by Kevin Hearne
“Nothing!” Båggi was aghast at the suggestion.
He would appear to be drünke, Gerd said helpfully.
“Oh, yes, well, dwarvelish honey mead is just the thing to soften the pain of a rough boning,” Båggi explained. “Just a few drops, really. And it’s not my strongest brew.” He pointed to a locked compartment of his large basket. “I keep that tucked away for true emergencies.”
“S’good fingies.” Faucon sat up, swinging his legs around to dangle over the cot as he waggled his fingers in front of his face with a sense of wonder. “See, some halfelbings use their fingies for stealing, but zas wrong. S’agains the law. Not just little law, but with a big L. Law. I use m’nice fingies for paperwork. Crossin’ Is and dottin’ Ts and sometimes a nice lowercase j, y’know, on a Thursday. If only…if only…I had…my…” He doubled over, face in his hands, before wailing, “Remy!” at the top of his lungs.
Kirsi put a hand over her mouth and whispered to Båggi, “Can you fix this?”
“I can’t fix heartbreak. But I can whip up a quick sleeping brew.”
As Båggi eagerly returned to his basket and Agape watched him with ill-concealed suspicion, Kirsi turned her attention to Offi. With the halfling out of commission, or at least too drunk to be violent, Offi was again examining Piini Automaatti. He’d dragged over a larger cot and was focusing on the metal man’s back, running his fingers over one place in particular.
“What do you see?” Kirsi asked him, wishing he were his brother instead. For although the boys were twins, she’d only ever felt the squishy warmth of a smoosh on Onni.
Offi had his glasses pushed down on his nose, and she could see the black makeup under his eyes starting to smudge like a raccoon’s mask. “It says right here, ‘If you have questions, ask.’ But it doesn’t say whom to ask. Agape, do you know?”
The ovitaur clopped over and gave Piini a fond pat.
“My parents and their parents and their parents have roamed the entire globe for years looking for aaanswers, and we’ve never found aaany. No gearhaaand, nor anyone who’s heard of a gearhaaand. No model number, no creator’s staaamp. We’ve aaasked everyone we’ve met, but so far, no one knows.”
Offi hopped down from the cot and walked around to face Piini’s front. He looked up and settled his glasses.
“But have you asked Piini himself?”
Agape’s mouth fell open.
“No. When I was very small and full of questions, I seem to remember my faaather giving Piini a commaaand not to answer them anymore. So perhaps he simply…caaan’t.”
Offi grinned. “Well, as he’s just had a reset and reboot, all former commands should be rendered void.” He cleared his throat. “Piini Automaatti, what is your purpose?”
The metal man’s head craned down, his neck creaking abominably.
“I am Piini Automaatti, created by Elder Wåkka Woorlinghammen of Okesvaa. My purpose is to provide knowledge. A purpose I haven’t fulfilled in many seasons.”
Piini’s voice was tinny and faraway, but it reminded Kirsi of her grandfather’s. He also always sounded kind and aloof and slightly surprised to be addressed.
“What kind of knowledge?” Agape asked.
There was no response, so she tried again, also beginning with his name.
“I mean, Piini Automaatti, what kind of knowledge caaan you provide?”
Piini’s face swiveled toward her. “All available knowledge as collected by the Elders and stored in the Great Library in the City of Underthings beneath Okesvaa, wherein are kept all the great works, creative and judicial, of both gnomeric and halfling civilizations, including the original copies of the Elder Annals, the Tome of Togethering, and the Stern Reminder of the Looming Peril of Giants. The lending library also includes miscellaneous collected tracts on dwarves, humans, gryphons, and the world’s largest collection of pudding recipes.”
Offi turned to Kirsi, his eyes wide. “Do you know what this means?” he asked her.
“Really fantastic pudding might be in the offing?” Båggi interjected.
Kirsi ignored that and grabbed Offi’s hands and jumped up and down. “It means that the Great Library is real. And if we can go there, we can examine the Elder Annals and the Tome of Togethering and sort out the union of gnomes and halflings! We can find the original agreement and confirm that these drubs are breaking Elder Laws. And we can take it to King Gustave and he’ll fix things.”
Offi shook his head at her and laughed. “Yeah, okay, I was going to say it meant I had fixed Piini, but yours is probably better.”
This is good, Gerd said, rising up and prancing in excitement and whipping her tail into the face of the unconscious Faucon, which the gnomes politely ignored. Long have I wished to look upon the Elders and read the Elder Annals. Many questions have I involving the origins of taboos among my people at the Coxcomb. Perhaps this Great Library city will fix many wronges.
“So he wasn’t broken aaat all?” Agape asked, looking on Piini with a new sort of reverence. “All my life, he’s haaad that knowledge, and yet he was ordered not to speak.” Then, with more command, “Piini Automaatti, is that why I was supposed to protect you? So you could get home to the Great Library?”
Piini looked at Agape, and Kirsi watched the gem in his forehead glow warmly, which appeared to make his fixed mouth smile. “I am one of the few keys that can open the Great Library. And you are a guardian of that key.”
Tears welled up in Agape’s eyes. “It finally makes sense. It really did maaatter, keeping you safe. All that running, all thaaat fear. I wonder when it was that we forgot what you were? Was it my parents, or theirs, or my great-grandparents? I suppose it doesn’t maaatter. Piini Automaatti, what do you waaant to do now?”
Piini cocked his head. “I wish to serve you however I may. But repair would be welcome.”
“Piini Automaatti, can you take us to the Great Library so we may find a Certified Gnomeric Gearhand?” Kirsi asked.
The gold man nodded. “Yes.”
Let us go, then, Gerd said, if you do not have pressing plans, such as the need to bake crepes.
“I want to go,” said Offi.
“And your brother too,” Kirsi added, although she felt a little bad when he frowned.
“Oh, happily hopping hares!” Båggi gushed, joining their loose circle, his hands clasped. “A real quest! I’ve been searching for just such a thing, that I might purge myself of violence and return to dwarvelish society a tranquil citizen.”
“But I thought all dwarves were solitary loners or loose-knit groups of brawlers?” Agape asked. “All the ones we met on our traaavels were.”
Båggi frowned and shook his head in protest. “Gosh, no! Those are the lost, the ones who left on their Meadschpringå and were unable to purge their violence. We proper dwarves of society wish only a life of serenity, healing, cheerful work, and pleasant artistry. And a great many beehives. But I can’t return to the High Mountain Home until I cleanse myself of violence, and this quest will surely provide the opportunity.”
“Violence?” Kirsi asked, taken aback. “Why would there be violence? We’re just a motley group of beings making a long journey to a hidden and legendary place in the company of a mysterious golden machine that several people are already hunting. Surely we won’t encounter violence?”
“There’s alwaysh violence.”
They all looked over to Faucon, who had been awakened by a face full of gryphon butt and was snuggled up on his tummy with his bum in the air. “S’just how things are done,” he continued, drooling onto his hairy hands. “Juss gotta keep going. Whassa few sword fights between friends?”
When the halfling began snoring, Kirsi shook her head and turned back to Piini.
“That’s it, then,” she said. “It’s time to leave the refugee center and complete a noble quest and save our people.” She looked at each fr
iend in turn. “All our people. In fact, Offi, why don’t you go get your brother?”
All they needed was the braver, stronger Numminen twin, and they’d be ready to go. And that bit about violence? Surely not. Much like her trip here, it would be a piece of cake.
“There ain’t no tellin’ when a dwarf is actually gonna use their Telling Cudgel. Even if it grows all kinder spikes ’n’ speaks to ya in the voice of yer own pawpaw, the dwarf might decide not to swing it at ya in the end. But I can tell ya that ya never wanner be on the receiving end of a swing, because that will be the end of the good day you was havin’, and maybe your life besides. Are we done thinkin’ aloud yet? Ya promised to buy me a beer.”
—BERTIE MCSPINECRACKER, quoted in Horton Fuddy’s Condensed Book of Collected Troll Wisdom, New Revised Expanded Edition
Deciding to take action and actually taking action, Båggi observed, were apparently two very different things.
“What now?” Agape asked, half bored and half antagonistic, almost like it was a dare that would get someone killed. For all that she was the tallest in the group, she seemed out of place and more confused than anyone else. Having met her parents recently, Båggi had some ideas why she might feel that way.
“We get ready,” Kirsi said, taking control again. “We’ll need to round up supplies—food, yarn, healing potions, that sort of thing. Do we have any money? We should definitely check that.”
I can hunt for fresh meat, Gerd volunteered. But we will need ingredients for sauces.
“Thank you, Gerd.” Kirsi took a cleansing breath and pointed at Offi. “You were going to go get your brother, right?”
“Uh, sure,” he said. “I guess I’ll go get him.” The gnome boy hurried out the door and down the hall, looking, Båggi noticed, deeply embarrassed.
“And anyone else who has people to say goodbye to should say goodbye.” Kirsi looked at each of them, but no one made a move to go. Båggi shuffled his feet, for dwarves, like gnomes, were social creatures. “Huh. Guess that’s just Offi, then. The rest of us are alone, aren’t we?”
And we must be gentle with Faucon. Gerd took a few steps toward the halfling’s bed. Although I think I hear something peculiar and unwelcome marching down the hall…
Sure enough, the clank of chain mail and the stomp of boots rose to a clamor, followed by the heavy thud of doors kicked open up and down the hall and the terrified cries of gnomeric surprise. The door to their room was open and thus unavailable for kicking, but soon a human in full armor stood there, sword in hand, wearing a twisted grimace that even the kindest and most pacifistic dwarf would read as cruel.
“We’re here for taxes,” the man growled.
“This is a refugee center,” Kirsi said, bravely planting herself in front of the much larger human. “We aren’t citizens, so we can’t be taxed.”
“Tell that to Lord Ergot’s dungeon. Sass-talking the constabulary is a crime. Go on, boys. Find what you can.”
Two more men lunged into the room, their faces glowing with malicious intent. One went over to Faucon and attempted to slip a hand into the halfling’s waistcoat.
The shriek that followed assailed not only Båggi’s ears but also the inside of his head and most of his chest cavity.
You will unhand the halfling! Gerd screamed as her beak screeched wordlessly.
Båggi’s Telling Cudgel was somehow already in his hand and raised as if to strike. He watched, frozen in place, as the human guards hunched over the sleeping Faucon, one struggling to pull a velvet box from the halfling’s waistcoat pocket and the other one drawing a poorly kept sword from its sheath at his waist. Such was the dwarvelish mind for smithing that Båggi paid more attention to the make and care of the human’s sword than he did for the being wielding it. The man had no such attention to detail, clearly, and began waving his sword at Gerd, stabbing ineffectively to parry the strikes of the gryphon’s sharp beak, which nipped red little Vs all over his arms.
Agape threw a wooden chair at the first human, who had thought he could just say “taxes” and they’d meekly let his men rob them, while Kirsi plucked out a hair and began muttering as she knotted it between her fingers, muttering something about the Noxious Ingrown Nails of Nurse Ninnian. But Båggi just stood there, cudgel half raised, unsure how to proceed. For all that he’d been instructed to purge the violence in his heart, and for all that he felt it rising like sap in a tree on a fine autumn day and recognized that the moment was quite ripe for violence, he had no idea how to fight. Dwarves, as a rule, didn’t practice any acts of aggression while among society; even yoga was considered too combative. He’d never raised his hand to swat at a mosquito, preferring instead to dodge them and ruefully scratching the bites he earned as a result. His entire life, up until now, had involved peace and kindness and hugs.
Now he wanted to hug these thieves in the teeth with his knuckles.
But he couldn’t.
He was frozen.
As Båggi watched, Agape picked up another chair and managed to bash the tax man’s head with it, spinning him to the ground, unconscious. It was bedlam. Gerd disarmed the swordsman and knocked him over before standing on his chest, her talons sunk into his shirt as he gibbered. By Faucon’s bed, the would-be thief dropped the ring box and fell to his back, screaming and clawing at his boots in horror. Båggi focused and saw that when the man got the boots—as well as a pair of socks that smelled like a peat bog—off, all his nail beds were viciously ingrown and red. They appeared to be throbbing painfully, which suggested that Kirsi’s curse had worked. Trotting past Båggi, Agape, obviously much stronger than she looked, lifted Faucon from the bed and carried him like a sleeping baby. All three humans were out of commission, unconscious or dearly wishing they were.
“Let’s go,” Kirsi said, disgusted. “Before someone else wants their taxes.”
Dusting her hands off, she proudly strode out the door. Agape followed her, carrying Faucon, and Gerd stuck her beak in the air and followed her past Båggi. The whole time, he’d just stood in one place like a butter sculpture, feeling silly and helpless and entirely out of touch with both sides of his dwarvelish person.
His violence was in there, but it wouldn’t quite surface.
His usual calm was surprised and offended by the violence.
It was like being torn in half, but nonviolently.
Båggi felt something new rise up: shame.
He’d just made new friends, and he’d already failed them.
In that moment, he was no better than butter, and it made him bitter indeed.
“Cardigans conceal all manner of secrets. Some of them, like belly buttons, are horrors that should properly be hidden from public view. But sometimes they hide unexpected beauty as well, honor and charity and genius too. Do not be fooled by a mere cardigan: It never tells you the full story of the gnome wearing it.”
—GNOMER THE GNOMERIAN, in the First Gnomeric Cycle,
Offi felt a Sulk start up in his shoulders, which hunched around his ears as soon as he was out of sight of Kirsi and the others. Of course Kirsi would want Onni along. What was an Offi when you could have an Onni instead? Although Offi felt quite comfortable with his own contributions and never begrudged his brother the popularity that seemed to follow him—and not just in the polite, ungrudging gnomeric way but in the actual, feel-it-in-your-heart way—it would’ve been nice if Kirsi had seen him as more than an errand boy, a stepping-stone for the Numminen brother with real leadership skills and an extremely tidy cardigan with smiling sunshines on it.
By now the original, human-sized door to the Numminens’ room included a gnome-sized door painted in a pineapple motif with a gnome-sized welcome mat and a small sign reminding everyone, WELL-WIPED FEET KEEP THE REFUGEE ROOM NEAT!
Offi dutifully wiped his feet off, feeling his Sulk slide into a sort of Rage, which wasn’t a very gnomeric t
hing at all. His shoulders unhunched, his hands went to fists, and his chin stuck out pugnaciously. He wasn’t going to go the way of his father, Old Seppo, and give up. The fight was out of the older gnome, but this younger gnome had plenty of fight left inside. Offi wanted to go on the quest and see the Great Library in the City of Underthings. He wanted more chances to inspect the golden automaton, maybe clean and oil Piini and see what other wonders he held. He was fiercely proud of unlocking the robot man’s potential, even if he hadn’t received any recognition for it. Onni couldn’t have done that. Onni was terrible with machinery. Only Offi could do what Offi had done.
And for once, Offi wanted to take the lead.
Through the tightly fitted wooden door, he could hear the sounds of a happy gnomeric citizenry: saws sawing, hand-crank drills spinning, cardigans being washed, pudding bubbling over the fire, polite conversation about dandelions.
“Excellent,” Onni’s voice rang out, a warm tenor that made one’s bones feel extra cozy and safe, as if a bathroom sink had just been scrubbed to shining. “Everything is looking great. And that pudding smells delicious.”
Offi stopped in place and considered his choices.
He could return to the room assigned to his family and their gnomegrüp, explain his new quest, and listen to his father’s wails about how Offi should stay home and quietly sink into a well-ordered depression like everyone else with good sense.
Or Offi could draw his twin away to explain the situation, and of course his brother would understand what had to be done, and they would join Kirsi for an adventure—where Onni, naturally, would be the leader and the star and Offi would go back to being the quiet, black-clad brother in the glasses who could sew a mean button or rig up an effective catapult for pummeling raccoons with acorns. In that scenario, his parents would be left to fend for themselves here, at the refugee center, surrounded by the terrifying humans and their horrendously beardless chins. And Offi would worry about them, knowing that Seppo was sapped. Young gnomes, after all, often stayed with their parents for years before starting a hatch of their own. It was very gnomeric, caring for one’s old gnomes.