Five

            Thistlepouch’s eyes snapped open to warm sunlight flooding the room.  With the anxious anticipation of adventure to come, she tumbled out of the narrow bed, poured water from the pitcher to the basin, splashed some on her face (spluttered at the chill), dried herself with a sleeve, donned her pouches and boots, and bounced downstairs to the common room.

            Tusit, Mica, and Bob were seated around a rough table eating stirabout.  She plopped herself in an empty chair.  “Morning!”

            Tusit winced.  “Could you turn it down about two notches?” he requested, bleary-eyed.

            The kita blinked, looked around the table, and immediately felt a little sheepish.  She’d forgotten that not everyone shared her love of mornings.  Coinbright would’ve chirped right back.  She quietly ordered a bowl of the thick porridge.  “What is everyone doing today?”

            “Well,” Tusit said, “you said you could get into the duke’s library.  .  .”

            “Ohyeahthat’sright!” Thistlepouch grinned.  “What about you, Mica?”

            “The duke’s library?”  She considered.  “I bet he’d have some books on Athena and temples.  .  .  do you think you could get me in, too?”

            “Sure!  Bob?”

            “I need to get myself some supplies.  Unless you got me a bow?”

            “No,” Mica scoffed.

            “Okay, then, I’ll go to the boier/fletcher and to get some leather armor.  Uh.  .  .  where do I go?”

            Mica gave him directions -- the right ones, Thistlepouch noticed.

            After breakfast Thistlepouch scurried back to her room, snatched her staff, and proudly led her friends through the town and to the duke’s gate.  A young man in the guards’ uniform stood at attention there.

            “Halt!  Identify yourself!”

            Thistlepouch blinked.  “Well, I’m me!  Who are you?”

            Taken aback and a bit flustered, his bravado slipped.  “Doorling.”  He recovered himself.  “What’s your business?”

            “I’m here to see the duke’s library,” she replied brightly.  “He said I could.”

            “It might help if you showed him the note,” Tusit suggested lowly.  Doorling looked skeptical.

            “Oh!  Right!  Here.”  She dug the note out of her map pouch and proffered it.

            Doorling’s eyebrows climbed as another man, a bit paunchy, unkempt, his remaining hair graying, strode up as he buttoned his britches.  “What’s this, Doorling?”

            “This.  .  .  uh.  .  .  .”

            “Kita,” Thistlepouch supplied helpfully, hoping to spare him the humiliation of his ignorance.

            “Right.  Kita.  Has a note with the duke’s personal seal.  She wants to take these two to see the library.”

            The new man frowned.  Thistlepouch sighed.  “If you don’t believe me, get your captain.  He’ll remember me.”

            The older man sent Doorling off to find their superior, then turned eager eyes to the kita.  “So, lass, just what did you do to earn the duke’s favor?”

            She shrugged.  “Gave him a map.”

            “A map?”

            “Yeah, with some pirate hideout or something on it.”

            Tusit hissed in her ear, “Discretion!”

            She blinked at him in surprise.  Was he silly enough to think she’d give the man the location?  To make him feel more at ease, she changed the subject.  “Say, did I ever tell you about the time I met the Sea King?”

            “Sea King? The Sea King?!”

            “Well, I only know of one.  Of course, he was dead -- well sort of -- you see -”

            She thought she heard Tusit groan before a familiarly large hand clapped over her mouth.  “Typical kita,” he explained with a depreciating laugh.  “Given to flights of fancy.  .  .  she’s been telling that wild story ever since she heard the legends.  .  .”

            Mica stepped smoothly in.  “What did you say your name was?  You’ve been so very helpful, and I seem to have forgotten.  .  .”

            He didn’t want to give his name, Mica was insistent.  .  .  it was interesting, but Thistlepouch’s first priority was trying to pry Tusit’s hand off her face (really! How did he expect her to be a bard if he wouldn’t let her talk?!).  .  .  this distracted her until she saw the guardsmaster striding up to them.  She waved frantically, murphling until the gnome let her go.

            “Hi!  Remember me?” she greeted cheerfully.

            “Yes.  .  .  the.  .  .”

            “Kita.”  Humans had such short memories!

            “Kita.  Right.  How can I help you?”

            “The duke gave me a note,” she explained, proffering it.  Things seemed to go faster if she showed the note without having to be asked.  “My friends and I wanted to see the library.”

            The guardsmaster considered.  “Well, I don’t see how that would be a problem.  Let me just check.  Doorling, take them to the guardhouse, give them some ale while they wait.”

            “Yes sir!  This way,” he said with a broad grin directed at Mica.  Thistlepouch stifled a giggle.  He sure had a goofy look on his face!

            The guardhouse consisted of a medium-sized common room with one door leading to a weapons room and several more to barracks.  The main room sported a large table, some chairs, and other basics, but little in the way of interest.

            “Ale?” offered Doorling, pouring out flagons.

            All nodded -- Tusit took Thistlepouch’s mug and divided a good portion of it between his and Mica’s mugs.  Thistlepouch pouted at him.

            “You want to be able to read the books, don’t you?  If you drink all that, you’ll see three of each,” he admonished.

            She sighed but conceded the point.  And was a little glad -- it was potent even if it didn’t taste very good.  She only half paid attention to Mica and Doorling’s conversation.  .  .  she didn’t really mean to eavesdrop, but there was nothing better to do and she was bored.

            “Do you know much about him?”

            “Who?  Oh.  .  .  Ens.  .  .  no, not really.  He’s been a guard a long time.  And I’m pretty new.”

            “Isn’t that kind of rare?  For a guard to be around that long?  He must not go on many pirate raids.”

            “Actually, he does.  Usually when they get there there’s more treasure than pirates, though.”

            “Oh really.  .  .  .  ?”

            Thistlepouch sighed.  If she was going to go to all the trouble of trying not to listen, they could at least talk about something worth not listening to.  She entertained herself with thoughts of the library -- what would it be like?  She’d never seen a real library before.  .  .  never even seen that many books.  .  .  well, besides in the manor house on the Sea King’s island (and she doubted it’d be that big), but none of the books there had been in any condition to read.  She knew she couldn’t read as well as Mica or Tusit or the girl did, not in All-Speak, anyway, but that little she could read opened up worlds.  Maybe she would be a bard.  Maybe she would-

            Just then the guardsmaster entered, rousing her from pretty fantasies.

            “I’ve spoken with the duke’s advisor,” said he, “and there shouldn’t be a problem.  Doorling, if you would take them?”

            “Sure!”  He snapped to attention, happy to spend more time with Mica.  Thistlepouch finished her ale and hopped off her stool, cheerfully followed behind her friends.

            As they passed the gate, Mica frowned.  “Where’s Ens?”

            “Well.  .  .  he’s.  .  .  erm.  .  .  in the privy,” Doorling muttered, crimson to his hairline.  “I think.”

            “He certainly seems to spend quite a bit of time there,” Tusit observed.  They were in the castle proper now.

            “Well.  .  .  I.  .  .  .” Doorling lowered his voice, “I think he’s got the runs.”

            “Ahhh.  .  .  .” Tusit agreed sagely. 

            Thistlepouch tried not to giggle.

            And then.  .  .  the library!  Like stepping into a room full of worlds.  .  .  .  she wondered how she’d ever decide where to begin and was more than a little frustrated.  Once she’d gotten over the initial wonder of so many books in one place (though she’d been right -- not nearly so many as in the Sea King’s manor house) Thistlepouch decided that libraries are rather dull.  Tusit must’ve sensed her impending boredom; he deftly averted it (kind of him, she thought) by suggesting she search for secret passages.  This was vastly entertaining for a while, but when she failed to find so much as a secret mousehole she began to get bored again.  Luckily a section of books on the Sea King diverted her attention.  A number of them had reasonably good illustrations.  Since His Majesty hadn’t been much for talking when she’d met him (understandable, seeing as how he’d been dead -- well, sort of -- at the time, though she did think it’d been awfully rude of him to clobber her with that mace) and Keystake wasn’t the most reliable source, Thistlepouch hoped she could learn a little more about the story behind her adventure from books.  Mostly what she found was really dry -- even descriptions of battles against pirates get boring after the third or fourth one -- but she learned that he’d carved out a small island kingdom in hostile pirate territory when he was still a young man, married, had one son, and fought a lot of pirates.  It was thought that pirate brigands eventually did him in, though no one could be certain (Thistlepouch decided to remedy that) and no one was quite sure where his island was, either, though supposedly it held a great fortune in treasure.  (Not anymore, the kita thought with a grin.)

            “I’d better go out for supplies,” Mica declared as she put away her selection -- something on gods and myths, the kita suspected.  “And maybe check on the girl at the Prancing Pooch.”

            “Dancing Dog,” Thistlepouch corrected.

            “Whatever.  Anyone want to come with me?”

            The kita was torn -- it would be the polite thing to do to accompany her, and she did have to pick up that tip for her staff, but this might be her last chance at books in a while, and if she wanted to be a bard.  .  .

            Mica decided it for her.  “That’s okay, Thistlepouch.  Why don’t you stay here with Tusit.”

            “Okay!  Um.  .  .  .  you’re sure?”

            “Yeah.  Is there anything you need yet?”

            “Well.  .  .  the blacksmith said the metal tip for my staff should be ready today.  I already paid for it.”

            “Yeah, sure.  I could pick that up for you.”

            “Great!  Thanks!”

            “Here.  .  .  for your supplies,” Tusit said, proffering a small pouch of coin.

            Mica accepted with a nod of thanks and departed, closing the door behind herself.

            Thistlepouch went back to looking for stories of the Sea King, but it was more of the same. She sighed, dangerously near boredom.  She’d never had the patience other kita managed.

            “Why don’t you see if you can’t find some books for me?” Tusit offered.

            “Okay!  What’re you looking for?”

            “Oh.  .  .  I dunno.  .  .  .  maybe something on Magick.”

            “Magick?”  That, at least, sounded interesting.  She pulled out the tingly stick and waved it over the shelves.  Oddly enough, it wasn’t interested in the shelves.  In fact, it was rather insistent on pointing at the gnome.

            Magick, huh?  Well, that would explain the blackness in the doorways on that street.  .  .  she’d figured out the Magick part but thought maybe it’d been something she’d done, but if the stick said Tusit was a mage.  .  .  she filed it away for future reference.  She had to admit to a certain disappointment but consoled herself with thoughts of barddom and set about finding the requested tomes.

            It occupied her for hours -- and she was being helpful too! -- so she was a little surprised when the duke appeared with two guards.

            “Hi!” Thistlepouch greeted him brightly.  “You have a really neat library here!  Oh, and this is my friend Tusit.”

            “I’d like to speak to you in.  .  .  .  private, if that would be possible,” Tusit added, gesturing to the guards.

            The duke looked skeptical, but motioned his guards away.  They shifted uncomfortably.

            “Ah.  .  .  sir.  .  .”

            Tusit donned his most innocent expression, spread his hands wide.  “As you can see, the kita and I pose no threat.  .  .”

            The duke gave his bodyguards a flat stare, arched one eyebrow when the left-hand guard pressed a sword on him.

            “Please.  .  .  sir.  .  .  .”

            The duke, with an aggrieved sigh, took it.  “Better?”

            “Thank you sir.”  The guards saluted before exiting, closed the door behind themselves.

            The duke propped the sword against the wall and leaned back against a bookcase with an expectant expression on his face.

            “I first wanted to thank you for the use of your library.  It’s so difficult to find -”
            Thistlepouch stopped paying attention; the gnome had entered his showman mode, but not in an interesting way.  She guessed that any question he had to ask was probably about the books he’d been reading.  She hadn’t understood much from the quick skims she’d given the contents, and she didn’t suppose she’d understand her friend or the duke much better.  She went back to flipping through a slightly more intelligible book on the art of deception, warfare, and battles.  Not her first interest, but the duke didn’t collect stories.  Not much later the duke departed and Tusit motioned that it was time to go.  Thistlepouch set aside her book, brushed off her jellybean purple leggings, and grabbed her staff.  They trooped to the front gate where Doorling waved and smiled.

            “Hi!  Going back to your ship?”

            Thistlepouch nodded.  “Yup!”

            “Great!  Well, I’ll just come along too, if you don’t mind.”

            The kita stifled a giggle, betting he just wanted to see Mica again.

            “That would be.  .  .  most kind of you,” Tusit accepted, and Doorling led them through the gates.  “Say, do you know of a reputable boier/fletcher in the area?”

            “Yeah.  Did you want to stop?”

            “If that would be possible.”

            Doorling nodded.  “I’ll lead you there.”

            Not ten seconds later, arrows zanged from a nearby alley.  Doorling screamed in pain, clutching his shoulder, and fell unconscious to the ground.  Four roughly dressed thugs sprang from the darkness.  Thistlepouch saw two grab at Doorling and another lunge for Tusit before she was too busy trying to free herself from the huge hands clutching the fabric of her shirt to pay much attention.  She squirmed, yelling insults at the top of her shrill voice, heard Tusit yell for the guards and scamper off -- must’ve broken free -- before her combatant firmly nabbed her, lifting her off the ground.

            “Shut up or the guard dies!” one of the other thugs snapped.

            Thistlepouch quieted, though she still wiggled and kicked with all her might as she was carried into the alley.  She even managed to stifle a yelp when her attempt to kick his privates backfired and she smashed her foot hard on his steel codpiece.  Then it was all she could do to keep from being bound -- they got her feet, but attempts at her hands had failed, and she easily evaded the dirty wad of cloth they tried to shove in her mouth.  She couldn’t hear Tusit anymore -- she hoped it meant he’d found help and not that he’d been captured.  If she could just stall long enough.  .  .  .

            The alley exploded in shouts and curses.  The thug who had been trying to bind Thistlepouch bolted and she got a clear view of another thug hastily slitting Doorling’s throat a split second before her captor dropped her and made a run for it.  Frantically the kita drew her belt dagger and sliced the bonds at her feet, sheathed it, and stumbled to the fallen guard’s side, the thugs’ dying screams echoing hollowly in her ears.  She pulled cloth from her pouches, tried to staunch Doorling’s wound.  She hardly noticed when Tusit put a hand on her shoulder.

            “Thistlepouch, are you all right?”

            Everything focused and brightened dizzyingly.  Her foot hurt, and it felt like one of the brigands had cuffed her hard on the head, though she couldn’t recall when.  She heard her voice telling him as much, but she hadn’t intended to speak at all.  Tusit bandaged her foot deftly and declared that her head would be all right; she nodded vaguely, her eyes never leaving Doorling’s too-still, bloody form.  She did not move until guards came to carry him away, and then it was only to trail forlornly behind.

Disclaimer: Thistlepouch's irrepressible zest

was bruised this chapter, but a full recovery is expected.