by Kevin Hearne
“Naturally I do.”
“And you care about halflings and gnomes living together in peace?”
“Of course!”
“Whaaat about getting these papers to the kanssa-jaarli and the king to restore the Elder Laws?”
Faucon put his hand over his heart. “More than anything!”
“Then it sounds like you’re still the same dude. So staaand up and walk and show these Caaaskcooper snobs that you’ve still got what it takes.”
The halfling hung his hairy head. “But I cannot walk without toes, even if I wanted to.”
Agape smirked. “Look down.”
Offi didn’t know what to expect when Faucon saw the golden toe prostheses the gnome had invented. Hinged phalanges connected to the end of a foot piece that fastened to Faucon’s stump via straps. The interior of the attachment was padded with beaver fur, and the straps were designed to cross over the top of his foot. Onni saw immediately that he probably should have looped the straps around the heel, but that was an easy adjustment to make. What mattered was the function and then the form, though Faucon currently prized the form over the function, and that’s why Offi had spent time making the toes look beautiful. They were carefully sculpted brass digits, polished and gleaming, complete with smooth carved planes where toenails should be, suitable for painting. The fourth one on the right was specially designed to fit any specimen from Faucon’s toe-ring collection, although the halfling could easily get his rings resized to fit any of his new digits.
“My gods,” Faucon murmured. “Those are the fanciest toes I have ever beheld, or I am not Faucon Pooternoob of the Toodleoo Pooternoobs.” He looked up, tears in his dark-brown eyes. “Yes, I can walk proudly into town on these auriferous digits.”
Slowly, carefully, with Gerd hooting and humming over him like a nursemaid, Faucon stood for the first time on his prostheses. And he did wince and step a bit gingerly, causing Offi to kneel to make adjustments.
“No, no, my friend. The toes are lovely. But we must not forget that even with the benefit of talented gnomeric surgeons, I still wear fresh sutures and possess damaged nerves. If you all do not mind very much, I wish to avail myself of the benefits of the Dr. Rupert Caskcooper Super-Duper Clinic for Podiatry, where those most intimate with my anatomy might make suggestions to help me heal.” He raised his owlish eyebrows. “If that is not inconvenient?”
“Not at all.” Kirsi shook her head, braids flying. “We need some supplies. A few of the packs got sloshed with fish guts in the boat, and while some gnomes might like it and I’m happy for them, I don’t want to eat trouty cheese.”
“I’ve heard there are halfling artisans who specialize in making bespoke leather cheese bags,” Båggi said, eyes shining. “Oh, how proud I would be, to wear a bag of fine cheese and feel it swing freely from my belt!”
“And I always enjoyed Artists’ Aaalley,” Agape said. “My parents used to sell their work here. It might be nice to…” She looked sad for a moment, but then her chin firmed up. “Shop.”
I will keep watch over this clinic Faucon wishes to visit, Gerd rumbled. I do not trust these halflings anymore. The drubs turned on you once before, Faucon, and I cannot forget such Grimme Betrayale.
Faucon nodded his understanding and thanked her.
They began walking toward the town, and only Offi was left without a plan, outside of trailing behind Faucon to study the pros and cons of his invention. The old Offi would have just gone along with slumped shoulders and a sarcastic remark about the futility of existence. But the new Offi was half Onni, in a way, and he had Thoughts, and at this particular time they verged on the Defensive.
“Wait. So we’re just going to go bouncing into a halfling town—a halfling town! Two gnomes and an ex-Vartija are going to waltz in, and nobody’s going to attack us or swindle us or hurt us?”
Faucon turned easily in his prostheses—a good sign—and gave him a fatherly smile. “My boy, besides me, have you ever met a halfling who was not one of the Dastardly Rogues?”
Offi glared, his eyeline aching for the blackest kohl. “No. Just the ones who threw firebombs into my home. And I didn’t meet them so much as dispatch them.”
“I assure you the drubs do not represent my people. Before Marquant Dique and his foul cabal of miscreants from Bigly-Wicke began to corrupt the Skyr, halflings were known for food, drink, art, and merriment. Caskcooper is an old and vaunted town, and anyone wearing a medallion is pelted with old tomatoes until he leaves. See?” Faucon pointed up ahead to a barrel of…rotten tomatoes. Just sitting there, covered in flies. “The city elders keep barrels of Past Due Toodleoo Tomatoes on every corner for just such a purpose. You know drubs are about when everything smells of moldy ketchup.”
Offi sniffed delicately at the barrel. “That’s pretty serious business.”
Faucon nodded. “And you’ll see how clean the streets are. No one lounging under a whale-oil lamp with a tankard, selling information. Just industrious entrepreneurs politely offering buttered hot chestnut cocoa at a more-than-reasonable price. Now, shall we meet at this Dinny’s at, say, teatime?”
Faucon pointed to a restaurant that did indeed look bright and inviting, with lanterns twinkling behind broad windows, displaying benches filled with happy halflings and tables groaning under grand platters of food.
“When’s teatime?” Offi asked.
“After second lunch. It is roughly the same as snacksies, and the terms are used interchangeably. Right around three-ish. You will know because every halfling’s stomach will grumble, and everyone will say, at almost the exact same time, Well, I feel a mite peckish.” Faucon grinned for the first time in a long time, obviously more at ease here, among his own kind. “Of course, we say that almost anytime we are not currently eating. Good luck!”
Faucon’s walk was a little awkward at first, and Offi could see the halfling carrying himself gently and wincing with each step, but still: He was walking. Gerd leapt down from the roof and paced at his side, urging Faucon to depend upon her shoulder, should he need assistance. An older halfling gentleman stopped to enthuse over Faucon’s toes, and Faucon actually preened for a moment. Pride swelled in Offi’s heart as he considered the success of his first real, unique invention. Not some variation on a theme or improvement on an older model, but a true Invention. If only Seppo had been here to see it. He would’ve been so proud.
Offi frowned. Or would he? Who knew how his father felt about him now that Offi had defied his responsibilities and gone off on a Mad Jaunt? Seppo had always favored Onni, just like everyone else, and it was likely the old gnome would value loyalty over ungnomeric walkabouts.
Perhaps when Offi had helped end the halfling problem, his father would see him as a hero.
“Where shall we go first, my friends?” Båggi burbled. “For I have never seen a halfling city before, and I am anxious to peruse their many fine wares and taste their famed food and drink!”
Everyone looked to Agape, who blinked at them.
“What do you think, Agape?” Kirsi asked.
The ovitaur flinched as if a mermaid still chewed on her hock. “You still want me to come with you? Even aaafter the…the saltshaker thing?”
“Of course,” Offi said, which was echoed by Kirsi and Båggi. But he went on, singing, “Everybody makes mistakes, so dust off your butt and make some cakes!” exactly as Onni would’ve said it.
Kirsi gave him that look, the smooshy one, and he began to see the value in gnomeisms.
As for Agape, her face went from broken to hopeful. “Okay, we’ll want to head to Artists’ Aaalley first to replace your paaacks, because the smell of fish guts is pretty rank. Then we caaan trot over to the Haaalfway House, where you can donate your old stuff to orphans and rehabilitated drubs. And then we caaan hit the Halfling Market just before teatime. We’ll want to get baaack to Dinny’s a little ea
rlier than Faucon suggested, though. They basically staaampede the place as soon as second lunch is cleared.”
The ovitaur led the way, although she had to slow her pace as soon as the smöl folk began breathing heavily. Offi sometimes felt like everything they did was somehow an affront to the ovitaur. Were the gnomes just a friendlier, happier folk than most, or did his people learn to hide their inherent Sulkiness more than other races for the sake of getting along? Only those who had weathered a cold winter underground for months in the dark knew what it truly meant to grin and bear it. Offi once had a Grand Sulk for a week because Onni trod upon his old underpants, but of course his twin knew Offi would forgive him. Sometimes, a Sulk was necessary, much like draining pus from a fetid wound. And sometimes, a Sulk was an act. Offi wondered which it was with Agape. And which it had been with himself, before the firebombs.
An excited squeal announced that Båggi had discovered Patrice Ploopenmuch’s Hutch of Cheery Cheese Ball Bags, the rafters dripping with bulbous leather bags ready-made to hold balls of halfling halfvarti cheese, and the dwarf could’ve browsed all day, tenderly squeezing this globe and that and making appreciative moaning noises. He selected one with a snail on it and fumbled with his coins, thanking the halfling proprietor and praising her skills so much that the shopmistress threw in a free ball of Bettera, which she proclaimed to be a better cheese than the mere Gouda of the gnomes.
Kirsi took over at the Sylvain Sagginsack Backpack and Snack Shack, deftly earning a phenomenal deal on new packs for everyone. A few halflings greeted Agape by name, and she smiled shyly and did her best to avoid answering questions about where her parents and their golden babysitter were. So many of the halflings had firmly stated they didn’t serve droids here, so it seemed they were even happier to see Agape without Piini. The more effusive the artisans were, the more Agape shied away, until at last she just stood outside as Båggi’s glowing eyes led them into a shop filled with toe rings, chest-hair charms, and other hair-based jewelry.
“Do you think I’d look good with a pierced beard?” the dwarf asked Kirsi. “More…I don’t know…dwarvelish?”
“I don’t think a dwarf could look more dwarvelish than you, Båggi, but travel is for broadening one’s horizons. I don’t have the guts to pierce my beard, but perhaps you can get one of those fake rings that only goes half around?”
“Yes, yes! A halfling half ring! That’s the one for me!”
As Båggi and Kirsi discussed the merits of various beard rings, Offi felt shyer about his own scraggly beard than usual and walked the perimeter of the shop, enjoying the act of perusal. All the gnome shops back home had been forced to forgo fripperies recently and dedicate their shelf space to weapons, heavy metal hatches, locks, and sternly worded signage stating NO DRUBS, BUB.
All the toe rings began to blend together…and then something caught his eye. Something very familiar. Something with a very, very high price tag.
He knocked on the window glass to get Agape’s attention and motioned her inside.
“What?” she demanded when she entered, quite rudely, head down. “I know this place, and I don’t waaant— Oh.”
“These are your work, right?”
“Uh. No.”
“AF. Agape Fallopia. You carve your initials on the belly of each piece.”
“I—”
But she couldn’t bring herself to deny it again, for a delicately rotating glass case held a selection of whittled wood objects, each adorned with a tuft of black wool. Small cards lined with elegant calligraphy gave each one a title, price, and earldom of origin. The prices were quite high, and the artist was listed only as AF. The titles were descriptive and each included the artist’s initials: Fuzzy AF, Fancy AF, Llama Is Angry AF.
“Yeah. Fine. They’re mine. But how—”
“Excuse me,” Offi called to the halfling proprietress, as most of the shop owners were women. “Can you please tell me more about these beautiful carvings?”
Sensing a sale, the halfling hurried over, graceful as a dancer on her cornsilk-shiny toes.
“Oh, you’ve a fine eye, my good sir. AF is one of our most popular artists. No one knows who they might be, nor where the fine black wool might come from. Personally, I’ve always imagined AF as a handsome halfling lord, down on his luck, and his curly toe hairs bring good luck to his fortunate patrons. Which piece interests you?”
“Oh, I think I like Bunny Is Cute AF. But I’m wondering—if you don’t know the artist, how did you come across these pieces?”
She grinned, overjoyed to discuss what was clearly a favorite topic. “Oh, it’s so mysterious! The pieces filter in from all over Pell. You see how there’s an origin for each? Scholars and collectors are interested in that so I make sure to label them. The story goes that this itinerant artist secretly plants them in exchange for much-needed salt. Almost like an artistic Goblin Hood!”
Agape sidled close. “So…so the people who find them…they aren’t angry thaaat they’ve haaad their saltshakers stolen?”
The halfling laughed a deep and infectious laugh. “At the prices these pieces sell for, absolutely not! They think it a fine game. Many a halfing art lover invites mysterious strangers to dine and sets out fine sets of salt and pepper shakers, hoping that AF will visit one day and take their salt in exchange for a sculpture.”
Offi watched Agape’s face, and he’d never seen it so naked with honesty. Her eyes were wet and wobbly, her floppy sheep ears trembling with emotion. One finger stroked the glass case. “I imagine AF would be very graaatified to know that their transgressions haaave been so easily forgiven.”
Offi put a hand on her wrist, because he felt like she was about to bolt, sheep-style. “Art is such a gift,” he said.
The halfling proprietress nodded enthusiastically. “A thrice gift, we halflings say. For it gives to the artist by feeding their soul, gives to the world by making it more beautiful, and then gives to the recipient, who will always cherish it. Tell me, dear. Are you an artist too?”
Agape took one look at the halfling’s kind smile, extricated herself from Offi’s grasp, and ran out the door, crying.
Left behind, Offi waited for the proprietress to ask the usual sort of well, what’s gotten into her, my goodness sort of question, but instead the woman just took out Bunny Is Cute AF and held it up to the light.
“She’s an artist, I’d bet. A tender soul. Even if she doesn’t know it. Now, shall we make a deal?”
Offi handed her a small coin and bobbed a bow. “Thank you for your time, but not today. I must stay with my friend.”
The proprietress sighed, but not in a disappointed way. “That’s all right, then,” she called as he sprinted out the door. “I don’t mind keeping this one awhile longer. It has a way of getting to people, you see. Good day, sir! Do come again!”
When Offi found Agape, she was in a busy public square replete with graceful topiaries, ancient gazebos, and a selection of statuary. The ovitaur was standing before a beautiful white marble sculpture.
“Are you okay?” Offi asked.
She turned to him, her cheeks tearstained, but now she was in a different kind of shock.
“Forget about me, Offi. You’ve got to read this.”
She pointed to a brass plaque, and he leaned in close.
TO REMY, MY GREAT LOVE. I WILL AVENGE YOU.
And the name under that? FAUCON POOTERNOOB OF THE TOODLEOO POOTERNOOBS.
“Remy,” Offi said, fascinated and horrified as he considered the subject of the statue, “wasn’t a halfling at all? Faucon’s dear departed Remy was—”
Agape finished the sentence for him.
“A pigeon?”
“Dry, scaly wattles offend nearly all other life forms and invite public ridicule. To get the smooth, buttery, glowing wattle you deserve—the kind of wattle young people hope they’ll grow s
omeday—you don’t need to mortgage your home or sell your giblets to the Dread Necromancer Steve. Just follow the guidelines herein, collected from the lips of Qul experts in wattle maintenance.”
—QARLI SYMEN, from the introduction to The Qul Way to Care for Your Wattle
Misdirection, Gustave thought, was still a vital skill he needed to improve. Back when he’d been a simple billy goat in a barnyard, before he’d eaten the magical boot that had made him a human king, misdirection had served him well against his pooboy, Worstley. The goose would flap its wings and hiss, because geese are jerks like that, and while Worstley was distracted, Gustave would ram the boy in the rumpus and then he would bleat and the goose would honk at Worstley lying in the mud and filth and it was all very merry. What worked in the barnyard would probably work just as well in politics.
En route to the Toot Towers from his castle in the capital at Songlen, he turned to Grinda the Sand Witch and said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Her mouth puckered up. “That’s disturbing.”
“Speaking of disturbing, I think I’m developing another boil. No, don’t scoot away. Aww. See, now things are awkward. Anyway, I think we should take a longish detour to drop in on Lord Ergot.”
“Whyever for?” Grinda said. “That’s many leagues out of our way, and I have an appointment with my wattle masseuse.”
“Reschedule that wattling. This is important. All those letters I read suggested the gnomes who need help are heading to Ergot’s city, so if we want to help them—and we do—that’s where we should go, not the Toot Towers. I’m pretty sure he’s hiding something by saying everything’s fine in Bruding.” He snatched a carrot stick off the tray near his hand and crunched into it with more than his usual gusto. Little bits of orange shrapnel flew out of his mouth as he continued. Human lips, he’d learned, were much flappier than goat lips. “How can everything be fine if he’s being flooded with gnomeric refugees?”
“But it’s days and days of delay, Gustave,” Grinda said with a melodramatic sigh and a tiny shake of her head that made her healthy wattles waggle.
