by Kevin Hearne
He passed two more closed doors but was too short to open them and see if they contained yet more aggressively large beds. The first open door he found led to the largest room he’d ever seen, big enough to fill with every gnome and donkey he’d ever met and still have room for an entire forest and his own black heart. This room was approximately half full of Ping-Pong tables, each as tall as two gnomes and painted a virulent green. So now he knew where they could get more lumber, at least. Running calculations, he returned to the hallway and headed for the next open door. That one held a break room of sorts, with four generally unkempt and impossibly identical humans playing cards and drinking a foul brown brew from wooden cups. Offi was scandalized at their lack of beards and had to purposefully look away from their clammy chins and nude throats, some peppered with a shocking fuzz of stubble. Thank goodness his mother wasn’t there to see it.
“What’re you looking at, shrimp?” one asked with a sneer.
Offi had never been challenged by a human before and was nearly too surprised to respond.
“I’m looking at four humans loafing about,” he answered, telling the truth because he assumed that they could smell lies, the way snakes and foxes could.
The human who had addressed him—he thought? They were so similar—stood, his chair falling with a dangerous clatter.
“I’ll stomp you into the ground for that, you little frog!” he boomed, and Offi took off running before the man could fulfill his promise. Humans, apparently, took offense easily. Perhaps their naked necks made them overly sensitive.
As quick as his legs could take him, Offi bolted down the hall, terrified at every moment that he would hear the giant boots pounding behind him, the human’s foul drool raining from above as he scented his prey. Wait—could humans smell their prey, or did they sense movement or heat? Offi hadn’t paid much attention in his Taller-Folk Biology class. He dove into the next open door, rolled into a ball, and hoped he’d fetch up behind a convenient Ping-Pong table. Instead, he slammed into something big and warm that swayed like a tree in a storm but did not fall over, and someone blurted out, “Oh, my sad unbuttered toast, I do beg your pardon!”
Another voice, and a very familiar one, laughed joyously. “Offi Numminen, what do you think you’re doing? And is that a yellow cardigan?”
What he found when he uncurled and stood up was so bizarre that he completely forgot about the angry human clamoring for his blood. First, there was the confused dwarf he’d seen earlier, as wide and thick as a boulder, standing around twice the height of a gnome, sporting a fine and bushy beard, and smiling shyly. And beside the dwarf was Kirsi Noogensen, grinning at him, a basket of fresh mushrooms at her feet.
“Kirsi? But how?”
Instead of responding, she hug-tackled him, squeezing the breath from his lungs and making him squeak in an undignified manner. It was the closest Offi had ever been to a girl he wasn’t related to, all squashed together down the front, and a confusing tumult of feelings tumbled through him. He’d noticed Kirsi in class, of course—she was sprightly and good-natured, round as an apple, with a lovely red beard—but he’d never expected to be on the breathless receiving end of one of her hugs. Her woolen cardigan was especially attractive, navy blue with embroidered pine cones. But then he realized he probably shouldn’t be looking at her pine cones and he blushed and looked away.
“Oh, Offi! I can’t believe you’re alive! When I saw the bomb go off, I just—”
“Wait,” he interrupted, untangling from her and stepping back. “What do you mean, when you saw the bomb go off?”
At that, Kirsi’s cheeks reddened and she fiddled with her beard. “I was walking past your place, and I saw the halflings bomb your main hatch, so I…”
“Ran away?”
“Cursed them.”
“Oh.”
Kirsi was watching him carefully to see how he took this information. Offi knew Kirsi’s grandmother was a famous bristle witch, and it was whispered that Kirsi might’ve inherited some of her magic, but thus far she hadn’t made her powers public. It was rather a surprise to find out her magic was of the cursing sort rather than blessing, as bristle witches could generally only do one or the other. No wonder she’d kept it quiet. Some people would’ve drawn unwelcome conclusions and treated her differently because of her curses; if there was one thing gnomes hated, it was being different. Except for Offi, who actively liked things that were different. His estimation of her went up a bit, and he tried to imagine her in a black cardigan with embroidered poisoned apples. Darkly winsome, it would be.
“So what did your curse do to them?” he asked.
Kirsi brightened for a moment before a pall of rage narrowed her eyes. “Well, I thought they’d killed your whole family, didn’t I? So I sort of set their chest hair on fire. But if you’re alive, that means Onn—I mean, your whole family is safe?”
Offi shrugged. “Safe, if unsettled. My father’s given up hope. But Onni went to work, getting everyone motivated to make the space bearable. You know how he is. We just got here, you see. And then I met some humans, and…well, one of them mistook me for an amphibian, which is an error in perception so profound I cannot explain it. I just ran.”
Kirsi nodded along. “They’re as big and beastly and stupid as we were taught, but with rather fewer arms, don’t you think? But so rude. Almost as if they don’t want us here, at our own refugee center! But, Offi, you simply must meet my new friend…?”
She looked at the dwarf, who bowed and said, “Båggi Biins, at your service!”
“Boggy beans?” Offi said, confused, making the dwarf wince politely.
“Yes, I can see by your face you’re thinking I’ve been named after legumes native to a bog, but I assure you my parents would never do such a thing. It is simply that dwarvelish names often have unfortunate homophones in Pellican.”
That didn’t clear anything up for Offi, who knew even less about dwarves than he did humans. Gnomes generally kept to themselves. Dwarves, at least, were rumored to have the normal number of teeth and arms, along with a comforting number of beards and a talent for knitting when the mood took them.
“We were just meeting when you rolled in, and Båggi doesn’t know anyone else here either.” Kirsi looked down, tucking one toe tip under the other shyly. “I’m the only gnome here without a family, it seems.”
That got Offi’s attention, and he completely forgot the dwarf, even though he was staring straight at the stout fellow’s shiny belt buckle, which was shaped like a bumblebee on a flower.
“But where’s your family? They didn’t get—”
He buttoned his lip before he could say the word exploded.
There were no words that seemed sufficient and polite for discussing what happened when one’s home was at the business end of a halfling firebomb.
“I don’t think so.” Kirsi avoided his eyes. “When I saw what happened to your home, I ran. My parents would never leave. They’re too dug in. Unwilling to change. So I sent them a missive and followed a donkey trail into the brush.”
“Hey, that was our donkey, Happy Mumbletoes! And you followed us all the way here?”
“Mostly. I couldn’t stay a minute more once I saw your farm get attacked.”
“That sounds like a reasonable course of action.”
But it didn’t. Gnomes were family creatures. For a gnome to leave home, alone, was extremely ungnomeric. And when things got ungnomeric, gnomes didn’t know what to do. Offi had previously pegged Kirsi as being just like any other gnome, which was supposedly a great compliment. But as he considered that perhaps she was quite different and had secretly always been so, he felt a certain kinship.
He was about to ask her how she felt about bats when the dwarf chose that moment to stick his hand straight down, grab Offi’s hand, and shake it gently but vigorously.
“Hello, good fr
iend, hello! If only we might have a cup of tea together in peace, but I fear the facilities don’t lend themselves to that sort of thing.” Craning his head, Offi could tell that despite his friendliness, the dwarf was as out of his depth as everyone else. “Unless you know where we might find some hot water? Or perhaps you’d be interested in a bit of honeycomb on crackers? I just really feel like eating something comforting right now, you know?”
Gently slipping his hand away, Offi gave the dwarf a smile that he hoped was comforting. “Food would be good. My father—no, my brother, actually—sent me out to see what sort of resources I could find. He was thinking of building materials, but food is a resource too, and our people will be hungry after today’s long walk. Not that we have nothing—we have a pudding on. You’re both welcome to join us, I’m sure, as soon as it’s ready.” His eyes traced Båggi’s squarish head, lush and covet-worthy beard, and round belly, which could probably contain an entire human-sized bowl full of jelly. “If you’re not too terribly hungry?”
“Oh, my spicy brown mustard,” the dwarf said, eyes going wide in shock. “I would never want to leave anyone hungry. It is the dwarvelish way to bring more food than you take, and I have some fine dry goods from a farmhouse.” Båggi’s eyes took on a faraway, haunted cast. “So long as there’s no cabbage, I should be glad of the company. Beyond glad, really.”
“Come along, then. I’ll need to finish my lap around the building, make sure I can give a full report when we return.” That was another new feeling—knowing that others were counting on him. Especially with Seppo having lost his conviction, Offi wanted to do a good job for his people, for all that he would prefer to do it in black eyeliner and a black cardigan.
Offi led the way with more confidence than he felt, hoping Kirsi would see him as mature and effective, a Gnome of Certainty. He realized, as he strode down the echoing hall, that the person to whom he would be giving said report was his brother, and he wondered if his father had yet regained his wits. Old Seppo had always seemed strong, secure, and powerful to his sons, but Offi worried about what had happened to his father’s spirit and abilities since they’d left their home. It was as if he’d left his old self behind in the masterpiece of his architectural career. Could one’s attachment to material comforts have such a powerful hold on one’s faculties? If so, the halflings had firebombed more than a mere gnomehome.
As they walked, he looked in each open door, gauging what could be taken for building purposes and what was already committed to other uses. Many of the rooms appeared to have been stripped, including an exercise room bereft of metal but dotted with human-sized mats and ropes. They passed a padded room utterly bouncing with gnomelets, watched over by some exhausted-looking gnome matriarchs with gray hair and frayed nerves. The kitchen, sadly, was guarded by a snarling human with a terrifying mace of the smacking and not the flavoring sort, and so Offi could only conclude that there would be no sharing of provisions.
Armed with the general information that the refugee center was a dismal place where they weren’t so much being welcomed as tolerated, Offi led Kirsi and Båggi back toward the room, where, hopefully, Onni had lit a cheery fire under gnomeric buns and gotten everyone to work on beds and puddings and sanitation and other things a gnome needs.
But before they reached the right room, the front door burst open, vomiting forth a very strange group of people. Two of them appeared to be half person, half sheep, and all frantic, while the third person wasn’t really a person at all. It was a gnomeric construct—of that much Offi was certain. The workmanship was familiar somehow, and he longed to inspect the creation himself, to see the intricate gears and carefully fitted machinery within. Here and there, small glints gleaming in a fresh nick or scratch suggested the construct was gold and that it had once shone like the sun, for all that it was now tarnished brown, its crevices gummed up with dirt and sand. A golden jewel glinted from its forehead, and even though its eyes were dark and its mouth was barely a suggestion, Offi felt as if this automaton saw him. And smiled. Something tickled the back of Offi’s brain like a childhood fairy tale, half forgotten.
“You there,” the sheep man said, straightening his corduroy jacket over a stained white turtleneck as he pinned Offi in a commanding glare. “You’re a gnome, right?”
Offi gave Kirsi a look, but Kirsi being Kirsi, she bustled forward, waggling a finger.
“That’s no way to greet someone, my good sir! You might begin with a hello, or a how-do-you-do, or at least offer a smile. A greeting smile will go a mile, you know.”
Offi felt the slightest bit of twitterpation to hear her spouting off the usual gnomeism while scolding a complete stranger.
The man shook his head, his ears flapping.
“No time for niceties, kid. We’re on a time crunch to pay escrow, and closing papers don’t wait. Now, is either of you a Certified Gnomeric Gearhaaand?”
The term was unfamiliar to Offi, but his heart was seized with a Sudden Fervor. He was a gnome, that was very true, and he had very handy hands when it came to gears. Having learned at Old Seppo’s side, he was confident in his skills with any gnomeric construct or gadget. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on this old automaton and crack it open. And so he did a very deeply ungnomeric thing.
He lied for the first time in his life.
“Why, I certainly am, sir,” he said.
“But—” Kirsi started, and he spoke right over her.
“But I didn’t bring my certificate. You’re right, Kirsi! It was in the workshop when my family was forced to abandon our exploded home and flee the halflings. But I assure you that if you need someone to look at your automaton, I’m the gnome to do it.”
“Look aaat it?” the man bleated. “I want you to take it! Shut it down! It won’t listen to me anymore, and it won’t stop following me, and I would certainly write a sternly worded letter to a maaanager if I could find the right one.”
“My husband used to be a Vartija,” the woman whispered in the sort of loud voice that wanted to be overheard, drawing the singed edges of a colorful caftan around her shoulders with her nose in the air. “But now we’re private citizens. Caaan’t go play Bunko with that thing hulking behind us, caaan we?”
“I’d be glad to take possession of it,” Offi said, trying to hide his huge smile.
But every time the sheep folk attempted to leave, waving and bursting with their goodbyes, the metal man followed them. No matter how loudly and rudely they spoke to him, no matter what names they called him, he kept plodding right after them.
“This is insufferaaaable,” the woman moaned.
Offi cocked his head and stared at the automaton’s back, which hinted at some kind of script under the muck. Although he longed to inspect every crevice of this device, it would be far more instructive if there weren’t two histrionic sheep people moaning at him while he did it. And then he remembered something Seppo had taught him on his fifth birthday, when he’d received My First Futzing Kit, a toolbox full of perfect little screwdrivers and hammers and wrenches.
“All gnomeric devices have a fail-safe,” Offi said, quoting his father.
“Oh, the jewel won’t come out,” the sheep man said. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”
But Offi just shook his head and said, “Please keep him still.”
The sheep folk froze in place, and the automaton froze in place, and Offi went to the back of its right ankle and found the three perfect little buttons hidden under the grime, their shapes chased into the design so flawlessly that no one would notice them—unless their father was a celebrated inventor who’d passed down the old ways of Alphagnomeric gadgetry.
“Control, alt, delete,” he muttered, pressing all three buttons at once.
“The jewel! It’s not glowing!” the sheep man said, stating the obvious as if it were surprising.
“He’s suspended,” Offi said proudly.
“So you should be able to leave. I won’t reactivate him until you’ve had some time to—”
He was about to say “escape,” but Kirsi broke in with a far more polite “make that important meeting of yours.”
“Excellent!” the sheep woman cried.
“Aaand we’re off,” her husband exclaimed. They hurried toward the door on clicking trotters, and the man turned back. “Oh, and if you should see a younger ovitaur girl named Agape, please tell her to remember to write us. We left her a caaard with our address.”
“But we won’t be ready for visitors until after renovating!” the woman called.
And then they were gone, leaving the automaton with Offi.
“Oh, my metallic mumblety-peg, do you think it’s hungry?” Båggi said. “I did not wish to intrude, as such constructs are not the realm of my people, but I might have some Corti Corter’s Crusty Cocoa Coins, if you think he might need sustenance?”
“He doesn’t need any,” Offi said, but kindly. “Very thoughtful of you.” He walked around the automaton, fingers itching to pry open its chest plate and see what wonders waited inside. He’d need a ladder, or maybe some scaffolding, and a tool kit, and a very tiny headlamp, and—
“Something about this isn’t right,” Kirsi said.
But Offi could only gaze up at the automaton in wonder.
“You’re right. He could use a coat of black paint.”
“The heart of halfling art is the river city of Muffincrumb. Once you’ve sampled the craft of their brewers, distillers, and vintners, you will doubtless be robbed shortly afterward, either by scalawags or by the city’s artisans, who charge an exorbitant premium for their work. It’s best to stay out of halfling cities, honestly, if you enjoy holding on to your money or your life. Gnomeric cities are far more orderly places to visit if you want to see the Skyr and come back alive with knickknacks, woolen cardigans, and vaguely amusing anecdotes about pudding with which to bore your friends.”