“Yes, ma’am, and don’t you worry,” he answered.
But both human and kender were forgotten when her sharp dwarven eyes spotted the copper tub in the middle of the room. Two dwarf maids in gray muslin dresses poured water from a single, enormous wooden bucket into the spotless copper basin. A purr of pleasure escaped her lips as she flew into the room, already peeling off her grimy clothing.
Tasslehoff’s explorations carried him from room to room. He was on his third one on the third floor, and just thinking about heading to a different floor for variety, when he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. Tas whirled, ready to pounce on whoever had sneaked up on him. His eyes fell on stringy blond hair.
The kender’s face reddened with something short of anger. “Don’t sneak up on people like that, Woodrow. You might have startled me!”
“And you might have thought about staying in your room,” the young human said evenly. “You know I’m responsible for you. How am I supposed to keep track of you if you’re running around? I thought we were becoming friends.”
“We are friends,” Tas said patiently. “But I was so bored in my room.”
“But you weren’t even in there for ten minutes,” Woodrow pointed out. He looked around at the room in which he’d found the kender. “This one looks just like yours—they all look alike, for that matter.”
“Really, Woodrow, it’s not my fault they’re all the same,” Tas sulked. “Nothing interesting in the drawers,” he said, pulling one out of a dresser and holding it up to demonstrate. “See? Empty, just like all the others.”
He opened his arms wide to show off his new outfit. “I found these clothes on the bed in my room.” Tasslehoff plucked at the sides of the tunic. “It’s a bit big, but then so are dwarves, at least sideways. The trousers sure feel weird,” he continued, giving them a tug as well, “but my leggings were so dirty that clouds of dust whooshed out every time I took a step. I washed them in my basin and left them to dry.
“These pockets are very roomy, though,” he added, jamming his hands into their depths to demonstrate. Tas’s fine brows shot up in surprise. From his pockets emerged an elaborate silver candlestick, a delicate, glass bud-vase, a bar of soap, and a boar-bristle hairbrush.
“Whoever wore these before me sure carried a lot of stuff in his pockets,” he said matter-of-factly. Examining the items more closely, he added, “I saw some things exactly like these in the other rooms.… Baron Krakold should be more careful about the people he invites into his home. Someone might have walked away with all this if I hadn’t found these pants. I’d better keep my eyes on these until I can mention it to him.” Tasslehoff stuffed the items back into his pockets and started for the door.
“Maybe you should leave them here so Baron Krakold doesn’t think you took them,” Woodrow suggested. “After all, he’s only just met you.”
Tasslehoff’s eyebrows arched again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Almost reluctantly, Tas pulled the items from his pockets, letting his hands linger on the shiny vase. He set them on a table near the door.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Woodrow led the way out the door and down the stairs. He, too, had found in his room a clean, white tunic, just a little bit short in the sleeves—it must have been made for an unusually tall dwarf—and a pair of black breeches, also just a touch too short.
They met the baron at the base of the stairs. He was dressed formally for dinner in a stiff, blue tunic with a red sash and bright red breeches, all layered with tremendous amounts of yellow piping and gold braid.
Shortly, Gisella appeared at the top of the stairs, where she paused momentarily for effect before gliding down the stairway and alighting with a flourish, swirling her skirts. Red hair flowed down her back in luxurious waves, and her round cheeks were flushed with hints of crimson. The bodice of her saphire-blue dress was cut dangerously low, and well she knew it.
Everyone was still admiring her entrance when she threw herself into the baron’s clumsy embrace, locking her arms around his head and nearly stuffing his red face into her ample bosom. Lifting his head, she kissed him full on the lips.
“Young woman, I—” blustered the baron.
“Thank you, you wonderful man!” she cooed as he backed away, coughing and sputtering. “The bath was absolutely marvelous! How did you know I practically live for them?” She caught him wiping away traces of lip rouge from her kiss. “Oh, I’m so naughty and impulsive! I hate myself, I do!” She charged forward with a silk kerchief and began dabbing at his face.
Gisella’s performance was abruptly interrupted by a loud cough from the base of the staircase. Everyone turned, and the baron’s face drained of color and he gasped. Pushing Gisella’s hands away, he rushed to the side of a broad, squat, bearded, dark-faced dwarf in a high-necked, drab-colored dress.
“Hortense, dearest!” the baron squeaked. “I’m so glad you’re here!” He tried taking her elbow but she held it tightly to her side.
Scowling, she glanced over at Gisella. “I can see that you are,” she said pointedly.
“Let me introduce our guests,” he said, a bit too eagerly. “Everyone, this is my wife, the Baroness Hortense Krakold.” He directed her attention to Woodrow.
But Tasslehoff stepped up first. Thrusting out his small hand, he said “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, at your service. This is a very nice place you have here, although I think it might be improved by removing some walls. Have you ever been to Kendermore? Also, it seems that someone has been—ouch! What is it, Woodrow? Stop stepping on my foot! OK, I’ll introduce you!” Frowning slightly, Tasslehoff turned back to the baroness. “This is my good friend, Woodrow … I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”
“Ath-Banard,” the young human mumbled. He extended his hand awkwardly to the baroness, who ignored it.
This time Gisella coughed behind them and pushed her way forward. “Oh, yes,” said Tas, “this is—”
“Gisella Hornslager,” the dwarf announced herself, locking eyes with the baroness. There were only two things Gisella liked better than a contest of wit and will, and those were making money and a good roll in the hay. Since business was going down the sewer fast and the appetizing baron had turned out to be milquetoast, she decided to channel her energy into a good catfight with the baroness. The ugly, sour-faced old matron obviously wore the pants in the family, Gisella thought to herself. Rubbing her hands with glee, she fell in behind everyone else as the group followed the baron into the dining room.
The evening passed very uncomfortably for everyone but Gisella, as the two women passed barbs across the dining table, the game table, and finally the sitting room. All the while the mighty baron squirmed and fidgeted like a beetle in a birdcage.
“You really must tell me where you do your dress shopping, Baroness,” Gisella gushed, shoveling strawberry tart into her mouth. “I find men leering all the time so annoying, don’t you?” She smiled into the matronly dwarf’s face. “Anyway, I think some dull, drab, high-necked dresses like yours might help, though I’m certain they won’t be able to hide my obvious attributes.”
The baroness pursed her lips and rang a little bell to signal a servant. “We’ll need another ten tarts for our guest,” she told the starched butler. “Speaking of strawberries,” she turned to Gisella, “do you color your hair that unlikely shade to hide the gray, or simply to attract attention?”
Feeling restless, Tasslehoff tried several times to change the direction of the conversation. He couldn’t quite understand the two women. They smiled at each other and were polite, but somehow he didn’t think they liked each other much. When finally the baron suggested that everyone retire for the evening, they discovered Tasslehoff already asleep before the fire.
Chapter 12
“Ouch!” swore Phineas. “There is absolutely no comfortable way to sit on this damned, dinky animal.”
Phineas stood in the stirrups, raising himself to his full height, which was at least two and a half feet taller than the hair
y kender pony he was riding. He rubbed his backside.
Trapspringer chuckled aloud. “Still convinced it’s chewing on you?” he asked. “I’ll be happy to trade.”
Phineas gave him an acid glance. Trapspringer laughed again.
“It might help if you could stop laughing about it!” shouted Phineas. “By the time we reach this place, assuming we ever do, I’ll be crippled.”
“I can’t help laughing, Phineas. It’s funny. You should see yourself. Why, you’re twice as tall as that pony, who probably is not enjoying this ride any more than you are. Besides, I thought you said you’d ridden horses before.”
“Sure, I’ve ridden lots of horses before, but this beast is a first cousin to a night hag. And whoever made this saddle didn’t pound the nails all the way in.”
Trapspringer whooped and rocked in his saddle at that. “Nails! Oh, that’s funny! I should have met you years ago. I never would have settled down if I’d had a traveling companion with such a rich sense of humor.”
Phineas gingerly lowered himself back into the saddle with a wince. With his feet in the stirrups, his knees rose almost to the level of his elbows. With his feet out of the stirrups, his toes dragged on the ground. At least with my feet in the stirrups, he thought, I can massage my calves more easily. “How much farther do we have to go?” he whined.
“Not far,” replied Trapspringer. “Maybe another hour. We’ll be there by dark.”
“Fine. You just lead the way and keep your laughter to yourself,” grunted Phineas through gritted teeth.
“The time will pass better with a story,” Trapspringer announced. “I’ll tell you about my expedition to Hylo and you’ll feel better. It was back in 317 … or was it 307? It was the year that mosquitoes infested Darken Wood so bad that you could hardly inhale without sucking a couple dozen up your nostrils. We had to wear gauze sacks over our heads just to travel along the fringe of the woods. Of course, the only place to get really good gauze was from the elves and they lived in the woods. Since none of us could speak their language, we had to hire a translator before setting out. This fellow that we hired was—”
“Excuse me, Trapspringer, but what does any of this have to do with Hylo?” asked Phineas. As if I really care, he thought to himself.
“I’m just establishing what year it took place,” he explained. “Proper chronology is very important to a story like this. If you don’t want to know what year it takes place, I’ll just skip the whole story. I know it by heart anyway. I was telling it for your benefit.”
Phineas sighed. There seemed to be no way out of this situation. He was stuck with Trapspringer until they found Damaris and returned her to Kendermore. Were Uncle Trapspringer’s whoppers, all with identical themes and morals, too high a price to pay for the riches Phineas expected as his reward? Probably not. “Please, go on,” he said stiffly. The words caught slightly in his throat.
As Trapspringer resumed his narration, Phineas’s mind wandered ahead to the Ruins and what he might find there. Soon Trapspringer’s voice had faded into the background like the multitude of other pains afflicting Phineas.
The sun was well below the treetops when the two travelers finally approached the Ruins. The trees cast long shadows across the tumbled columns and low, standing walls. The bleached white blocks of stone stretched away and disappeared in the twilight.
“I didn’t expect them to be so—extensive,” murmured Phineas. He had expected something on typical kender scale; small, chaotic, and thoroughly vandalized. Instead, he found a size and symmetry in the Ruins that astounded him.
Trapspringer dismounted his pony at the edge of the area. “We’ll camp here for the night. Tomorrow we can start looking for Damaris.”
“Why can’t we do some looking tonight?”
“It’s too dark already,” Trapspringer explained. “This area’s pretty safe in daylight, but I wouldn’t want to wander through it at night. There’s no telling what you might fall into or knock down. Worse still, you never know what might find you wandering around.”
That’s reassuring, Phineas thought. Then aloud, he asked, “What was this place before it became ruined?”
“Now that’s an interesting story,” said Trapspringer, collecting sticks for firewood. “Eight interesting stories, actually. The past of this place depends on who you talk to. Some say that the elves built it as a shelter for their dead. Others say that it just sprang up as a natural result of the Cataclysm. I’ve talked to people who—”
“To shorten what is shaping up as a very long story,” interrupted Phineas, “what you’re trying to tell me, in as few words as possible, is that no one knows what these ruins once were.”
“That about sums it up,” agreed Trapspringer. “I think it’s safe to assume it was once a city of some size, though.” He gathered a load of firewood and let it roll unceremoniously from his arms.
“I’ll start the fire,” Phineas offered, feeling awkward and out of his element. The kender handed him a piece of flint and he found some good, splintered kindling to catch the spark.
Trapspringer took several paper-wrapped packages from a pack on his pony. Kneeling, he carefully unwrapped the larger one and proudly held up two roasted rabbits. Stripping the cooked meat from the bones, he dumped it into a crusted, black iron pot, added some whole carrots and potatoes from the other package, sloshed in some water from a skin, and set it to boil over Phineas’s fire.
For once, Trapspringer didn’t launch into a story. Instead, they ate the stew in silence and fell asleep before the fire.
Phineas tossed and turned anxiously all night in his sleep, great fuzzy things flapping at him in his dreams.
Chapter 13
Tasslehoff awoke in Baron Krakold’s home to the musical strains of a tuba floating in his window from somewhere below. Oktoberfest! Leaping up from the feather bed—which was a little too soft for his taste—the kender ran a hand over his blue leggings, checking to see if they had dried from their washing the night before. The few damp spots left would dry quickly next to his skin, Tas decided, and slipped them on with a satisfied sigh. He never felt quite comfortable without them. A nights airing had done the rest of his clothes a world of good, and he donned them with glee. Finally the kender strapped on his belt-pack, picked up his hoopak, and strode to the door.
The hallway was silent and empty as he stole down the stairs. He listened for sounds of life and heard pans rattling somewhere at the rear of the house. None of his friends seemed to be awake yet, nor did he see any sign of the baron or his dour wife.
“I’ll just go see what’s happening with the festival,” he said softly as he let himself out the front door. “By the time they wake up, I’ll have a lot to report. They’ll be so pleased when I tell them where all the best food halls and magicians are. Maybe I can even find other traders for Gisella to do business with.”
The sky was partly cloudy but it did not look like it would rain, Tasslehoff thought. He decided to find the tuba player first and, after stopping to listen for the direction, he set off straight down a cobbled street.
Shutters and doors were beginning to open, and cooking hearths were being stirred to life. Tas paused in front of a bakery and looked inside for the baker. Not finding him, the kender counted twenty-eight pies cooling on shelves just inside the windows. There was blueberry, cherry, rhubarb, apple, currant, and mulberry—Tas’s favorite—plus a large tray of raspberry cinnamon tarts.
A few doors from the bakery, a knife-grinder was setting up his display cases along the sidewalk. Still licking mulberry from his fingers, Tas paused to admire the keen edges on the blades of every size and description. His own little belt knife could use a good sharpening, he thought, continuing his stroll. A few moments later, the grinder was puzzled to discover an unfamiliar dagger with a worn blade sitting prominently in his case where an elegant, stag-handled clasp-knife should have been.
The tuba sounded very close as Tas rounded a corner and found himself back on th
e edge of the square where, on the previous evening, they had watched the workmen. His mouth dropped in surprise. Overnight the square had been transformed from a jumble of timbers into a wonderland. The bandstand, with its polished, carved timbers and rounded roof, looked as if it had been rooted to that spot for generations. The side toward the spectators’ bleachers was open, affording an excellent view of the band.
Actually, ‘band’ was a bit of an overstatement. Seated on the stage were two rotund dwarves in colorful, short-sleeved shirts and black knickers with embroidered suspenders. The tuba player’s cheeks and moustache puffed in and out in time with the music. His face was as red as his hair. The other dwarf, his moplike black and gray hair and beard bobbing in time, was strapped to an instrument like nothing Tasslehoff had ever seen before. Though straps supporting the instrument criss-crossed the dwarf’s broad back, his stomach was so round that the contraption rested on it like a shelf. His stubby fingers danced happily over a row of square, wooden keys, carved alternately from white and black wood. Above them were round, black buttons, which he would occasionally push or pull. On top of all that, the instrument was connected to a bellows which the musician had to pump furiously the whole time he played. Its honking tone reminded Tasslehoff of a duck in flight.
For the next hour and a half, the kender wandered around and through the festival grounds, continuously discovering new things of interest, such as the locations of all the metalsmiths’ booths; where and when the axe-throwing competition would be held; the judging standards for the rock-splitting contest; which ale tents were best; and where the tastiest dwarven stews could be purchased. He even met the oompa band members, Gustav and Welker, who let him blow into the tuba and play the instrument Welker called an “accordian.”
Tasslehoff was having such a good time that he lost track of how long he had been at the square. The festival was now in full swing. The kender stood at one of the ale tents, slurping from his second flagon, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
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