by Kevin Hearne
Agape had only her knife, but she did manage to lop off one of the newt’s hands. Even as she bleated her success, a new hand grew in its place, almost like a balloon blowing up. The newt possessed remarkable regeneration abilities, and it kept snapping at Kirsi and Agape in turn. Båggi watched the scene, mesmerized. And, if he was honest, not doing a dang thing, until the situation rapidly deteriorated.
“Båggi! Help!” Kirsi cried, as the newt’s new hand plucked her from the ground and pulled her in a trajectory that would end with a floppy maw and probably all sorts of unpleasant digestive waterslides. Agape was on the ground, stunned, and Onni was messing with some sort of golden box that looked more like something that would play a pleasant waltz and less like an offensive weapon to wield against large swamp newts. Gerd’s slashes continued to give the newt few worries, and Faucon was still dueling the halfling guard.
Hefting his club, Båggi found that it had grown several angry-looking spikes.
“Yes. Spikes. Ha ha! I should swing this, eh?” he said, for he felt more fear and confusion than anger. Striking a government employee went against everything that he’d been taught, but he set down his cask and picnic basket anyway. As he did so, he realized that the lizard shape on his cudgel might be a representation of the newt.
“Yes!” Kirsi screamed, her tiny hands the only thing keeping her from a slide into the deep-red throat. “Swing it. Anything!”
In that moment, Båggi realized something important: All this time, he’d been waiting for the violence to arise from inside as if waiting for the muse to strike. He’d stood outside of fights because said muse had not provided any input, as if one couldn’t fight if one didn’t have an inner well of violence at the ready. But just now he realized that he could swing his cudgel no matter what he felt, if it would save his friend.
The violence didn’t control him; he controlled it.
“Here we go!” he shouted, wrapping the leather strap of the cudgel around his hand. “Oh, yes. The good old one-two. One for each toe. Ha ha!” But this time it wasn’t a sad laugh of a ha ha, it was a victorious sort of ha ha! And he liked that so much better.
He took a running leap with the cudgel high over his head and slammed it down on the newt’s huge foot, flattening both the toes on its left side. In response, Glute the newt blasted a toot of pain and rage and dropped Kirsi. She landed on Onni as he was fitting some kind of huge gauntlet onto his tiny fist, and howling ensued as they tumbled to the ground and got their beards embarrassingly entangled.
The newt wobbled and struggled to stay upright, obviously waiting for its toes to grow back. Båggi didn’t wait.
“So that was the one, and here’s the two,” he told it, swinging his cudgel into its left knee. The newt honked in dismay as it toppled over onto its halfling keeper, who had her halberd up in the air, ready to strike at Faucon. Said newt crushed her and impaled itself, and Båggi hoped it would be able to heal, for he did not wish it ill; he just wanted his friends to pass by safely. It tooted mournfully and wriggled a tiny bit, so he knew it had a chance. Other halflings in their mustard-stained uniforms, who had been betting on the fight and laughing at Kirsi’s distress, now drew their swords and took a more particular interest. Gerd screeched at them and they kept their distance as Båggi scrambled to retrieve his cask and basket.
“Come on!” Kirsi yelled, extricating herself from Onni and holding open the door. Båggi joined the others in scrambling over the newt and running inside.
Once they’d reached the foyer, a very surprised souvenir salesman gasped and dropped an Official Toot Towers Snow Globe with Real Tooting Action, and Onni locked the door behind Gerd just as halfling fists began to pound on the other side. Kirsi plucked a bristle from her beard and swallowed it, cursing the salesman to fall instantly asleep on the job—it had been wise of her, Båggi thought, to save her wand’s limited use for bigger fish that required frying.
“There’s the lift.” Onni pointed with his ungauntleted hand across the foyer to a gnomeric set of metallic double doors, all beautiful if a bit tarnished. Before they could push a button, the doors chimed and opened. Much to Båggi’s surprise—for he would’ve bet a crock of Brother Wager’s Stranger Danger Stray Animal De-Manger that an automaatti would be there to press the buttons and spout rhymes—a grizzled possum with its tail wrapped around a wand bolted from the lift, looking like it could use said crock of De-Manger.
“Ahh!” Kirsi shrieked, for the possum was nearly her size and looked a bit bedraggled and possibly rabid at that.
“Ahh yourself,” the possum said in almost the voice of a cultured older woman. “You’re not here to stop me, I hope?”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Båggi replied, for he wasn’t nearly as frightened of smöl forest creatures as his gnome friend seemed to be. “I do fear we’ve left a bit of a mess, not to mention a somnambulent souvenir salesman and some hungry halflings, in our wake. You didn’t happen to see three men from Bruding going up, did you?”
“What men?”
“They entered shortly before us and I do not see them here, so they must have already gone up.”
“They weren’t on the lift,” the possum said, swinging her head to look around and cursing when she saw a door off to one side marked STAIRS. “They must have gone up that way. We’re out of time.”
“Time for what?” Faucon asked.
The possum squinted at him. “You’re not a drub, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Faucon said, lifting his chin and straightening his waistcoat.
“What a peculiar bunch,” the opossum opined, which Båggi thought remarkable coming from her. “Two gnomes, a halfling, an ovitaur, a gryphon, and a dwarf. And there’s a whiff of magic about you.” She focused on Kirsi. “It’s you. I take it you’re a bristle witch?”
Kirsi returned the possum’s cool gaze, her composure returned. “I was. But then an evil witch tried to eat my friend’s heart and killed a kobold bard instead, so I ate her heart and took her wand. Why—are you perhaps looking for trouble?”
At that, the possum cackled, a dainty paw to her chest. “Heavens, no! Why, I think you might be just what I need. I know I don’t look like much just now, but I’m the royal adviser of King Gustave the Greatest, known as Grinda the Sand Witch, and I am currently fleeing treason by the halfling varlets who’ve taken the king hostage in the Toot Suite.”
“Wait. You’re with the king? But that’s exactly why we’re here!” Kirsi stepped forward, withdrawing Hellä Traktiv’s sealed letter from her pack and holding it toward the possum. “We come from the Great Library in the City of Underthings with a copy of the Elder Annals and the Tome of Togethering, the founding documents of the Skyr, which our government has strayed from in the most egregious ways. Halflings are firebombing gnomehomes throughout the Skyr, and we are here to speak to the kanssa-jaarli to ask them to end the violence. But we also need the king’s help to restore order.”
Grinda did not take the letter, but her mouth did twitch in amusement. “The king and I came here for much the same reason. The bad news is that the kanssa-jaarli is corrupt, merely a puppet government allowing Marquant Dique and Lord Ergot to exploit the gnomes. They have the king in their possession right now.”
Faucon’s face did some Rage Gymnastics. “Marquant Dique is here?”
The possum nodded. “The good news is that if we can save the king and get rid of Ergot and Marquant Dique, I assure you that a new kanssa-jaarli will be put in place and that the gnome situation will vastly improve. The king is very sympathetic to your cause. But first we have to face what’s waiting in the Toot Suite and save the king before he does something unfortunate that involves bleating.”
Agape, finally able to focus, gave her a sharp look. “Did you say bleating? Was thaaat a knock against ovitaurs?”
Grinda coughed into a dainty pink paw. “No, I said beating,
of course. Now, are you willing to fight for both your earldom and kingdom?”
Båggi readily affirmed his willingness, and his friends chorused agreement.
“Good. I don’t think the gryphon will fit in the lift, and if they’re waiting for us, it’s not a good idea to trap ourselves in a box like that, so we should take the stairs. And be ready for a fight.”
The gnomes climbed on Gerd’s back and Båggi led the way up the stairs, with Grinda behind him and Faucon’s metal toes and Agape’s hooves clacking on the steps.
Once on the landing that led to the bridge entrance, Båggi peered through the porthole into the foyer and put up a warning hand to his friends behind him. “There’s a throng of halflings entering the lift,” he whispered. “Drubs.”
“Off to look for me, no doubt,” Grinda muttered. “I have my wand, but most of my magic is based on illusion or moving dirt around. Let me cast a seeming upon you all. To everyone but our party, you will appear as motes of dust, until you break the seeming. Remain quiet and do nothing to call attention to yourselves, and we should be able to sneak into the Toot Suite and save King Gustave.”
Kirsi withdrew her wand and polished it on her cardigan. “I’m ready.”
Agape drew her knife and gave a soft bleat of readiness. “Saaame.”
Gerd ruffled her feathers. And I.
Faucon had his sword out. “Bring it on.”
Onni lifted his gauntleted hand, which Båggi examined a bit more closely—he decided it looked a little like a glove made out of murder. “I’ve been perfecting my Iron Gnome glove,” he said. “So let’s go.”
Båggi shrugged and adjusted the straps of his picnic basket, hefted his cask, and hooked his cudgel onto his belt, nodding silently at the possum. She reminded them once more to be quiet, murmured something unintelligible, and used her tail to direct the wand over the party. Båggi felt a cold tingle settle over his skin, after which the possum pointed at the door handle. Båggi took the hint and opened it, stepping out carefully into the carpeted foyer, holding the door open for the others to pass through. There was another group of halflings there, waiting for the next lift down, but they didn’t look over at the stair door. Once Gerd had passed with the gnomes on her back, Båggi gently guided the door closed so that it wouldn’t make any noise. They strode past the throng of drubs unseen and entered the covered bridge leading to the Toot Suite.
Two gnomeric guards lay prone outside the doors, whether dead or unconscious Båggi could not tell. But they were able to enter the Toot Suite unobserved and reassemble in the circular room.
What Båggi saw there was chilling. The king—if the gold-crowned, terror-stricken fellow with dark-brown skin was indeed the king—was on his knees, being held at knifepoint by a halfling wearing the most hideous viridian outfit Båggi had ever seen, all while a gnome and a halfling sat in their respective thrones, watching the scene as if it were a play. The gnome seemed uncertain if it was a good play or not; the halfling was enthralled, both with the scene and with the stoup of wine he was sucking on. Beside Båggi, Faucon was shivering with rage, biting his lip to keep from making a noise that might expose them all.
Behind the halfling and facing the king but with their backs to the party, the three humans from Bruding who’d preceded them into the tower loomed over the others. There were even more drubs milling about the southern end, either waiting for orders or waiting to attack one of the buffets near either throne. Some of them looked hungry enough to eat the potted plants lining the windows overlooking the river.
Grinda silently shooed their party to the left to clear the doorway, putting them behind the rude humans in their livery. Båggi inched forward to get a better look at them. They were a grim and pale lot with identical dark mustaches that must’ve been in fashion in Bruding, although one was slightly fancier than the others. The green-clad halfling lightly bowed to this wastrel.
“Now that Lord Ergot’s here,” he said, casually gesturing to the human in the middle, who had a crooked nose and a curled lip, “we’d like to make you an offer, King Gustave. Abolish the office of kanssa-jaarli and name a single earl to rule the Skyr, like all the other earldoms.”
“That sounded kind of like a command instead of an offer,” Gustave pointed out.
“That’s in exchange for letting you live awhile longer,” Lord Ergot said.
“Great. So I can name a gnome, right? One who doesn’t dress in ugly colors?”
“Nooo,” the halfling growled. “You will name who we say.”
“I don’t know, guys,” the king said, his voice far more casual than Båggi thought he looked. “Sounds like I wouldn’t be much of a king if I always did whatever randos told me to do.”
“You already aren’t much of a king,” Lord Ergot said.
“Well, I think my chamberlain would disagree with you there. She’s a pretty good sand witch, you know. And you haven’t caught her yet. I think that’s going to be a problem for you, Marquant.”
Båggi had suspected the avocado-draped halfling was the leader of the Dastardly Rogues, but it was good to have it confirmed. For all the whispering about him, the Big Dique was just as small and unimpressive as Båggi would’ve assumed. After giving the collected drubs a moment to laugh at the king’s speech, Marquant looked up and scanned the room as if he required proof that Grinda was not in fact already caught. He chucked his chin at the drubs clustered in the southern part of the suite.
“You lot. Go find out what’s happening with the search. Help if needed, but one of you report back on the status as soon as possible.”
Most of the drubs stampeded out to the bridge, leaving only six in the Toot Suite, along with the kanssa-jaarli, Marquant Dique, Lord Ergot, and his two men.
“That’s pretty good odds,” Båggi said without really thinking, and the cool tingle on his skin abruptly left him.
“What the deuce?” Marquant Dique shouted and spun around, pointing at Båggi with his dagger when he saw the stranger who no longer resembled a harmless mote of dust. “Who let that dwarf in here?” He waved at his six drubs. “Kill it!”
“Okay, that’s just rude,” Kirsi said, breaking her own mote spell.
With a sigh of great forbearance, she waved her wand. The potted plants standing long unwatered around the sunny windows rattled and shook, and then fern fronds burst out like vines, snaking to hold the aggressive parties in place. They reached Lord Ergot and Marquant Dique first. Ankles clapped together, arms were bound to sides, and every drub and human, to a man, tumbled over where he’d been standing, wrapped in vines of living green that seemed to hold a bit of a grudge over lack of fertilizer and repotting. A small bird automaatti similar to Gerd’s chirped in alarm and fluttered about, but it resettled on the shoulder of Marquant Dique when he stopped moving. The kanssa-jaarli were left unmolested by plant life, their eyes wide and their mouths silent. Kirsi first stared at them, then cupped a hand behind her ear to invite them to say something, but they continued to sit there stupidly. Lord Ergot, however, laughed.
“Looks like the sand witch wasn’t the only one we needed to worry about.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Marquant Dique said, struggling against his vines. “They have us now, whoever they are.”
“Relax, Marquant. It’s not over yet.”
Tired of listening to them, Kirsi directed the plants to shut them up, sending exploratory fronds into their mouths.
Satisfied with her work, Kirsi strode toward the king as he got to his feet, holding out her letter. “King Gustave, I bring word from the kaupunginjohtaja of the City of Underthings.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like you’re allergic to it,” the king allowed.
But Kirsi didn’t even pause. “My king, we have determined that the government outlined in the Tome of Togethering has failed, and therefore the procedures outlin
ed in the Elder Annals must be followed to restore order. We have brought certified copies of both documents.” She threw a look of contempt at Marquant Dique and pointed at him. “That halfling has ordered the arson of gnomehomes throughout the Skyr and is responsible for many gnomeric deaths. Justice must be done, and we hope you are willing and able to set things right.”
Lord Ergot and Marquant Dique made plant-silenced gruntings of disagreement that everyone ignored. King Gustave looked back and forth before clearing his throat and taking the letter from Kirsi’s hand.
“Yes. Thank you. We knew quite a bit of that except for the huge word at the beginning and the thing about a City of Underpants. I didn’t know we had one of those. I’m certainly willing to set things right. The question is if we’re able. Grinda, can we do that?”
The possum sashayed forward, tapping her wand against her tiny palm. “We can. That is, after all, what kings are for. But as this earldom has long been ruled by the kanssa-jaarli, requiring minimal oversight from the king, I’d like to hear their thoughts when unencumbered by the threats of Marquant Dique.” She turned to the halfling and the gnome expectantly.
Gustave likewise turned to the seated figures. “Yeah. Good call. Ruler to ruler, or co-rulers, or whatever you guys are—what’s up?”
“Uh, well, that is to say,” the halfling jaarl said, clutching his stoup of wine and throwing glances of desperation at Marquant Dique. “The thing you have to understand is that, um, things are very…well…the Skyr…you see…quite delicate?”
“Enough.” Grinda snapped her fingers at him, and he shut up. “You’re clearly an idiot and a puppet of the drubs. But what about you, Porkkala?”
Everyone turned to the gnome jaarl. Kirsi’s hands were clasped against her chest in desperate hope, and even Onni managed to look like there might be something worth saving here, if only the gnome could speak his mind. Surely the jaarl cared for his people’s needs and had only been kept from wise ruling by threats from these despicable traitors?