by Kevin Hearne
Båggi thought it was a marvelously confusing time to learn about life in the lowlands, when the inhabitants who’d lived there all their lives were so befuddled. But he would learn little by talking, so he kept quiet for most of the journey to the gnomeric city of Pavaasik.
Once on the outskirts, there was some argument about whether to venture into the actual city limits. Agape and Kirsi were adamant about staying away from the rising trails of black smoke they saw and keeping Piini out of the clutches of the drubs. Faucon thought he would present a target for gnomes and halflings alike. Onni wished to see if he might not return to the Numminen farm to cobble together what he could of the remaining weapons and gadgets in the workshop, if the halflings hadn’t ruined it. Gerd wanted to see whether some farmer might be willing to sell her some swamp radishes—a vegetable she claimed was vital for gryphon beak and talon health—in exchange for eliminating any vermin they had. Båggi didn’t care as long as he got to come along and help and possibly pet a friendly alpaca.
They compromised. There was an engineer friend of Old Seppo’s who lived on the northern outskirts of the city; Onni thought that his hatch might be burned out, but it was doubtful that the halflings would have destroyed or even found his secret workshop. “His name is Eino Partanen. Oldest gnome I know and the most stubborn. He’s probably still living in his workshop and the drubs have no clue,” he said, and Kirsi nodded.
“I know Eino. He’s tough and thin, like a piece of steak, you know, that gets wedged in between your teeth and you can’t get it out for days no matter how much you try.”
“He’s a bit of a living legend among the gnomes,” Onni explained to the others. “Back when he was a gnomelet, he designed a bunch of new weapons to strengthen the defenses along the Kivi-Grumpuddle Crevasse, to make sure the giants never dared to invade the Skyr again. He invented the Doompunch Crossbow, the Triple Saw Blade Launcher, and the Gelatin Catapult.”
“I beg your pardon. How does a lump of gelatin stop a giant, rather than simply strengthening his or her bones and improving the luster of skin and hair?” Faucon asked.
“It’s definitely not dessert. The payload is a sphere of gelatin with a chamber in the middle that mixes up a caustic acid in mid-flight. It explodes on contact and the target basically melts—leaving behind a puddle of yet more gelatin.”
“Zounds. I suppose we should approach his place of residence with an excess of caution.”
“We’ll be fine with Eino. Can’t say what we’ll meet on the way there, though.”
“Our doom, most likely,” Agape muttered.
They agreed to investigate, at least, and Båggi frowned and kept his cudgel in hand as they circled the city clockwise, occasional shouts and screams reaching their ears, faint and tinny in the distance. The dwarf was ready to get angry again, anxious to help the helpable and stop the needs-stoppingers. All he needed was a clear case of good versus evil, bullied versus bully. Some signs or labels would not have gone amiss.
The rural landscape that supported Pavaasik was largely quilted fields of crops separated by stands of trees that acted as windbreaks and property borders. Raptors raptly watched from the trees for something delicious to walk by. Snakes snaked through the tidy rows while trying to eat the same creatures as the raptors. Båggi and his companions saw no one, just a few lonely alpacas and donkeys here and there, raising the question of whether the farmers were keeping their main herds elsewhere or if they had already been rustled by halflings. Not knowing much of livestock, Båggi briefly considered whether these lone creatures might be spies or otherwise harborers of ill will, but the alpacas burbled when he patted them and were simply too cute to doubt in their cardigans and striped scarves.
“Okay, this is the border of Eino’s land,” Onni said, gesturing to the patch of timber they’d just entered. “Stop here until we get his permission.”
Båggi was curious how they’d secure that permission, since he saw no other gnomes nearby apart from Onni and Kirsi.
Onni pressed an odd knot at the bottom of a birch trunk and stepped back a few paces, staring at a branch stump a bit higher on the trunk. Båggi stared at it too, thinking perhaps there was another button hidden there and Onni was trying to find it. But, instead, a circular slice of the bark slid to one side, revealing a glass lens. A voice like creaky old leather came from the tree.
“Onni? Heard your hatch got firebombed. Are you a ghost?”
“No. We escaped. Family’s safe in Bruding.”
“Good. Now what the hork do you want?”
“Long story, but I’m traveling with some people to Okesvaa to do something important. May we come in?”
“That depends. Who’s with you?” Båggi and the others got dragged in front of the lens, and there was significant surprise at seeing Gerd and Piini Automaatti but no trouble until the end, when Onni pulled Faucon into view.
“Whoa, there! Are you out of your mind, Onni?”
Several clicking sounds within the tree suggested weapons were being aimed at the halfling, but Faucon didn’t budge. Båggi was most impressed with his sangfroid.
“No, Eino. Listen,” Onni said. “Faucon is not a drub. He’s traveling with us because he’s dedicated to taking down the Dastardly Rogues.”
Eino snorted. “A halfling, acting against Marquant Dique? Balderdoosh! You know what I think, Onni? I think you’re a prisoner of that halfling, and he works for the Department of Gnomeland Security, and they’ve got your family hostage, and you’ve been sent here to talk your way into my home. Ha! Nice try! They haven’t been able to get me out and they’re not gonna.”
“What? That’s…well, that’s actually something the drubs would do, isn’t it?”
“You’re not helping, Onni,” Kirsi said, whispering.
“I know, but I understand where he’s coming from. I’m not sure how to convince him.”
“Hold on a minute,” the voice said. “Bring back the dwarf.”
“Me?” Båggi was surprised. He stepped in front of the lens again and waved uncertainly, wishing he had balls of steel like Faucon, or at least nuts of hickory or orbs of roughly tumbled topaz—anything to hide the shaking in his hands and help the cramping in his toes.
“If you’re on your Meadschpringå, then you’d have a Telling Cudgel, right?”
“Correct, sir. It’s right here.” Båggi held it up in front of the lens.
“A bit closer, please, and turn it all around so I can see it.”
Puzzled but happy to comply, Båggi inched forward and rotated the cudgel around so that this mysterious gnome could inspect it. The grain of the Korpåswood was really lovely, he thought, streaks of rich dark brown among the honeyed tan. If he couldn’t have balls of steel, at least he had a polished wand of rock-hard wood.
“Interesting!” Eino barked, because all he seemed to do was bark. “What that tells me is you haven’t gotten truly angry yet.”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“Good enough. The halfling can’t be all that bad, then. Tell you what. You’re all welcome to come inside the workshop, but I’ll thank you to leave your weapons at the door. Can’t really have you anywhere else; workshop’s the only place the gryphon can fit. But if the halfling tries anything funny, you’ll be carrying him out in pieces. Without his toes.”
Båggi was surprised to hear Faucon gulp audibly, but the stoic halfling said nothing.
Onni grinned. “Thanks, Eino.”
There was no reply except the click of the lens disappearing into the bark again, and then a treeless portion of the lightly timbered area shuddered and the leaves shifted. An expanse of turf and bushes lifted up entirely from the ground, revealing a wide ramp leading underground, with plenty of room for Gerd to walk down without crouching.
Agape blinked. “Impressive. But why does he need an entraaance like this?”
“He builds some pretty big stuff sometimes. You’ll see.” Onni led the way down the ramp, Kirsi at his side, and the rest of them followed.
A wizened gnome with tufty white hair, weathered reddish-brown skin, and an oil-stained blue cardigan embroidered with cogs waited for them at the bottom of the ramp, one outrageous white eyebrow raised in suspicion. They could see the stains clearly because he had split his snowy beard into two braids and wrapped them around the back of his neck, keeping it out of the way while he was working. He pointed with a begrimed finger to a workbench off to his right, one of many, which had some space cleared on it. “Weapons there, please. I don’t want to lock them up, but I don’t want them in easy reach either.” He backed away, still wary of his visitors, and watched to see if they complied.
Båggi assumed the lump in the old gnome’s pocket was some kind of weapon, but he also rather hoped it was cheese. As for his own weapon, he grinned and put his Telling Cudgel down next to the various gadgets and things the others were unloading. Faucon removed his weapons deliberately so that Eino could see how thorough he was being, and Båggi was impressed at how many weapons the halfling had stashed in his waistcoat and trousers, not to mention some tiny blow darts nestled in his toe hair.
Stepping forward a little bit to give the others—especially Gerd—room to crowd in, Båggi craned his neck around and let his jaw drop in astonishment.
“Great galloping goosemeat, my good gnome! This is a most impressive workshop!” Båggi had never seen the like.
Had it merely been the width of the ramp and then extended some distance underground, that would have been remarkable enough. But it just kept on going, far to either side, full of low, gnome-sized tables and taller ones for larger projects, which Eino could access via scaffolds or ladders. There were some very large objects—vehicles and the like—that Eino could not possibly work on alone. He had automatons lined up against the far wall as well as a tracked crane system in the ceiling, which would move large pieces of metal about. There was a welding station and a smithing bellows and parts everywhere along the perimeter, with the assembly and storage area taking up the majority of the floor.
Båggi didn’t know what he was looking at, mostly—there were shiny clockwork gadgets and thingies and doodads galore—but he knew he was looking at the output of a brilliant mind. He didn’t wish to pester the gnome with all the questions he had, but Faucon apparently had no such misgivings.
“What is this device that looks similar to an arachnid?” Faucon asked. It was extraordinarily shiny and had eight legs and some rather unusual-looking chelicerae, but it had no eyes.
“Oh, that’s just a spider shaver,” Eino said.
“I beg your pardon? Why would you wish to shave a spider?”
“I wouldn’t. You lie down on your tummy and it will crawl on your back and methodically shave your back hair with those little mouthparts. They have razors on them.”
Faucon was delighted. “What a novel solution to an ancient problem. And the hair goes where?”
“Into its belly. You set it loose in the garden when you’re done and it adds your back hair to the compost. I grow prizewinning tomatoes with that compost.”
“You are a genius indeed, sir!” Faucon gushed.
He began to ask how it was powered, but Kirsi gave a fussy sigh and changed the subject. “Might we use your kitchen, Eino? We won’t raid your pantry, because we have some food we can cook up, but a proper kitchen instead of a campfire would be lovely.”
“Of course, of course! Kitchen’s in back on the east side of the shop. There’s plenty of food and I don’t mind sharing, so fix what you like.”
“Do you have fresh eggs?” Faucon inquired.
“Absolutely. More than I can eat. We should whip up a mess of them using my Massive Mess Egg Whipper. Follow me.”
Gerd trilled her excitement deep in her throat, and soon Faucon and Eino were trading their tips for making fluffy omelets (which Gerd corrected to fluffee omlets) and there was much gustatory delight around one of Eino’s workshop tables, as well as discussion of what had been happening in town.
“Most everyone’s fled to Koloka or Okesvaa,” Eino informed them. “Some headed for Soperki, others for Bruding. I don’t know why the halflings are doing this.” He cocked an eyebrow at Faucon. “Do you?”
“I do not. I was not involved in the decision to sack gnomeric cities, and whatever reasons are on offer, I reject them. It is a clear breach of law and I think the Dastardly Rogues Under Bigly-Wicke should be wiped out. The Department of Gnomeland Security is a cruel farce, as it only serves to expel gnomes from their proper homes.”
Kirsi said, “I think we should ask ourselves why Lord Ergot wanted to keep the gnomes in the refugee center. I wonder if he’s not working with the drubs somehow.”
No one had an answer to that, though they all admitted it was plausible.
“So where are you all headed, then?” Eino asked.
“The Great Library, underneath Okesvaa,” Onni said without hesitation. “We know how to find it.”
Eino’s silverware clattered onto his plate, his fingers suddenly boneless.
“The Great Library is real? Not a tall tale?”
“It’s real.”
Eino’s expression darkened and he waggled a gnarled finger at Onni. “Don’t mess with me, now, boy. Your father and I go way back, and if you’re joking around, then I’ll feed you to a solar-powered wood whittler and have done with it.”
Båggi wanted to invite the useful old inventor along instantly, but after his indiscretion with Tommy Bombastic he was reluctant to say anything.
Onni replied, “It’s all true, Eino. Piini Automaatti here was made in the Great Library by real gnomeric gearhands. And Agape is a Vartija. She can find the entrance and get us in.”
Eino blinked at the metal man and then at the ovitaur. “It’s really true?” he whispered. Then, louder, he said, “Let me go with you.” He gulped audibly. “Please. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I was a wee gnomelet. I’ve always longed to be a gearhand. Didn’t even know if they were a myth or not. And I may be old, but I think there’s still time. My mind is still sharp. My hands are still nimble.”
“I think you qualify, Eino, no worries on that score,” Kirsi said.
Båggi noticed that Onni looked a little nervous for some reason, but perhaps the gnome just needed to use the restroom.
“I invite you to join us, provided everyone is in aaagreement,” Agape said, and with the Vartija’s consent, Båggi felt he could offer his enthusiastic support to the idea, nodding so enthusiastically that his beard went all fluffy, the highest unspoken praise among dwarves. Perhaps he wasn’t sure when to show anger, but he knew quite well when to express joy at seeing a good person’s destiny come to pass.
“It will take us several days to get there from here,” Kirsi said, “but at least your dream is only days away.”
“Well, I might be able to help with that. I have a half centipod, you see. It could use a little work, but we should be able to get it in shape.”
“Forgive me for asking,” Båggi said, “but what is a half centipod?”
Eino shrugged. “It’s the same thing as a quinquagintipod but much easier to say.”
Onni offered an explanation Båggi could understand. “It’s a transport with fifty legs.”
“A transport?”
“And a fine one too,” Eino assured him. “Buried in the workshop, but we can excavate it, put some oil in the joints, give it a fuel bulb. It’s big enough to let all of us ride on it, but it doesn’t really have an air freshener, I’m sorry to say. I’ve heard halflings smell like cabbage.”
“How peculiar,” Faucon said with the slightest smile. “I was taught that gnomes smell of fried liver.”
That is not how either of those people tastes to a discerning pala
te, Gerd offered.
“Isn’t prejudice ridiculous?” Båggi broke in. “Now, back to this machine. What sort of fuel does it run on?”
“A volatile mixture of death screams and winterborne angst.”
“Ha ha,” Båggi said, and smiled broadly. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke, but he’d rather laugh and be told it was serious than take it seriously and not get the joke. “Death screams. Ha!”
Nobody contradicted Eino, however, so Båggi’s smile faded. He couldn’t imagine how death screams and angst could be converted into fuel, but he felt sure he didn’t want to find out. He waited for someone else to ask about the source of the fuel—whose screams and angst, for example, were used for this? And what happened if there were leftovers? Could they be stored in bottles or used to power can openers?—but no one brought it up, so he supposed it must be common knowledge in the lowlands.
“If I can ask you to help me get the half centipod ready to go, I’ll round up some things for the journey and put the place in order, make sure the farm and all the traps around my hatch are on automatic.”
“Sure, Eino,” Onni said, looking excited at the prospect, and the old gnome led them to the opposite side of the workshop, where the half centipod was half buried in scrap metal, torn cardigans turned to dust rags, and tools of unknown utility.
“The lube is over there,” Eino said, pointing to a fifty-five-gallon drum of it. “And there are plenty of shop rags lying around on the tables. You get to lubing, and I’ll bring back a fuel cell.”
He left them in front of an impressive vehicle that was easily the length of a giant stretched out for a nap. It had a flat deck with benches that doubled as storage and a raised dais with a captain’s chair, steering wheel, and various gauges and gearshifts. A few posts around the perimeter held up a rudimentary roof to keep off the rain, and blinds could be unrolled to shield riders from the sun, but considering the decorative elements—including daisies and ducklings—it was clearly meant for sightseeing rather than any sort of military vehicle. All of this rested on fifty sectioned brass legs that rose from underneath like an insect’s.
