by Kevin Hearne
—YAZ MORFULGENT, in Plausibly Safe Pellish Vacations for the Unwary Traveler
“Nah, that’s all dirty lies from jealous gnomes. Come on down to Muffincrumb and find friendly faces and reasonably priced caricatures drawn by humble and mostly harmless artisans. Why, if you get killed here, I’ll give you your money back, plus a coupon for one free ale at Le Backstabber Bar.”
—GLACEAU SOUPERNOUGAT OF THE MUFFINCRUMB SOUPERNOUGATS, Muffincrumb Tourism Bureau
Faucon the hunter stood alone in his tent, stared at his freshly groomed feet, wiggled his well-kempt toes, and sighed. This morning he had gone to the trouble to wash his feet with LaVergne Treaclesweet’s No-Soot Foot Soap and follow up with a thick application of Dr. Torrance Ocean’s Liquid Locomotion Pedicare Lotion before putting on his favorite celebratory sapphire toe ring, reserved only for special victories—but he had done so all too early. Gerd had not delivered his prey.
He slipped the prized sapphire bauble off his toe, placed it in his velvet-lined ring case, and instead put on the Bland Iron Ring of Failure. The metal’s chill seemed to spread up from his toe, bypassing his carefully oiled foot hair, and encompassing his heart. He did so hate to fail, and this would be his punishment, a reminder to squeeze every possible drop of information out of the ovitaur.
He settled into the routine of making omelets for the gryphon and then more for himself and the drubs, making four at once and going through several dozen eggs in the process. It was calming—all the exact measurements of ingredients, the art of flipping an egg flapjack. After he fed the throng, he set one beautifully fluffy omelet before the ovitaur, who could not even begin to eat it, tied as she was to her chair. Faucon remained pleasant throughout. First breakfast was close to sacred to halflings, constituting the end of many hours without food. Second breakfast could occasionally be skipped, but the first meal of the day needed to happen early and it needed to be filling. After second breakfast came time for a bite of something, then luncheon, with second luncheon as an encore, then snacksies or tea before apple time, then proper dinner, and finally second dinner, which was often taken at a local Dinny’s chain restaurant just so a body didn’t spend all day doing dishes and getting pruney fingers. A bit of a snack could happen anytime one felt peckish, which was most of the time.
Faucon left the cleanup to a few of the drubs and approached the ovitaur and gryphon, his pin-striped waistcoat stretched tight over his belly.
“Now. On to business. You have eaten your requested repast. I have fulfilled my half of the bargain. We find ourselves having a beautiful day with a gorgeous blue sky—”
It’s blü, Gerd corrected him.
“As you say, Gerd.” The gryphon’s insistence that he pronounce colors only she could see had once troubled him, but he’d since grown to find it endearing, much like his grandfather’s penchant for blanket forts.
He turned his attention to the ovitaur. She wore a camouflage tunic over her torso and a small diamond stud in her left nostril. Her skin had cool undertones to the deep umber, and she kept her hair trimmed close to the skull, with expressive lamb-like ears on either side; they were currently drooping angrily. She had the air of the hunted about her, as if she trusted no one.
As if she could not be broken.
If he wanted information, Faucon had work to do. He would start with emotion and charisma, and if that didn’t work…well, she would learn how the drubs had earned their reputation for foul deeds. He put on a winning smile.
“Hello. We have not been properly introduced. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this morning?”
Ah, yes, Faucon thought. Smooth. The charm is still there.
“Why should I tell you, drub?”
Faucon flashed a grin. “You should tell me because you are tied to a chair, surrounded by enemies, and being glared at by a gryphon who would tear out your intestines like vermicelli.”
I would not! Gerd interjected. I told you, Faucon. She is honorable.
“That may be,” he said to both of them, “but she must cooperate if I am to judge her merits on my own. Now, what is your name?”
Please speak to Faucon, Gerd urged. He is reasonable. He cares about the law above all else. He has a law degree in a fancy frame.
The ovitaur looked from the gryphon to the omelet placed just out of reach on the table, and her stomach growled. “Fine. My name is Agape Fallopia.” Her eyes said she was scared, but her frown said she was angry about it. “Aaand you are?”
“Faucon Pooternoob of the Toodleoo Pooternoobs.” He executed a slight bow to make her feel at ease.
The girl’s eyes widened. “The Faucon? The famous hunter?”
“The very same.”
Agape’s curiosity briefly overcame her caution. “How’d you find us?”
“I regret to inform you that the witch who owns that chicken shack also took payment to tell my associate of your rental agreement.”
Agape snorted. “Oh. Cluck money. So it waaas betrayal that brought you here and not your skill. Good to know.”
Faucon smiled, knowing that she was trying to wound his pride, but he had no doubts regarding his skills. One accepted all help in bringing down prey.
“Tell me, Agape, why is your family so desperate to protect that gnomeric automaton?” She simply stared at him without replying, and he returned it for a full minute. “Oh. Is it a secret?”
Tell him, Gerd said.
“Or else,” Faucon added to maintain the proper level of menace.
“We are Vartijas of the Elders. Protecting the automaatti has been our faaamily’s task for generations.”
Faucon shrugged at what was largely a gabble of nonsense to him. “That tells me nothing. The Elder Annals have been lost for centuries, and therefore the laws therein cannot be debated.”
“Perhaaaps you should first tell me why you want Piini, then.”
The hunter looked down at his splendid feet, eyeing the Ring of Failure. It was giving him a bit of a rash, but he did deserve it. What he did not deserve, however, was an interrogation turning back on him.
“I think not. You tell me where the automaton is.” He carefully pulled a small metal-toothed comb from one of the many pockets in his waistcoat. “Or else…THE COMB.”
The drubs outside all gasped audibly, and the ovitaur looked to Gerd in confusion.
“The…comb?” the ovitaur asked, uncertain.
He has many tortures beyond my ken, Gerd admitted.
“The comb.” Faucon held it up as if admiring it. “Nothing special. Just a dastardly little enchanted device with a penchant for tangling toe hair. Or, in your case, wool.” He suddenly slammed his hand on the table before Agape, making the omelet and silverware jump. She bleated and struggled backward. “One rake from this comb, and you will never get your wool untangled. The tiny hairs will entwine permanently.” He leaned in, and she flinched away, eyes shut. His mustache close enough to tickle her ear, he whispered, “You will have a wool wedgie for the rest of your life.”
The moment strung out, and a tiny bleat of fear escaped the ovitaur, which pleased Faucon greatly.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
He took a step back, arms crossed, careful to keep the comb away from his own wrist hair. “Do you not?”
The ovitaur shook her head. “When Gerd caaaptured me, they raaan away. My paaarents and Piini. The automaton you want. So, no, I don’t know where they aaare.”
“You’re lying.” Faucon winced, realizing he was so upset he’d used a contraction.
But Agape didn’t argue the point. She looked up, her eyes glowing with rage. “Aaand what would you do with the automaton if you did find it?”
“Destroy it.”
There was no gasp of shock or horror. She’d clearly expected his response, which wasn’t the most fun way for an interrogation t
o go. “Why?” she asked.
“Because that is my task.”
“You mean because someone is paying you.”
“That too, perhaps. I have my reasons.”
The ovitaur spat, and Faucon danced back lest her spittle touch his beloved feet.
“Just like a haaalfling, to destroy something he caaan’t understaaand!”
Faucon put the comb back in his pocket and stepped forward again, as gingerly as he had first approached Gerd. Threats weren’t working so well with the ovitaur, so he would try charm again. At the very least, it would leave her confused.
“Then help me understand, Agape Fallopia.”
Gently, he took up the spoon on the table, cut off a corner of the omelet, and held it out to her. The ovitaur tried to resist, but as Faucon had learned upon meeting Gerd, fluffy omelets were impossible to resist, especially if one was hungry. Agape turned her face this way and that, screwed her eyes shut, flapped her ears, but eventually gave in and snarfed down the eggy deliciousness.
“Now talk,” Faucon urged.
Agape chewed and swallowed and sighed before saying, “Look. The automaatti is a baaarely functioning lump of tarnished metal and gummed-up gears. He’s never threatened a halfling. So why would anyone waaant him destroyed so baaadly?”
Faucon waggled a finger at her. “I was rather hoping you could tell me.”
Agape shrugged. “I caaan’t. We have no idea why he’s important.”
The halfling threw his hands wide. “Well, if it is unimportant and barely functional, why not let us take it off your hands so you can do something beautiful with your life?”
Agape glared at him. “Well, if he’s unimportant and baaarely functional, why not let me go so you caaan hunt down something beautiful aaand, I don’t know, take its life? Isn’t thaaat what you do, Faucon the hunter?”
Faucon hated to admit it but, despite his earlier threats, the ovitaur was defying all expectation. And the truths she was revealing about the gnomeric construct were troubling. Faucon had been told it was dangerous, outfitted with numerous anti-halfling weapons of aggression, from toe stompers to depilating wands. That’s why he’d sent Gerd after it. But now…well, if it was useless, why was it so dangerous?
“Hunting the automaton is not a personal vendetta; it is a matter of law and therefore principle. The kanssa-jaarli outlawed such automatons three years ago.”
“Whaaat? But the kanssa-jaarli is one gnome and one haaalfling, ruling the Skyr together, right? So why would a gnome ever agree to outlawing gnomeric automatons?”
Faucon shook his head, his eyes narrowed and his stomach eager for a small bite of something to help him think. “Not all gnomeric automatons. Just the dangerous ones. Just the kind you are protecting.”
“But why haven’t I heard of such a law? I mean, we’ve visited cities in the Skyr during the paaast three years. We’ve been around plenty of gnomes too, aaand none of them ever said, Hey, thaaat automaton is illegal now.”
“I cannot explain what you may have heard. Ignorance is no excuse. But the law exists.”
The ovitaur nodded along like they were in this together now and she wasn’t tied to a chair. “So you work for the kanssa-jaarli? The government is funding you?”
“No. I am funded by—” Faucon was cut off by a noise behind him. Bernaud Cobbleshod, who’d been hovering in the background, stepped forward with a cocky grin and spoke up.
“We don’t work for the kanssa-jaarli.” Cobbleshod paused to belch robustly. “Our loyalty is to Marquant Dique. And we don’t owe answers to you, lamb gams.”
Agape snorted at Bernaud with the same sort of revulsion Faucon felt. “Marquant Dique, infamous leader of the Daaastardly Rogues, is funding a hunt for automaatti to hold up the law? Kind of makes you question the legitimacy of thaaat law, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes met Faucon’s, and he was only somewhat troubled to realize he was more compelled by her argument than by the promise of ample remuneration.
This law is not legitimate, Gerd broke in, and all eyes swung to her. Agape and her family are Vartijas of the Elders. The laws from the Elder Annals supersede any law recently made by your kanssa-jaarli.
“Bleh,” Cobbleshod said. “That giant chicken is talking nonsense.”
Gerd ruffled her feathers in indignation, but Faucon ignored the drub and the offensive green fuzz growing on Cobbleshod’s hairy toes. “Your people have better memory of such things, Gerd. Who are these Elders, and what is a Vartija?”
The Elders led the world before your silly kings and earls and lords and kanssa-jaarli. Every race had their own Elders, and there was also a Convocation of Elders from all races that ruled the world, and their laws were the foundation of civilization. I will have you know that the Convocation of Elders made no law regarding egges and I have broken no law from the Elder Annals.
“Of course,” Faucon said, sensing that it was the right thing to say. “You would never do that.”
Correct. And the Convocation of Elders would never make such a shortsighted decree, not about egges and not about robottes. They took the long view—so long, in fact, that they foresaw their own decline. And they saw that there were wonders of their tyme that should survive until our tyme. Recipes, for example. Did you know that somewhere there is an archive of recipes guarded by Vartijas? Imagine the quiches and sauces untasted by modern tongues! And—
“Tell me more about the Vartijas, please.”
They are guardians of knowledge and sometimes hold the keys to hidden archives and treasures. Whatever they protect is immensely valuable and should not be destroyed.
“Piini is vaaaluable?” Agape said.
“Hidden archives?” Faucon said.
“The key to treasures?” Bernaud said, hairy fingers twitching against his knife. “This ovitaur girl holds the keys to treasures? D’ye think they’re in her chest cavity?”
Gerd continued as if they had not spoken. The yellö man that I could not move was important to the Elders, Faucon. To all of them—the convocation, I mean, not just the gnomeric Elders. Otherwise it would not have ovitaur Vartijas protecting it through generations.
Bernaud stepped up, his knife drawn, showing a rime of honey and dirt on the blade. “All I know is Marquant Dique don’t care about archives or varmints, or whatever she is. He wants the treasure, and he wants that automaton. And I want to know what you mean to do about that, Pooternoob.”
“My intention has not changed, Bernaud. But I must complete my interrogation. The horrible tortures will begin shortly. Please go help your men clean up the dishes from breakfast and begin chopping the mirepoix for second breakfast.”
“I’ll chop you,” Bernaud muttered, but he obeyed.
At the word tortures, Agape had drawn back against her chair, but Faucon didn’t move toward her. He lowered his voice, confident that the gryphon could hear him. “Would you mind telling me, Gerd, how you know that Agape is a Vartija? Are you merely accepting her word?”
No. She has the aura. I can see it. All gryphones can.
“I have an aura?” Agape said. “What does it look like?”
It is like lemon ice drizzled with mäple syrup.
“You mean maple syrup?”
No, I mean mäple. Respect the umlaut.
“And because she is a Vartija,” Faucon continued, “you think the automaton should not be destroyed.”
Correct. It would violate Elder Law, which is the highest law. Therefore, Faucon, I will not help you retrieve the yellö man. I will help this Vartija protect it from you, in fact.
“You will?” Agape and Faucon said simultaneously.
I will.
That changed Faucon’s calculations considerably. Gryphons could be bought with rare foodstuffs or particularly nice ribbons, but they rarely committed themselves to a cause for free un
less they felt it to be unimpeachably noble.
Faucon felt a turbulent flutter in his lungs, like someone had stuck a fork in there and twirled his tissue around it like strings of pasta. He knew it meant he was feeling emotions, but he didn’t have a name for them yet. There were probably several of them that needed to be sorted out.
Faucon didn’t particularly like emotions. He liked laws, and emotions just got in the way.
But the emotions didn’t seem to care. He’d been lied to by the drubs, so there was anger. And horror that he’d lost a year of his life to a lie, thinking he was behaving righteously. Also shame that he’d not figured it out sooner, and a flailing uncertainty about what to do next. He needed to anchor himself to certainty, fast, and so he began talking, waggling his fingers about in distemper and pacing back and forth in front of the gryphon and ovitaur.
“I am one who upholds the law. I need you to understand that about me. I lost a loved one because gnomeric architects—the same ones who are so famed for their skills—did not adhere to the law and erected a statue without following specified civil building codes. It was a statue of Hedvige Hootleboop of the Toodleoo Hootleboops, renowned founder of Hootleboop Foods, which employed and fed so many halflings in our part of the Skyr.” Faucon’s vision blurred as his eyes swam with tears. “Remy and I were at the Caskcooper city square the day after the erection, admiring the fine bronze figure and enjoying our midday repast, for one did Hedvige the greatest honor by eating in front of her.
And then a child—a mere halfling child—threw herself at the skirts of the statue to give Hedvige Hootleboop a hug. And this simple act toppled the statue in our direction! It should have been impossible, you see? It was criminal negligence by the gnomes. The statue was said to be untoppleable. Remy and I were both eating and didn’t see it coming until it was too late. Remy was crushed to death by Hedvige’s heavy bronze bosom—all because the gnomes had ignored the law. It was ruled an accident. But I held those gnomes responsible, in Remy’s memory. I hunted the architects down and fed them to the boars in the Pruneshute Forest. And I continue to hold lawbreakers responsible whenever the system fails.” Faucon sniffled and wiped away tears with the heel of his hand. “That is why I have been pursuing you, Agape: I was convinced your automaton was another gnomeric abomination of law like the one that killed Remy.”