, I hear the duke’s got a rather impressive library I wouldn’t mind poking about in.  I don’t suppose.  .  .”

            Thistlepouch shrugged, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.  “I don’t see why not.  I could take you there tomorrow if you want.  .  .  but right now” she yawned and stretched “I could really use some sleep.  G’night, everybody.”

            With a spring in her step, Thistlepouch mounted the stairs and went down the hall to her room.  She liked this town already.

Disclaimer: No three-headed dogs were harmed

during the creation of this chapter.

The duke, however, can't seem to find his favorite quill.....