But given the nature of the explosion that had just rocked the house, Danner had no inclination to even chuckle at his companion’s voice.
“Faldergash, are you all right?” he asked, peering into the impenetrable haze in the gnome’s workshop. “Fal?” he yelled louder. The gnome was often temporarily deaf after the explosions he caused.
“Yeah, Danno,” came the answer, and after a moment Danner was rewarded with the reassuring sight of the gnome trudging across a floor cluttered with all manner of nameless debris, mostly pieces that would one day be, or had once been, part of one of the gnome’s grand inventions. Danner couldn’t help but count his friend’s arms, legs, ears, and fingers and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw nothing was missing. Nothing new, anyway.
“I just don’t understand it,” Faldergash said, oblivious to the scrutiny. “I’ve cut the cayenne level by more than half, and it’s still behaving most unsteadily.” The gnome shook his head, staring intently at the space above his shoes. Faldergash was considered stout for a gnome – his torso was thick and wide enough he could easily have been mistaken for a dwarf in poor lighting. Of course, only an imbecile or someone looking for a fight would dare insult a member of either species by making such a comparison to his face.
Most of the gnome’s yellow-tinted skin was smeared with ash and several unknown – and probably unpronounceable – chemicals, since it was still two days until his planned day at the baths. Faldergash’s left hand and its thick, yet nimble, fingers stroked the heavy beard that graced his chin, stopping only occasionally to scratch his bulbous nose. A cloud of fine, crimson and gray powder puffed out from his beard at each mindless stroke, carpeting the floor as the gnome lost himself in thought. The fingers on his right hand rubbed absently at the stump of the fourth finger, a casualty of some experiment gone wrong years before Danner had ever met the gnome.
“Are you certain that the cayenne is the problem?” Danner asked innocently, receiving a baleful glare in return. He refrained from asking what a cooking ingredient could possibly have to do with a technological invention. He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer, assuming he could even understand the gnome’s explanation.
“Certain? Of course I’m certain,” Faldergash replied, harrumphing. Clearly his hearing hadn’t suffered from the shock. This time. “What do you take me for, a dwarf?”
Danner smiled. “No, but if reducing the cayenne hasn’t had any effect, maybe it’s something else.”
“Shows how much you know about science, boy,” Faldergash said haughtily. “You stick to picking locks and pockets, and leave the science to the professionals.” He thumped his fist into his chest, demonstrating in no uncertain terms that he considered himself just such a man. The effect was spoiled by the thick cloud of red powder and gray ash that billowed out from the middle-aged gnome, who’s stern expression dissolved into a fit of coughing.
Danner replied the only intelligent way possible. He nodded in solemn agreement, hiding a smile that still shone behind his eyes.
“Need a break?” he asked. “I’ve got some sandwiches made, and you’ve been in your workshop for three hours straight.”
“Huh? My, my, where does the time go?” Faldergash mused. “Sandwiches you say? Well, then, boy, feed me!”
The gruff gnome stamped his boots to shake free a layer of ash and powder that had settled, then clomped off to the kitchen, still muttering about the cause of his most recent explosion.
Danner smiled at the retreating back of the gnome and ran a quick eye over the walls and floor of the house. It wouldn’t be the first time that one of Fal’s experiments had created cracks that ran from floor to ceiling, and more than once he’d gouged a shallow crater into the floor with one of his machines. Thankfully, there was no obvious sign of structural damage, and Danner moved to join his friend in the kitchen.
“Living with a gnome certainly does make life interesting,” he murmured to himself.
Danner’s father had pushed him out the door at the ripe age of eleven, fully expecting him to make it on his own. Trained since birth as a thief and urban survivalist, Danner did well enough for a few years, but a string of cursed luck left him sick and penniless. Faldergash had taken a much younger Danner in, even though they barely knew each other, and the gnome nursed him back to health. Danner helped around the house as he recovered his strength, and eventually Faldergash offered to let him rent a room there indefinitely, although Danner suspected it was as much from friendship as the income he provided to help keep Faldergash financially afloat.
The gnome largely supported his hobby of inventing by fixing odds and ends for people around the city, but he paid little attention to his own physical or financial health until something troubled him, and it was probably only through Danner’s timely arrival that the gnome was still alive and in his own house. Four years later, Danner considered it fortuitous and mutually beneficial friendship, and they’d both learned to put up with each other’s faults and habits.
Mostly.
As he entered the kitchen, Danner suddenly sympathized with generations of mothers. Faldergash was already sitting at his chair, munching contentedly on a sandwich that had just emptied half its contents onto the gnome’s expansive belly. His beard was already stained with residue from the recent explosion, but now it sported several glistening stains where the red ale the gnome favored had slopped out over his chin. Danner sighed and took his place across from the gnome where he hoped he’d be out of range of any stray food or drink.
As Danner took a small bite from his own sandwich, he tucked the morsel into his cheek and looked at his friend.
“So what exactly are you making this time, Fal?” he asked, sincerely interested. If it was anything that could potentially destroy the building, Danner wanted to know.
“Ish an ishtit kucking devish,” the gnome mumbled, spewing crumbs.
“Finish chewing, swallow, then answer,” Danner said patiently. Faldergash looked surprised at the admonition, but followed instructions.
“It’s an instant cooking device,” he repeated, more clearly this time. “You can put food inside of it, press a button, and boom,” he said, emphasizing the word with a bang of his flattened palm on the table, “chemicals create super heat and your food’s cooked. I call it a superfire cooker. It’ll make my fortune.”
Danner nodded absently, knowing full well how many of the gnome’s inventions had supposedly been able to make his fortune. In the years Danner had known Faldergash, the gnome had often been forced to borrow money from his human friend, and Danner had long ago given up hope of seeing any of the coins again. He occasionally had to steal a little extra from work whenever the gnome spent all of Danner’s rent on his myriad projects instead of more mundane concerns, like food and adequate fuel for the hearth. Danner didn’t mind the extra expense, and he’d long since given up trying to persuade his friend to take better care of himself.
“Don’t patronize me, boy,” Faldergash said sharply, glaring across the table at him. “I’m serious this time. It’ll revolutionize food services all over the country. No more waiting for a half hour to get your food hot and fresh, by golly. Now you’ll ask for a nice hot steak, they’ll cut it off the beast, pop it in, and like magic, you’ll have it in no time.”
“If you ever get the mixture right,” Danner said, teasing the gnome. “Thus far it seems as though you’ve only gotten the boom part down.”
“Now you listen here,” Faldergash began, brandishing his half-finished sandwich at Danner. His elbow knocked the mug of ale, though, and whatever the gnome had been about to say was swallowed amidst a flurry of curses. He hastily placed his arms on the table, allowing the thick sleeves of his tunic to soak up the red liquid. The rest he mopped up with the front of his shirt.
Faldergash glared at his empty mug for a moment, then shrugged and stuffed his sleeve in his mouth and began to suck the ale from the garment, ignoring the residual powders. Danner withheld a sigh and carefully refrained from rolling his
eyes.
“On that note, I need to get to work,” Danner said, getting up from his seat.
“Work, hah!” Faldergash barked, spitting out his sleeve and thrusting a meaty finger toward Danner. “You mark my words, Danno, working with those crazies will only end you in trouble. Especially if one of them ever finds out who, or rather what, you live with.”
“That’s my problem, Fal,” Danner said easily, shrugging. “I just have to make sure they don’t find out. And besides, it’s good money.”
“That’s not where your money comes from, and you know it.”
“I didn’t say it paid good money,” Danner replied glibly as he walked out of the kitchen. “It all amounts to the same thing, and besides, I enjoy the challenge.”
“The danger is more like it,” Faldergash muttered seriously, his voice carrying no further than his ale-soaked beard.
- 2 -
Danner eased out onto the crowded streets, regretting the fact that he didn’t have time to lift a purse or two on his way to work. He’d slept in too late, enjoying the late morning start time granted to all employees because of the date. The first day of Heilamanth[7] was typically treated as a semi-holiday, even though it fell in the middle of the week. Danner had worked late the night before, and so had allowed himself to indulge in a lackadaisical morning before heading in to work. It wasn’t that he especially liked his job or the men with whom he was forced to work, but rather he enjoyed the accessibility it gave him to large stores of money. No one seemed to notice when a few coins disappeared here and there out of shipments that usually entailed thousands of gold pieces changing hands. So what if an extra pair of hands slipped into the exchange and relieved the men of some excess weight they would never miss? Danner was quite proficient at altering the books to remove any trace of his “reallocation” of funds.
On the rare times when money did not change hands, Danner was still usually able to make off with some sort of profit, though he was careful about taking merchandise itself. Merchants such as his employers dealt with were sometimes very meticulous in maintaining a proper inventory, and the missing presence of a valuable figurine or other object would be immediately noticed. Instead, Danner chose objects that were one among many, where a mistake in counting was not only possible but almost counted on by many merchants. It took an intelligent foreman to keep accurate track of a man’s goods, and most merchants were wary of keeping on a foreman who might just be more intelligent than they were. Ironic that men frightened of their own employees skimming money left themselves prey to the employees of their business partners.
But then, Danner wasn’t complaining. One man’s paranoia was another’s opportunity, if he had the stones to take the chance. To be sure, there were exceptions, but so far Danner had avoided any mishaps, and he took pride in his secretive successes.
His thoughts elsewhere, Danner was nearly run over by a dwarven buggy trundling by. He answered the gruff curses with a few choice words of his own, and ignored the thick fist that was shaken at him by the stocky driver. Staring after the bare-framed vehicle for a moment, Danner shook his head and resumed his walk to work. While walking certainly afforded Danner ample chances to practice his other favorite, light-fingered pastime, there were definite disadvantages. One of them was the dwarven buggies.
Other disadvantages included carriages, men on horse- and dakkan-back, and – of course – men who were considerably larger than Danner. Being small had served Danner well in countless flights from irate merchants, but it also meant that he was forced to walk with care in the crowded streets. Men who topped him by more than a head and were likely twice his weight gave little thought to shoving Danner out of their way, and more than once he’d nearly been seriously injured when he hadn’t taken enough care to avoid a confrontation. Of course, Danner usually had his revenge in the form of whatever coins the man had happened to be carrying, but that was petty retaliation and he knew it.
A human man in a brilliant yellow cloak rode by on a dakkan, nearly bowling Danner over as he jumped back into the crowd to avoid the horse-sized reptile and its rider. The man waved an apology, but didn’t stop. Both cloak and beast marked the man as a paladin, because only the holy warriors rode the reptilian dakkans, but his knowledge of their holy order didn’t extend far beyond that bit of street trivia. Danner stared after the creature a moment, wondering what it would look like with wings.
In its “runner” shape, as it was called, a dakkan’s neck and head were approximately the same size as a horse’s, but the resemblance stopped there. Dakkan muscular and skeletal structure more closely resembled that of an oversized hunting cat, and a dakkan’s tail was nearly as long as its whole torso. Powerful claws provided a sure grip on virtually any surface, and Danner had heard their scales were strong enough to deflect arrows. And yet while Danner had never really seen a runner close up, it was their larger, more impressive form that he really wanted to see.
It was common knowledge that dakkans could alter their shape between their runner form and their natural winged shape, what some people called a dragon.[8] The winged shape was several times the size of the horse-sized runner and capable of carrying one or more people into flight. Danner had heard different accounts of just how big they were and how many people they could carry, and he’d always wanted to see a flying dakkan, but runners were rare enough in Marash since the paladins didn’t maintain a permanent presence in the city, and runners were far more practical than the winged shape besides. If Danner ever went on the road somewhere, he might at least stand a chance of seeing one, but he’d never really left Marash and had no plans to anytime soon.
He turned onto a larger street and glanced at the temple that dominated the block across from him. Danner usually avoided this street when pick-pocketing, counting it a bad omen to steal from people who might be going to or coming from the religious building. While Danner himself was not an especially pious man, there seemed something fundamentally wrong about stealing from temple-goers.
It being the first day of the holy month, the street outside the temple was crowded with worshippers going to and from the sacred building. Amidst the milling throng, he noticed a familiar face, and he sighed as he recognized Gelth, a pick-pocket with fewer scruples than Danner. The thief looked like a merchant of modest means, the type of man no one looked at twice, but Danner saw the swift movement as he bumped into a shabby man and removed a tiny purse. The poor soul looked ill-able to afford the loss, and Danner’s pulse burned in irritation. He’d been hungry and destitute before, and he hated to see someone being taken advantage of who was already struggling in the world.
Looking quickly about, Danner surreptitiously hurried closer to the supposed merchant and approached him on an oblique course. In the brief moment of their passing, Danner deftly relieved him of the small purse he’d just stolen, as well as a half-dozen other valuable trinkets and a handful of coins. Leaving the thief none the wiser, Danner caught up to the shabbily dressed man before he entered the temple and effortlessly replaced the stolen purse, now several coins heavier than before.
“A good deed a day keeps the devil at bay,” he murmured, quoting the popular proverb. He wasn’t sure how a daily deed would weigh against a lifetime of larceny, but Danner felt as long as he stayed away from the major sins, he might be able to squeeze through the cracks into Heaven. He counted himself a good man at heart, albeit less concerned with the niceties of the law than most.
Leaving the temple far behind him, Danner turned another corner and peered down the street toward an enormous clock that sat nestled in the wall of a tall building. The clock showed not just the time in minutes and hours, but also showed the date, the day of the week, the month, and the year. Perhaps most amazing of all, the clock was never wrong and by all accounts required minimal effort to stay functional. Every minute of the hour, twenty five hours a day, ten days a week, ten months a year, the clock kept perfect track of the passing of time. Dwarves claimed that such magnificent work
could only be the product of their own people, while the gnomes cried out that while dwarves may indeed have crafted it, those same dwarves had undoubtedly stolen the plans from an ingenious gnome inventor. In truth, no one knew who had made the machine, but dwarves cared for its gears and kept it running, so their story was the most widely held.
“Hmm, I’ve got more time than I thought,” Danner murmured to himself, then looked brightly around him. Well away from the temple, Danner had no qualms pilfering the occasional prosperous pedestrian on his way to work. “Perhaps I’ve got time to arrange for some extra income after all.”
An instant later his face was studiously blank, and Danner disappeared into the crowd, still heading in the general direction of the building where he worked.
- 3 -
Two small purses and a dozen loose coins later, he arrived at his destination and presented himself to the guards outside. They, of course, recognized him, and Danner continued unimpeded into the headquarters of the Men for Mankind Coalition.
While Danner didn’t hold to the Coalition’s ideals or goals, it was, as he’d explained to Faldergash, an excellent source of income, however illegally gained.
Danner passed a ten-foot statue of the Coalition’s founder and made a perfunctory gesture of respect that, while properly rendered, was anything but genuine. The artful depiction of Gerahn de’Caltoreth standing upright, with one fist stretched forward in a firm gesture of resolve, generally made Danner queasy. The Coalition’s founder had espoused a world of humans and only humans, with the “lesser” races either wiped out or subjugated to humanity’s needs. The thought that people actually believed in the long-dead martyr’s xenophobic dreams was too much for the young man, who felt that all the races of the world should be living together peacefully.
In spite of this belief, though, Danner knew full well that true peace between the humans and demi-humans[9] was well-nigh impossible. There were just enough humans that believed in the Coalition’s ideals to cause problems, and contingents among the other races that felt similarly.
Hunting The Three (The Barrier War) Page 2