by Pete Prown
* * *
“Hello? Hello, Mr. Timmo?”
Cheeryup Tunbridge removed her hood as she entered the Timmo & Sons metalsmith shop. Of course, that was the sign created by Mr. Timmo’s father, Old Timmo. He died years ago, and his other son left the village to find his fortune elsewhere. So, despite the swinging sign outside, the shop had been inhabited solely by the current Timmo, a gifted artisan. Dorro also bought all his fishing lures from the fellow.
“Who’s there?” A thin, slightly stooped figure emerged from the back room and scanned the dusty shop. By the way he was wiping his mouth, Cheeryup assumed that she had interrupted his luncheon.
“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Timmo. It’s me, Cheeryup.”
“Why so it is. Welcome my dear—I don’t see you here very often.” Timmo was pleased at the interruption. “And how’s your mother doing? I’m very concerned.”
“Aye, she has the Grippe quite badly. I visit her in Pym’s new infirmary every day, but she just sleeps and sleeps; I sometimes wonder if she’ll ever come out of it.”
“So who’s taking care of you while she’s unwell?”
“Ummm, Mr. Dorro has taken me under his wing,” lied the child. “I’m doing well.”
Timmo moved a little closer and pushed his wire glasses further up his nose so he could get a good look at her. “Come sit here, child. Let us talk.”
The girl did as he bade, but with a hint of trepidation. In some ways, the quiet Halfling intimidated her, perhaps for what he didn’t say as much as for what he did. But Cheeryup could sense his active mind, probing the words that came from her mouth. She’d have to be careful.
“So you say Dorro is taking care of you. That’s well and good. Of course he would. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I found something, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I see. I gather it’s an object of some importance. But why come to me and not Mr. Dorro? Did you have a … falling out?” Timmo, as usual, was dead on point.
“Not exactly, but my friend Wyll Underfoot did, and that’s where my doubt arose. I don’t know who to talk to.”
“I have heard something about Wyll and his Dwarf friend running into some mischief. And knowing Dorro, he lashed the boy with his oft all-too-sharp tongue. Let me guess—your Wyll has run off or is sitting in Forgo’s gaol at the moment. I say, it’s right of Dorro to take a firm hand with the lad, but sometimes he takes it too far. Or more likely, perhaps he and Wyll are too much alike and share a common stubbornness.”
“I might agree with you, sir.”
“Why, thank you,” said Timmo with a wink. He knew how bright this young lady was and knew himself he had to tread carefully or he’d spook her off. “So what is this object you speak of? Come now, child—I won’t run and tell Mr. Dorro.”
“I have found some important papers.”
“Ah, I have heard that the lair of the Pie Thief had been found by Fibbhook, up in a cave by the river. But they didn’t find you. How clever! However did you do it?” Timmo was enthralled by this young adventuress, but kept his face as bland and neutral as possible.
“I hid under some old moldy clothing in the cave and waited until Fibbhook’s thugs had cleared out. Then I went—”
“Home. Let us clear the air, young Miss Tunbridge. You are not staying with Mr. Dorro; you are, in fact, hiding in your own family burrow.”
“How did you know?” Cheeryup stood and prepared to flee. “I must go!”
“Sit, child—I told you before that I wouldn’t run and squeal to Dorro. Please trust me in this small matter.” The yellow-haired girl stared at him for a second and took her seat. “Now, these documents. They’re Bindlestiff’s, aren’t they?”
She nodded and a tear ran down her cheek. It was followed by several more until Cheeryup could no longer hold back the torrent and let them fall like rain. Timmo supplied her with a handkerchief and waited patiently. Finally, he spoke:
“Do they incriminate Bindlestiff as much as I’d expect they would?”
“I believe they do, Mr. Timmo,” Cheeryup said boldly, finally wiping away the last of her tears. “It’s in another language—Dwarfish perhaps—but the drawings and pictograms are evidence enough that the black stones they burn at the smeltery cause an illness. I assume this is the Grippe.”
“It’s very dangerous that you have these pages in your possession. Although you are loathe to do it, you should tell Mr. Dorro. Even though he acts rashly sometimes, he would have the presence of mind to know how important these parchment pages are. Do you have them with you?”
“No, I hid them in my mother’s burrow before I came here.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear!” Timmo’s face grew pale. “I suggest we make haste back to your burrow right now. Quick child, wrap that shawl around your face, and let’s fly!”