Nine

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

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

            Thistlepouch made a supreme effort not to giggle.

            She heard the door close.

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

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

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

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

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

            Thistlepouch gave him a flat look.  “It’s brown.”

            “But this one is green!”

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

            “Well, we might find some fluorescent green, but I think that’s about the best we could do.”

            Thistlepouch sighed.  “If we could find something in a bright green that would be okay, I guess.”  Bob started to go through the drawers, and she figured he had this room pretty well covered, so she went to check out the next one.

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

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

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

            Thistlepouch didn’t get much lift the first time; disappointed but not discouraged, she picked herself up and scrambled to the top of the stairs for another try, resolving this time to flap her arms.  And it might’ve worked.  .  .  if that page hadn’t decided to stop right in front of the banister.

            “Lookout!” she yelped.

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

            “Zeus’s Thunder!”

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

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

            “Are you done?” asked the gnome tentatively.

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

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

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

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

            Thistlepouch took a moment to decide if that was a compliment.  She looked down at herself and sighed.  One sleeve had unrolled itself and acquired some nasty scuff marks.  The ties that kept the pant legs from trailing on the floor had loosed sometime during the ride, and there was now at least a good two if not three feet of fabric flopping off the end of each foot.  One of the wings hung at a skewed angle, and feathers stuck haphazardly out of the peacock-colored fabric.  She could see where she’d lost a good number more of them on the trip down -- and especially on impact with the page.  In fact, she could trace out where they’d collided by the fallout of feathers, like somebody’d tried to play stick-ball with a brightly colored chicken.

            “Does this happen often?” inquired the page.

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

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

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

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

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

            The page took that opportunity to deliver his message -- he probably didn’t like flying, Thistlepouch decided.  “I was coming to let you know that the lady Mica is going to be absent today; visiting the temple for Athena, I believe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            While Tusit was busy mangling the outfit, servants came in with breakfast -- Tusit nibbled as he worked.  When Bob finished he soon got bored with watching the gnome work and decided to go out to the marketplace in search of a hawk.  Thistlepouch, however, was completely entertained; she happily swung her short legs to keep them from falling asleep as she munched on a pastry and chatted with Tusit about the theories of flight.  Mid-chatter, however, she noticed Tusit’s expression grow cold and his hand reach for his belt-dagger.  She looked up with a chocolate-smeared face.  “Isn’t that -” she asked in a hushed voice.

            “Mmmm-hmm.”

            “What’s he doing here?”

            “Let’s watch.”

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

            Tusit sidled up to the kita just long enough to whisper, “I’ll be around.  Keep an eye on him.”

            Thistlepouch nodded, distracted, and tried to slip into the room when Bassano opened the door and motioned Lockshy in.  Bassano caught her at it, shook his head, and firmly closed the door after himself.

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

            “Did you bring it?”  Antonio’s voice, rough.

            “Certainly sir.  .  .  of course.  .  .  I would not question anything other than -” Lockshy’s, simpering.

            “Shut up and give me the flaming vial.”

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

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

            “Certainly.”

            “Gods-cursed blackmailer.  I hate slimeballs like you!”  A pause.  “So.  This it?”

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

            “Shut up and get the hades out!”

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

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

            “Of course, sir!”

            Thistlepouch, upon hearing the advancing footsteps, quickly removed her improvisational lockpicks -- it would impolite to leave them there to jam up a door that already stuck.  She stood to one side so no one would trip over her and waited with one of her best “I haven’t been getting into any trouble at all, why do you ask?” looks on her face -- though she’d discovered that most people tended not to trust that particular look.

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

            “Hello!”

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

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

            “Really.  .  .  well, that’s interesting.  .  .  .  I did not know that elven children could fly like that!”

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

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

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

            “No, I’m not exactly familiar-”

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer: No pages were injured in the creation of this chapter.

One did, however, gain a phobia of peacocks.