"It's a fool's errand," Wingover snapped. "First he cheats me out of an honest fee, then he sends me on a fool's errand. May the curl-winds carry me away if ever I do business with a — "
"It shouldn't be a difficult trip," the girl puffed, wishing he would slow down. "At least, I don't imagine it is. I have a map, you know… of where Chane was last seen."
Wingover stopped abruptly and swung around, towering over her. 'You're crazy," he snorted. "One lone dwarf — and a girl one at that — out in that wilderness'! You wouldn't live an hour. Don't you know what's out there?"
"Not really. I've never been out of Thorbardin before. But how bad could it be? People do go there sometimes, don't they? Oh, look!"
"What?" He glanced around.
"There's a gnome! That is a gnome, isn't it? I've never seen a gnome before. They're very small, aren't they?"
"So it's a gnome," Wingover snapped. "The world is full of gnomes. Just like the world is full of elves, and this part of it is mostly full of dwarves… what do you mean, small? That gnome is nearly as tall as you are." He set off again, heading for the Inn of the Hying Pigs. "I'll tell you a few other things the world is full of, that aren't nearly so pleasant. Goblins, for one. And things worse than goblins, too. There are hobgoblins and trolls — "
"I have a sword," the girl pointed out, calmly.
"And ogres," he continued. "Thankfully not as many of those, but there are some. What you should do is go back home and — "
"Oh, look!" she said, interrupting, and pointed. "Look over there!"
Nearby, a dark bird had flapped from the sky, descending to light on the shoulder of a wizard. Now it was talking to him, its beak just at his ear but its voice clearly audible to those around… though it spoke a language few among them understood.
The wizard listened intently, then raised his staff and muttered something. Atop the staff a milky globe seemed to swirl with bright color, and a loud hum came from it. It sounded like bees. Abruptly there were other wizards hurrying toward him, pushing and bustling through the crowd.
As some of them reached him he said, 'The omen is confirmed. It was seen from the Tower of the Orders. Nuitari crossed the orbits of Solinari and
Lunitari. Both were edipsed, each in its turn."
The ensuing babble of excited discussion wasn't limited to the robed sorcerers, but spread rapidly through the crowd.
"What does that mean?" Jilian asked Wingover. "Are they talking about the moons? What did they do?"
"They eclipsed," the man said. He strode on toward the Inn of the Flying
Pigs… three long strides, then he tripped and sprawled full out on the ground. All around there were cheers and laughter. Wingover raised himself, shaking his head. Jilian stood over him, her sword in both hands.
He stared up at her. "Did you trip me?"
"I certainly did," she said, returning the sword to its sling.
He got to his knees and dusted himself off, glaring at her. With him on his knees, they were nearly face to face. "Why?"
The triumphant slight smile on Jilian's wide, pretty face was enough to bring choking sighs from a number of young male dwarves nearby. "Because you have been behaving rudely," she said. "And because if we are to have any sort of discussion, you shall have to slow down."
"There's nothing to discuss," he snapped. "I told you — "
"Well, you really have no choice, anyway. And the sooner you realize that, the happier we both will be."
Wingover muttered horrific curses in several languages, and got to his feet. "If you aren't the most obtuse button I ever — "
"Jilian," she said, coolly.
"What?"
"My name is Jilian. Not Button. But you don't need to apologize. You can call me anything you like, as long as you help me find Chane Feldstone like you promised."
"I didn't promise any such thing!"
"Thereyouare!" a voice behind Wingover said. The human turned as the gnome trotted forward, waving at him. "Thermodynamics,
Iheardyoubellowingfromclearacrossthesquare. Ijustwantedtotellyou,
I'llbereadywithinthehour."
Wingover stared down at the little creature, blankly. "It'sme," the gnome said. After noting the confused look on Wingover's face, he took a deep breath and spoke more slowly. "Bobbin. Oh, I know. Humans always say if you've seen one gnome you've seen them all. Somehow I thought you might be above that sort of thing. But it doesn't matter. A deal's a deal, right
All right. There is an open meadow just off there, beyond those huts. Meet me there. And bring your horse, of course. Don't worry about rope. I have some." With that, the gnome turned and hurried away in the direction he had pointed.
Wingover stared after him, feeling dazed.
"What was that all about " Jilian asked.
"I haven't the vaguest idea."
Somewhat disoriented and thoroughly cranky, Wingover once more headed for the flying pigs, which were just ahead now, gliding in happy circles above the inn. The man walked more slowly, though, and cast cautious glances at the dwarven girl and her sword. The place was busy, as usual.
During trade seasons, Barter was always busy. A few tables back, though,
Garon Wendesthalas sat alone. The elf stood as they entered, and beckoned to Wingover. As they approached he said, "Well, did Goldbuckle pay you off without a quarrel?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Wingover snapped.
"Did you learn anything about the goblins?"
"Not much. Just a lot of rumors about all sorts of strange things. How about you?"
"About the same. But I have a problem. I'm heading north again tomorrow.
Goldbuckle called in his debt."
"More trading packs?" the elf asked.
"Escort service." He turned a surly thumb toward Jilian, who stood just behind his hip. "This is Jilian Firestoke," Wingover said sourly. "I'm to take her out to find a missing dwarf. Jilian, this is Garon Wendesthalas."
"Oh, my." Jilian looked up at the tall, melancholy being. 'You're an elf, aren't you? I'm pleased to meet you."
They sat down to mugs of cool ale, and the human and the elf compared what they had heard. Neither had anything definite to report, only various versions of the same stories. Something very ominous was happening somewhere far to the north, but nobody had any very clear idea of what it was.
Jilian listened for a time, then said, "That sounds a little like
Chanc's dream. It told him that bad times are coming, and that it's his destiny to protect Thorbardin. That's why he's out looking for a helmet."
Garon looked at her, then at Wingover.
The human spread his hands and shook his head. "That's why I'm going back north," he grumped. "Because some dwarf had a dream about a helmet."
"Oh, not just one dream," Jilian corrected. "He's had the same dream for years. It's only lately that it told him what he is supposed to do. It's his destiny."
"Then why do you want to interfere?" the elf asked.
"Oh, I don't want to interfere, just… well, he probably needs help.
The guards who went with him came back, and I learned they had robbed him and left him alone in the wilderness. But we'll find him, and he'll be all right. Rogar Goldbuckle says Wingover is a very resourceful person… even if he is human."
"Resourceful. Hmph!" Wingover snorted dismally. "I'm resourceful, all right. A resource that old villain has mined to its limit."
Someone jostled against Wingover, then tugged at his sleeve. He turned, to find the gnome there, looking peeved.
"I thought you had gone to get your horse," the small one griped in slow clipped words. "My soarwagon is ready and waiting, and we'll lose our light soon. Come along, now. We have to hurry."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wingover began.
"What are you supposed to be doing?" Jilian asked.
Wingover shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody has told me."
"You're supposed to be pulling my soarwagon with your horse," the gnome
explained. "What could be simpler than that? Come along, now. There isn't much time."
"I'll come and watch," the elf said. "Where did you leave your horse?"
Without much choice in the matter, Wingover was hustled from the Inn of the Flying Pigs to the stables where his horse waited, then across town to a clear meadow, where a marvelous thing sat glowing in late sunlight.
When first they had seen the gnome's contraption, it had vaguely resembled a flat parasol, folded. It was no longer folded, now, and no longer resembled a parasol. More than anything else, it looked like a huge, spreadwinged seagull sitting on spindly wheels in the meadow. Great, delicate wings of white fabric extended thirty feet on each side of the basketlike contrivance in its center, and its pointed nose had become a square framework of dainty metal rods. Fabric covered four sides of the basket's six, with the front and rear remaining open.
The gnome scampered on ahead of them and was busily tying one end of a long, thin rope to the thing's nose when the dwarf, human, and elf arrived. All around the meadow, but holding their distance, people of several races waited, curious to see what might happen next.
"Polish and shine!" Jilian chattered as she walked around the contrivance. "Isn't this pretty? What is it?"
"It's my soarwagon," the gnome said. "Please stand back. You, bring your horse around here in front, and get mounted. I'm almost ready."
What is it supposed to do? — Jilian asked.
"It's supposed to fly," the gnome snapped, momentarily losing his composure. He sighed and took a deep breath. "That's why I brought it here. To let people see it fly, so I can sell it and make some more of them. I intend to go into the soarwagon business."
"Well, we know what it won't do," Wingover told the elf. "Fly." He did, though, lead his horse to the front of the contrivance, and stepped into the saddle. "Don't worry about it, horse," Wingover muttered. "That thing will fall apart in about ten steps, then we can get on with what we came for." The gnome scampered to him, looped his rope, and raised it. "Here, attach this someplace, but just as a slip. Give me the other end. I'll release it when I want loose from you."
Obediently, with an ironic grin, Wingover slipped the rope through his pommel-clasp and pulled it until the free end came clear, then handed that end back. "Just out of curiosity," he asked the gnome, "why did your colony drive you away?"
The gnome glanced up. "Because I'm insane, is why. Insanity can't be tolerated, you know." Bobbin hurried back to his machine, carrying the loose end of the rope, and climbed into the basket between its wings.
"Insane," Wingover told himself. "I should have known."
"Well," the gnome shouted at him, "let's go. Just go as fast as you can, and as soon as I'm airborne I'll unhitch us and take it from there. That's all I need you for."
"Insane," Wingover breathed. 'Ye gods." He looked back at the gnome in the fabric-and-metal gull.
"Go!" Bobbin shouted. "Go!"
With an oath, Wingover snapped the reins and dug heels into the horse.
The animal surged, took up the slack, and stretched out to a belly-down run. Behind him, Wingover heard a shout, but he didn't look back. The rope sang in his open pommel, and he heard its end snap free. He listened for the sounds of wreckage astern, then ducked as something huge and white whispered past him, just overhead. With another oath, he veered the horse aside, hauled on his reins, and watched in astonishment as Bobbin's soarcraft gathered speed. It receded with distance, then raised its nose and rose into the sky. All around the meadow were cheers, applause, and shouts of surprise.
The soarwagon climbed higher and higher, flashing bright in the slanting sunlight. At some distance it dipped a wing, circled gracefully to the left, came about, and circled above the village, high and tiny in the sun.
It looped and soared, dived and turned, as gracefully as a giant eagle riding the air currents of a mountain range.
With his mouth hanging open in disbelief, Wingover walked his horse back to where the others waited, and dismounted. Jilian Firestoke was jumping up and down, clapping with glee as she watched the beautiful machine perform high overhead. Garon Wendesthalas stood in brooding thought.
"I can't believe it," Wingover said, shaking his head. "That thing actually works! It flies!"
"I'm not that surprised," the elf said. "I heard what Bobbin told you, about being insane."
'What does that have to do with it?"
"It's the whole point. He really is insane. An insane gnome. What he invents works."
"But they drove him out."
"Well, of course they did. They had to. Can you imagine what might happen if some great, monstrous gnomish engine were to have one part in it that works perfectly, among all those other parts that don't? A thing like that could be devastating. It could wipe out a colony."
Wingover thought about it, staring at the Hying machine in the sky. "I see what you mean," he said at last.
For a time the soarwagon cavorted over Barter, then it began to descend and headed back toward the meadow. It slowed, came to within ten feet of the ground, then suddenly shot upward again, climbing away, regaining speed.
Again it approached, and again, and each time it whisked away aloft. On the fourth pass, as it crept by directly overhead, seeming almost to hang in the evening air, Wingover cupped his hands and shouted, 'You've proved your point, Bobbin! You can come down now!"
"Ican't!" the gnome's exasperated voice came back, growing fainter as the soarwagon once again gained speed and began to climb.
"Itgoesupallright,butIcan'tgetittogodown!"
"He may be insane," Wingover told the elf, "but he's still a gnome."
In evening dusk, after giving up on ever seeing the gnome land, the three went back into the village. Jilian had lodgings at Rogar
Goldbuckle's camp, and Wingover would sleep in the stable loft.
"You're leaving in the morning?" Garon asked.
"Apparently so," the human said. "On a blamed fool's errand."
"111 go part way with you," the elf offered. "There's nothing more to learn here, and I've sold my goods."
"Glad to have you along," Wingover told him. "Any special reason?"
"There might be more goblins," the elf said darkly.
Chapter 12
Jilian Firestoke's map — obtained under duress from a ruffian in a
Thorbardin tunnel — was not so much a map as a sketch of landmarks with a wavy line meandering among them. When she finally persuaded Wingover to look at it, on their second day of travel northeastward from Barter, he squinted at it, turned it this way and that, then scratched his head.
"Is this all you have to go on?" He turned it again. "You can't find anybody with this. It has no coordinates. Nothing to trace from… what is it supposed to be a map of?"
They had stopped to rest on a small meadow that was little more than a wide shelf on the side of a mountain, but a place where Wingover's horse could graze and the travelers could drink from a tiny spring that flowed from porous stone to trickle down the rocky slope where it fed a shallow pool. As usual when they halted, the man and the elf spread along the trail, Wingover going ahead to where he could see for a distance, Garon falling back to keep an eye on the trail behind them. It was an unspoken agreement, simply a thing that two travelers, wise in the ways of wilderness country, would do.
Wingover squatted on his heels and spread Jilian's map on the ground.
"It doesn't even have an orientation," he said. 'Which way is which?"
She stood behind him, to see over his shoulder. 'You can tell that from where the X's are." She pointed. "One of them is the Southgate of
Thorbardin, and the other is where those ruffians last saw Chane
Feldstone."
"That doesn't tell me anything," Wingover sighed. "Even if we knew which
X was which — and we don't all that would tell us is that this edge of the map — or this opposite one — should face north. But how far apart are the
X's?"
/>
"About six inches," Jilian shrugged. "We can measure it if you — "
"I don't mean that. I mean how far is this supposed to represent in real distance?"
"The distance from Southgate to the northern wilderness," she explained, wondering again at the man's inability to remember simple things. "However far that is."
He sighed again, shaking his head. 'That might be twenty miles, or it might be fifty. Gods, girl, there isn't a boundary, you know. There isn't some kind of line drawn across the mountains with signs that say, 'This is
Thorbardin's realm and that side is wilderness.' The wilderness is anywhere beyond where the latest patrol perimeter happens to be, and that changes all the time. Didn't the person who drew this give you any idea of what to look for… or where?"
"He wasn't very happy with me," she admitted. "He had a bump on his head and was shackled to a wagontrack at the time. All he said was, 'This is
Southgate and that's where he got away from us. We supposed the cats would get him.' "
"Cats?" Wingover looked up sharply. "What kind of cats?"
"I don't know. He just said cats. Oh, and he said a bird told them to go away, so they went. Does that help7"
"Cats." Wingover opened his pouch and withdrew his own maps, found the one he wanted and studied it. 'There is a valley, north of here, that seems to go almost due north and south." He paused and considered the map.
"I wandered into it, but I didn't get a chance to explore it. There were cats there. Big, black cats half as high as my horse. If your young dwarf has gone there, I don't expect you'll find him." The human laid the maps side by side, looked at them together, then turned Jilian's map around.
"That could be it, I suppose. I saw the valley at the other end, but it would have come out about — " He pointed at his own map "- about here."
"Then that's where we must go," Jilian said. "Is it very far?"
"Not far," the man said. "A day from here, maybe. But that isn't where we're going."
"Why not?"
"Because of the cats. Look, Button, I said I'd help you find that X. But if your dwarf went there, we might as well just turn back."
"But if that's where Chane went, then that's where we must go. You promised, you know."
The Gates of Thorbardin h2-5 Page 11
