by Jean Rabe
“Honest? Ha! I’ve never met an honest thief,” the duke said sadly. “Search him. I want those emeralds.”
Fenzig’s arms were grabbed; the guards’ fingers dug harshly into his flesh as the tapestry dropped free around him. He felt humiliated as the guards pulled off all his clothes and turned them inside out, searching pockets and hems and ripping apart a few of the seams. To the gnome, their efforts seemed to take an eternity. Only when they were satisfied that the gems were nowhere to be found did they allow him to dress. As he put on his shirt, Fenzig glanced anxiously at his arm. The line extended from the heart on his hand to a few inches past his elbow and was heading toward his shoulder. The line was speeding up, just as his heart had been speeding along since he was caught.
Fenzig straightened his clothes and tried to make himself presentable as he watched the duke examine his short sword. The guards kept him at weaponspoint, not allowing him to move more than a foot in any direction.
“Tell us where your accomplice can be found, and perhaps, just perhaps, I will spare your life,” the duke intoned evenly. He set the short sword on the mantel and strode toward the gnome. “I’m a reasonable man. If I get my emeralds back, I will show you some amount of mercy. Where is she, thief?”
“Please believe me!” Fenzig implored. “I don’t know where she is. I don’t know who she is! But whoever she is and wherever she is—she has your emeralds. Not me. And the longer we talk about it, the more time she has to get away. She’s not going to stick around K’Nosha. She’d be a fool to stay!”
One of the guards stepped forward. “I got a real good look at her sir. She was young, with unusually short hair for a woman. It was black like the night sky. She had a build as slender and graceful as a dancer’s, and she had beautiful eyes that sparkled like sapphires—the only thing about her that wasn’t black. And . . . sir . . she was wearing the necklace, the one your wife always wore.”
The duke rubbed his chin. His shoulders visibly sagged, and he mouthed a word the gnome could not make out. He turned away from Fenzig and rubbed his eyes; then after several long moments, he pivoted to face the gnome again, then began pacing.
“Few people know of those jewels, thief. Too few for such a coincidence as tonight to occur. I think you’re lying. I think you were working with her. I think she told you where to find the jewels, and I think she set you up. You were her diversion so she could make off with them. Though what would prompt her to steal from me—to steal those particular gems—I can’t imagine. In any event, maybe a few days in my dungeon will help your tongue utter the truth about where I can find her. I will have those emeralds back, or you will most certainly die.”
Fenzig shivered. “I really don’t have anything to do with the woman who stole your gems. I . . . Oh, what does it matter? I’m going to die anyway,” Fenzig whispered. “King Erlgrane has seen to that.”
“Erlgrane?”
The gnome had the duke’s full attention now. I might as well tell him the entire story, Fenzig mused. If I’m going to die, I might as well die with a clear conscience.
The tale tumbled from Fenzig’s lips—about his failed theft from Erlgrane’s castle, his capture by the wizard, his time in the horrid cell, and his reprieve from death in exchange for stealing Duke Rehmir’s emeralds. He embellished the story with the homing spell, and he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to show the line. Then he finished the tale by detailing how he had slipped into the manor and watched in horror as the other thief took the gems before he could get them.
“So I’ve no reason to lie to you,” Fenzig concluded. “I was working alone. And now that your emeralds are gone, I have nothing to give King Erlgrane, and I will die. I figure I’ve got six or seven days left, maybe eight if I’m lucky. But luck hasn’t been on my side lately.”
The duke began to pace. “Then you’d best make good use of those days.”
Fenzig looked at him quizzically. Is the duke going to let me go free? he wondered. Maybe he won’t throw me in his dungeon now that he knows I’m telling the truth. He wouldn’t imprison a dying man, would he? Maybe he’ll let me live my last few days however I want. I always heard he was a much fairer ruler than Erlgrane.
“I can have the homing spell negated,” the duke said, interrupting Fenzig’s thoughts. “I can have your worthless life saved.”
Saved? I’ll live!
“Great!” the gnome gushed aloud as his face broke into a broad grin. “Oh, that’s great. You’re the most wonderful human I’ve ever met, thank you. Why . . . .”
The duke’s scowl cut Fenzig off. He cleared his throat at continued. “But to save you, first you’ll have to bring me the emeralds—and the female thief who stole them—all unharmed. That’s the price of my saving your life.” The duke balled one of his hands into a fist and slammed it against an open palm for emphasis. “If indeed you have only six days left, you won’t have time to recover the gems and make it back to King Erlgrane’s. You’ll have to come back here. Even if you had eight days left and could locate the gems quickly, you might not reach Erlgrane’s in time. I am still the safer bet. Besides, if you returned to King Erlgrane with the gems, I suspect he would order you killed anyway. It would tie up loose ends and your potentially loose lips. I am your only safe way out of your predicament.”
The gnome gulped, and his wide eyes met Duke Rehmir’s icy stare.
“Do you agree to my terms, thief?” The duke’s tone seemed challenging. “Or do you want to simply curl up and die? Take the easy way out of life?”
That’s not much of a choice, Fenzig thought. It seems I’m to be a puppet again, following the orders of some potentate in pursuit of three gems. If I ever get out of this, I think I’ll definitely try my hand at woodworking. I doubt anyone would have a homing spell cast on you ’cause they didn’t like a chair you fashioned. I’m done being a thief. I want to be my own man. I’m tired of people pulling my strings.
“I agree to your terms,” the gnome stated finally. “Though since I’ve never seen that thief before tonight, locating her could be difficult.”
“Her name’s Carmella.” The duke’s tone softened. “She wears a gold and coral necklace that my wife favored. She’s worn it for the past few years. I suspect she won’t take it off.”
“So she’s been here before? Stole from you before?” Fenzig was curious. “And your wife would like the necklace back, too, while I’m at it—right?”
The duke shook his head. “I don’t care about the necklace. My wife died long years ago, so it matters little that someone else wears it now. All I care about is getting those gems back.”
“All right.” Fenzig puffed out his chest. “I’ll find this Carmella for you, sir. Carmella? Carmen?” His eyes popped wide.
The necklace the thief wore looked the same as the one Carmen wore. In fact, he’d seen Carmen move gracefully about the wagon—just as gracefully as the thief did. No wonder there was a familiarity about the thief, he thought.
Are Carmen and Carmella one and the same? Was Carmen coming to K’Nosha all along, planning to steal the emeralds? Was he—she—still in town with his—her—peddler routine? Was . . .
“. . . so be careful,” the duke added. Fenzig had missed part of what the man said, so engrossed was the gnome with thoughts of the gaudily dressed peddler. “The necklace allows her to read the thoughts of others, but not while she’s talking or doing anything strenuous. She has to concentrate to pick through another’s thoughts. So be wary. Approach her when she’s busy—otherwise she’ll know you’re coming.”
So that’s how he—she—knew I was going to steal the emeralds, Fenzig thought. That’s probably why I was given the sleepy-time tea. He—she—knew I was going to clobber him—her—and steal the horses and wagon.
“When did this Carmella steal the necklace from your wife?” Fenzig’s curiosity got the better of him again. The gnome wondered why the duke didn’t have better security if his manor house had been robbed before. “What has she tak
en besides the necklace?”
The duke pointedly avoided the questions. “My wife loved the necklace because of its beauty. She wore it at every state function so others would admire it and so she could tell if any nearby dignitaries were thinking ill thoughts toward me.”
Fenzig was rudely shoved from behind. “Don’t you think you’d better be going?” It was the guard in the padded clothes. “Time is wasting, and Carmella’s getting farther away.”
“I’ll find Carmella,” the gnome promised. She might even still be in town, if I’m lucky. It can’t be that hard to find her, especially since I know she’s dressed as a man, not a woman, wearing colors that clash, and hawking elixirs and the like from a cherry-red wagon.
“Find her and the gems quickly,” the duke urged. “You must bring both to me if you want that homing spell lifted.”
“What about my sword?”
“You won’t be needing it.”
10
Carmen’s Truth
The pony wasn’t nearly as pretty as the one Fenzig had selected from King Erlgrane’s stables just a few days ago. In fact, Fenzig wasn’t allowed to select his own mount this time—he was given one and had no choice in the matter. Still, the pony was brown, a color he preferred. It seemed healthy and strong, but was not in as good of condition as Mistake had been, he noted, or rather, not in as good of condition as Mistake had been before the unfortunate incident in the Haunted Woods. It was not as large, and it lacked that clever gleam in its eyes.
The animal was saddled and waiting for him shortly after dawn. The gnome had spent the few intervening hours—between his capture and now—in the duke’s dungeon. The accommodations were similar to his cell in King Erlgrane’s castle, and Fenzig wondered if all rich men used the same malicious and unimaginative architect for their prisons and populated them with hungry rats to worry their prisoners.
“Hello, my name is Puppet,” Fenzig told the pony as he climbed into the saddle and prodded it toward K’Nosha. “The duke is pulling my strings today, so we’d better be off. I’m not going to name you. I don’t intend to be in your company long enough to get friendly. This is simply a business arrangement between you and me. We’re going after Carmen—or Carmella—or whoever he–or she–is. Who knows? Maybe there’s two of them and one hides in the crates in the wagon. And then when we’re done, you’re going back to Duke Rehmir’s. Or maybe the king’s if this line on my arm doesn’t move very far. I don’t trust either of them, but I know for certain the king has a wizard. Didn’t see anyone in robes at Duke Rehmir’s.”
The gnome grumbled constantly on the brief ride into town. His back was sore from sleeping on a thin mound of moldy straw. His head still hurt from being struck by an angry guard. The bottoms of his feet had gotten cold. The tops of his feet burned. The line on his arm was a little longer. And his hands and face itched terribly. Fenzig hated being uncomfortable.
He glanced at his small hands that clutched the reins and noticed there was a rash on his fingers. Probably bugs in the duke’s dungeon. Hungry ones. At least there aren’t any rat bites. I hate rats. But I’m not too fond of bugs, either.
Then he glanced at his feet, which rhythmically bounced with the pony’s steps. The bottoms were pleasantly warm now, but the tops still burned. He stared at them. Amid the curls and all over his toes was a rash even worse than the one on his hands.
Those aren’t bug bites. How did I . . . “Of course,” he moaned aloud. “That stupid ointment or hair cream or whatever it was Carmen, rather Carmella, had me spread all over. It didn’t make my hair grow or any wrinkles go away. It’s just making me itch. I’ll bet I’ve even got a rash on my face.”
Fenzig kicked the pony in the sides to speed its course over the town’s cobblestone streets. He ignored the startled looks from townsfolk as he hurried past, almost knocking a few of them down. He steered the pony toward the center of K’Nosha, near the fountain where The Magnificent One had parked the wagon. But there was no evidence of the gaudily dressed male peddler, the black-attired female thief, or the wagon with its magical-paint sign. However, there were a few people milling about and grumbling as much as the gnome.
A few questions revealed that Carmen the Magnificent and his gaudy wagon had left very late last night—shortly before some of his dissatisfied customers, who turned to grumble to Fenzig now, came calling to demand back their money—and more.
“You, gnome!” a bald man hollered. “You said that hair grown tonic worked! It was because of you that I bought it. Because of you I’ve got this rash! This is all your fault.”
Fenzig steered out of the bald man’s way.
A woman who was pulling out clumps of hair by the fistfuls complained to Fenzig that the hair growth ointment did just the opposite of what the peddler had claimed. A second bald-headed man sported a rash similar to the one the gnome had. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead as he itched and scratched and glowered at Fenzig.
A younger woman grinned sheepishly and said she thought the hand cream was just fine, that it made her skin feel nice and smooth, but her mother’s sore throat had not improved at all after drinking the entire bottle of sore-throat tonic.
“I’ve no idea where that crook went,” the woman pulling at her hair snarled. “But if that peddler ever shows his face in K’Nosha again, I’ll give him something much worse than a rash to worry about.”
Questioning the sentries at the gate revealed nothing useful—other than the disturbing fact that several of the peddler’s more disgruntled customers had left on horseback right after dawn—with swords and daggers strapped to their waists. A couple went north, one went south, and one struck out west across the open farmland.
North or south? Fenzig wondered. South leads to Burlengren and King Erlgrane--which would be most convenient, and therefore most unlikely. North leads to all manner of places. East is out of the question because that would have taken Carmen right past the duke’s estate. And west is over that rather uneven farmland, and I doubt Carmen would drive the wagon over that. I’ll head north, he decided glumly, and hopefully there’ll be something left of him—or her, or them—when I get there.
As the day grew older and the line on the gnome’s arm grew longer, Fenzig had plenty of opportunity to reflect on his relatively short life. Most of his life had been pretty good, and most of the bad experiences fit nicely into these past several days. He tried to follow the wagon ruts that were worn into the road, while his mind wandered back to his childhood. He was too young to remember why his mother had left. Something about wanting more money and more things. A woodcarver, his dad said he never seemed able to provide enough for her. But he provided enough love for Fenzig and his brothers, and he gave them shelter and as much food as they wanted.
Maybe if I weren’t so much like my mother, he pondered. Maybe if I hadn’t been so interested in getting wealthy, maybe things would have turned out differently. If I hadn’t been so against trying to work honestly to earn a living. If . . .
A pair of riders coming south caught the gnome’s attention. He waved cheerfully, and they stopped to greet him. A half-dozen questions later, the men revealed that they’d seen a bright wagon very early that morning. It was parked outside a small village farther north. They added that Fenzig wasn’t the first person to ask them about the wagon. Two middle-aged men with severe rashes on their faces had stopped them about an hour ago, but they hadn’t been nearly as pleasant about it as Fenzig.
The gnome urged the pony faster, and the miles fell away beneath the steady beat of the animal’s hooves. Carmella had several hours’ head start on him, and the wagon and horses were capable of moving faster than the gnome’s pony. Still, Fenzig was counting on Carmella stopping to sell some wares—and collect more dissatisfied customers. He was hoping that perhaps the rash-covered men from K’Nosha had slowed the peddler down—without killing him.
The gnome arrived at the village late that afternoon. There was no sign of Carmella, though several people adm
itted to buying things from the peddler. No one evidenced a rash, though the gnome suspected that was simply because they hadn’t yet had time to develop.
“He promised us a magic show tonight,” a disappointed little girl said, “but two bad men came riding up, and Carmen the Magnificent rode away.”
“Some things fell off his wagon. He was in a real hurry,” a lanky farmhand added, holding up an all-too-familiar bottle. “It’s hair tonic, see. My dad’s going to love this!”
Fenzig closed his eyes, shook his head, and urged his pony farther north. “I know you’re tired,” he told the animal, “but you’ve got to keep going, or I’m going to be very dead.”
By nightfall the gnome still hadn’t caught up to the peddler, though by questioning a few more people along the road he knew he was still heading in the right direction. He tied the exhausted pony to a bush near a stream and watched it graze and drink its fill. The gnome was ravenous, but he wasn’t about to eat grass, and he didn’t know if the berries he saw were safe to eat. He drifted off into a troubled slumber and awoke before dawn—hungrier than he ever remembered being in his entire life.
Again the gnome and the pony set off to the north. Fenzig didn’t bother looking at the line on his arm. He knew it was moving faster, that he had only a few days left, and that if he didn’t catch Carmen or Carmella by tomorrow afternoon, he might as well give up.
Maybe I should have directed all my efforts into finding a wizard, the gnome mused. Maybe another wizard could have negated the homing spell. King Erlgrane’s wizard said only he could reverse the spell, but the duke said he’d take care of it. So King Erlgrane’s wizard lied . . . I hope. That is if the duke wasn’t lying.
The pony snorted, rousing the hungry gnome from his thoughts. Ahead, near the road, two men were tied to a tree; their horses grazed contentedly several yards away. The men’s faces were covered with a red rash, and Fenzig sped toward them.
