Kendermore

by Mary Kirchoff

  Individually steering the gully dwarves back to their assigned spots, Tas started singing.

  Come all you young fellows who live by the sea,

  Kiss a fair maiden and then follow me.

  Hoist up the sail and the anchor aweigh,

  And run with the wind out through Balifor Bay.

  Soon, all the gully dwarves were snorting and stomping along with Tas’s song, singing, “Hoy tup the bale in the ankle a day,” and tossing each other in the air.

  Already straining to control the sweep, Woodrow was again concerned that the gully dwarves would start tossing each other over the rail. At the speed they were traveling, they’d never be able to stop and recover them this time. He was about to warn Tas of the danger when a flash of lightning struck the sea several hundred yards from the ship. Moments later, a tremendous gust of wind slammed into the little ship, heeling it over on its port side and sending the prancing gully dwarves scurrying for handholds. As the Loaner righted itself, a second gust hit it and with a loud tearing sound, a three-foot rip appeared in the sail.

  Tas grabbed the nearest Aghar by the shoulder and hollered, “We’ve got to get it down! The sail! We’ve got to lower it!”

  The gully dwarf dashed toward the cabin, too frightened by the storm’s sudden fury to be of any help. Scanning the deck, Tas saw that his entire crew was stampeding toward the cabin or crawling beneath the wagon. The horses reared and snorted and strained against their tethers, and the wagon swayed menacingly.

  Woodrow crouched on one knee with the sweep tucked under his left arm and both arms wrapped around the railing. Helplessly, he watched Tas stumble across the deck.

  A third gust of wind sent waves crashing across the deck, washing several gully dwarves out from beneath the wagon and up against the opposite rail. They were crawling back to the wagon when a fourth gust filled the sail, stretching it like a balloon. The rip widened in a burst, and then another rip appeared, and then the entire sail split in half, tearing lengthwise and pulling free from the yard. The loose end billowed out over the sea until it reached the end of its sheet, then snapped, twisted in air, tore free from the rope, and dropped into the churning waves.

  The remaining, shredded half of the sail slapped into the side of the wagon. The wagon’s door flew open and Gisella appeared, wide-eyed. The wagon bounced and skidded across the deck, then slammed back into the mast. Gisella tried to climb down the stairs but the rocking threw her back into the wagon. Another wave crashed into the side of the wagon, and two of the three ropes securing the wagon to the deck burst under the strain.

  “Miss Hornslager!” screamed Woodrow. He watched in horror as the wagon bearing Gisella slid across the tilting deck, straining at the remaining rope. But the rope held. Then, with a sound that almost stopped Woodrow’s heart, a jagged, white crack appeared in the mast. The front end of the wagon smashed through the ship’s rail, and the wheels dropped over the side. The ship rolled beneath the shifting weight until water washed over the deck. A second later, the entire wagon disappeared over the side of the ship, slipping beneath the waves, followed by the upper half of the mast.

  The ship did not right itself, but bobbed and rocked with its deck awash. The horses screamed and pawed at the slippery deck. Seeing that the ship was lost, Woodrow leaped off the steering deck and scrambled to the stump of the mast. With his knife he sliced through the horses’ tethers so they would not be dragged down by the sinking ship.

  As the water rose in the cabin, Fondu and the other gully dwarves who had taken shelter there stumbled up on deck. A massive wave thundered down on the upturned hull and the deck rotated even more. Tas heard tumbling and crashing inside the ship as its ballast shifted.

  “It’s hopeless!” he shouted to the gully dwarves. “The ship is sinking! Jump off! Swim for it!”

  Woodrow and the horses were already in the water when Tas dove after them. The few gully dwarves remaining on board were thrown in as well when the ship rolled belly-up. Moments later, it slipped beneath the churning surface, leaving only loose planking, knotted ropes, and a twisted, tattered sail behind.

  Kender, human, and gully dwarves clung to the floating debris in the chilly water. The rain and wind continued for a short time, then suddenly died away. Before long, a dim sun poked through the gray clouds.

  They bobbed on the debris in silence for several minutes. Neither Tas nor Woodrow wanted to speak, each thinking of Gisella. Fondu finally broke the silence.

  “Where pretty-hair lady?” he asked. He looked first at Tas, then at Woodrow. “Fondu no see her.”

  Woodrow blinked furiously and would not meet Tas’s gaze. “She’s gone, Fondu,” Tas said hesitantly. “She was in her wagon when it went over the side.”

  “When she coming back?” Fondu asked.

  “I’m afraid she isn’t,” explained the kender.

  Fondu stared at Tas uncomprehendingly for a second, then opened his mouth wider than any mouth Tas had ever seen and started bawling at the top of his lungs. “Laaaadyyy!” he screamed, with his nose running almost as much as his tears.

  “Fondu, quiet!” Tas ordered. Between Fondu’s wails, Tas was sure he had heard a voice. It sounded like someone yelling …

  “Yoo hoo.”

  Tas looked over his shoulder. There, a couple hundred yards away, apparently sitting on top of the water, was Gisella, waving a soggy kerchief in his direction. A ragged cheer rose from the bobbing mob and in short order they were paddling toward her.

  As they drew closer, Tas became convinced that Gisella was sitting on top of the water. The mystery was cleared up when she announced, “Guess what? My wagon floats!”

  Fondu was so happy he broke into a garbled chorus of “Come maul yo-yo fellows, Shirley by the sea,” that was soon picked up by the rest of the group. Boks spat a mouthful of sea water at Thuddo and before long the entire group was singing, laughing, spitting, and splashing.

  Tasslehoff was almost disappointed when Gisella, standing shakily on the roof of her submerged wagon, hollered “Land, I see land ahead!”

  “At last, a good omen,” said Woodrow.

  “That’s no omen, boy, that’s land,” Gisella corrected. “That’s dry clothes and something to eat and a place to sleep.” And with those words of encouragement, they started paddling to shore.

  Chapter 10

  Phineas had little time in which to reach his shop and collect his things. He decided to risk a ride in a kenderkart, particularly since he had no idea where his shop was. Barefoot, Phineas hobbled to the first busy intersection and hailed one of the kender-pulled, two-wheeled conveyances.

  Trotting between the two long handles that were attached to the cart’s seat, the driver came to an abrupt stop. Phineas gave the kender his address. After jogging for some time, up stairs and down, and through a school yard full of kender children, the driver was forced to admit that he wasn’t exactly sure where he was going.

  “But a friend of mine has a map of Kendermore that will tell us everything we need to know,” the driver assured him.

  The kenderkarter met his friend, a vendor of roasted chestnuts, and after much conferring, several more flights of stairs, and a trip through the close-set stalls of a farmer’s market with chickens flying in their wake, Phineas began to recognize the shops of his own neighborhood.

  “There!” Unclenching his white fingers from the edge of the cart, the human pointed to the right. “There’s my shop!” He looked longingly at the familiar storefront, which he had begun to wonder if he would ever see again.

  The kenderkarter abruptly dug in his heels, sending the distracted human flying once more. His mouth twisted. “I wish you wouldn’t do that!” The human jumped down from the cart and headed for his shop.

  “Wait a second! Where’s my thirty copper?” the kender asked, setting the handles of the cart down in outrage. “Thief! Help! Thief!”

  Dozens of kender on the street looked up guiltily from whatever it was they were doing and put
their hands back in their own pockets.

  “Somebody get ’im!” the kender continued. “He’s nothing but a shoeless, ore-faced, cheating, goat-sucker bird, and he owes me forty copper!”

  Phineas, who was most offended by the orc comment, turned around and snarled, “I live and work in this neighborhood, if you don’t mind! I’m getting your twenty copper right now.”

  The obnoxious kender stood at his elbow while Phineas searched his pockets for the key. It was gone, which came as no great surprise to Phineas. He knew it was useless to expect to find any money left in the cash drawer, but he had a secret place behind a wall board in the waiting room.

  Locating the loose board, Phineas gave it an upward tug. The board slipped lose and a tin box fell out.

  “Hey, that’s really neat! I never would have thought to look there!” the kender said, again at his elbow.

  Phineas opened the box without comment. It was empty. “Well, somebody obviously thought of it,” he said. That was all the money he had on hand. He cast his glance about the room, trying to spot anything that was left that might interest a kender.

  Then an idea struck him. He intended to be rich soon, didn’t he? “I don’t have any money. Take anything that you like.” He waved his hand at the room, then stepped into the dark examining room. “Shut the door behind you when you leave.”

  “Gee, thanks!” the kender exclaimed, his eyes wide. “Wow, look at these—”

  But Phineas wasn’t listening. He had very little time to get ready. He moved to a cupboard at the back of the room and found his spare pair of boots. They weren’t nearly as comfortable as the ones he’d lost, he thought ruefully, slipping them on in the dark. Next, he took a satchel from a hook, making note of what clothing he’d need to gather from his rooms upstairs. Next, he pulled his half of the Kendermore map from his shirt and placed it in the satchel, then went upstairs to change his shirt, add a vest, and gather some other things.

  Coming back down with his provisions and a haunch of dried meat, he decided not to light a candle while he waited for Trapspringer, so as not to attract customers. Sitting in the darkness, he started to snooze, weary to his bones.

  A painful moan from the dark depths of the room brought him to his feet. “Trapspringer?” Shaky hands popped open the shutter partially, and a dim shaft of light struck the floor. Heart thumping, he peered in the direction of the moan.

  Slumped in the examining chair, overlooked in the darkness, was the body of a large, muscular man with short, bristly hair, small eyes, and a flat, wide nose. Blood trickled down his right side from under a wad of red-stained white cloth.

  “Who are you? What happened to you?” Phineas gasped, rushing to the man’s side. “You should get some help right away!”

  “That’s what I’m doing. You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” the man managed through clenched teeth.

  “Me? Sure. I mean, yes,” he stumbled, caught completely off guard. Phineas tended to the aches and pains of friendly, city-dwelling kender. He saw lots of bruises, but precious little blood. This was a rather nasty-looking human, who was losing more blood each second than Phineas had seen in months.

  Gingerly he lifted the bloody cloth from the man’s side. The patient convulsed as the wet cloth caught on the raw edges of his wound. Phineas winced. “Sorry.” Opening the shutter wider, he examined the cut, which was wide, deep, and about five inches long. Though he had never seen one, Phineas was certain he was looking at a sword wound.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m called Denzil.”

  “Just Denzil?”

  The man looked at him evenly. “Just Denzil.”

  “Well, what happened to you, Denzil?” he repeated.

  “Nothing. Just a little household accident.” His voice was getting weaker.

  “You cut your meat with a sword?” Phineas scoffed.

  “Who said anything about a sword?” the man named Denzil said harshly. He propped himself up slightly, somehow managing to look menacing despite his weakened condition. “Listen, just fix me up and keep your mouth shut about it.”

  Phineas looked at him helplessly. “I can’t dress a sword wound. I’m not that good—I mean, kind—of doctor. You’ll just have to find a surgeon.” He pressed the dirty rag against the wound again, forcing another convulsion from the man. “Sorry.”

  “There is no one else. I wouldn’t trust a kender doctor any farther than I could choke him.” Phineas saw the man’s fingers flex on the handrests. “Besides, I’m not in any shape to move.”

  “You can make it,” Phineas said, sounding more desperate than encouraging. “Just hold this to your side and I’m sure—”

  “I have enough strength left to choke an uncooperative doctor,” the man said threateningly. Something in his small eyes told Phineas that this Denzil would happily spend his last ounces of strength making good on the threat.

  Phineas poured three-day-old water into a wooden bowl and ripped some cleaning rags. “I’ll do my best, but this really isn’t a convenient time for me. My fee will be very high.”

  “I can pay it,” the man said coldly.

  “Would you mind very much paying in advance?” Phineas asked somewhat timidly, still not at all sure he could help the man. As he figured it though, if he was, well, unsuccessful, Denzil would not be around to choke him, and if Phineas was successful, everyone would be happy. Still, he was a businessman.

  The man scowled at him. But with great effort, he raised a hand into his jacket and pulled out a pouch. Emptying approximately half the bag—at least twenty steel pieces, a veritable fortune—he sank back. “Now, get to work.”

  Phineas forced his mind away from the money and onto the man’s wound. Seeing Denzil’s pale, sweaty face, he snatched the half-bottle of wine he’d placed in his satchel, uncorked it, and offered it to the man. Expecting him to take a swig, Phineas watched as Denzil threw his head back and downed the contents in a couple of noisy, splashy gulps.

  Phineas searched his mind frantically for ways in which he could close the wound, or at least stop the bleeding. His first thought was hot wax, but he discounted that. It might cauterize the wound and stop the flow of blood temporarily, but wax would fall away the first time the man moved after it cooled.

  Perhaps he could wrap it tightly. But how? With the wound on his side like that, Phineas would practically have to crush Denzil’s ribs to apply enough pressure to stop the blood.

  His eyes fell on the twine the herbalist used to tie the bunches of fragrant eucalyptus used in Phineas’s special elixir. Hardly stopping to think, he dug around in a drawer until he located the needle he used to sew patches over small holes in his boots. Wiping it quickly on his sleeve, he threaded the needle with twine and set it aside. Adding a few crushed leaves of eucalyptus to the bowl of water, he gently cleansed the wound. The man had already passed out and was beyond noticing.

  Pinching the edges of the wound together, Phineas began at the back, using his most decorative cross-stitch pattern to draw the raw skin together. He concentrated on his neatness, because if he thought about what he was doing, he was certain he would feel the twine pulling through his own flesh. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he worked.

  Denzil stirred and moaned beneath the needle. Phineas hastily finished up the last two stitches as his patient’s eyes flew open. Tying a quick overhand knot in the end of the twine, Phineas stepped back anxiously and waited for the man’s bellows of pain.

  Understanding returned quickly to Denzil’s eyes. Within moments even his color had turned better. Wincing only slightly, he looked under his arm at the hemp-colored twine in his side. “You do pretty fair work for a quack. Nice, thick stitches.” His expression became soft and peaceful as he said, “ ‘Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green.’ Quivalen Sath, The Bird Song of Wayreth Forest.”

  Either the man was delirious, or astonishingly, he was in very little pain. His voice was steady, and so were his hands.

  “Yo
u’re familiar with his work, of course,” the man in the chair said. “Greatest poet that ever lived.”

  “Of course,” Phineas agreed vacantly. This man was strange and creepy and Phineas wanted him out of his shop as quickly as possible. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine now. I’m just on my way out of town, so if you don’t mind—”

  “I think I’ll just rest here for a few more minutes,” the man said. “I’m still feeling a little drained from the loss of blood.” He flexed his fingers into fists so that the muscles in his arms wrippled under his blood-stained shirt.

  “Sure, whatever you like,” Phineas said quickly, stifling the impulse to bow as he backed out of the room. He would simply wait in the outer office for Trapspringer to arrive; by then this Denzil would probably be ready to leave.

  What was such a man—obviously a vicious fighter—doing in Kendermore anyway, he wondered? Probably just a mercenary passing through. Looking out the small window, Phineas decided Trapspringer was already late. Though he expected it of kender, he wished the fellow would hurry up. He didn’t want the trail of the mayor’s daughter, Damaris, to get any colder. And he especially didn’t want to sit around with Denzil.

  A short time passed, spent shooing away curious patients, before Trapspringer Furrfoot arrived. The kender strolled in the shop’s door with a flourish, twirling around to set his new crimson cape spinning in a colorful circle.

  “Don’t you think you’re a bit overdressed for a trip to a place called ‘the Ruins’?” Phineas asked.

  “Hello to you, too. I always begin each adventure with new garb,” Trapspringer explained. “Actually, the practice of dressing up for military maneuvers began in Tarsalonia—some place like that—long ago—”

  “This is not an adventure,” Phineas said firmly. “We’re simply going to find Damaris Metwinger and bring her back so that your nephew Tasslehoff’s bounty hunter will not be notified that he need not return to Kendermore from someplace named Solace with the other half of my map,” he finished, out of breath.