The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  Anyway, what’s the cost of expendin’ a little effort to save a friend? (Especially a friend who was a damn good pilot and might win him more coin one of these days.) Gazlowe checked out every gate in the city and, by spending two coppers or less at each (money easily expensed from Aram’s winnin’s), quickly managed to identify Malus’s hidden lookouts watching each one.

  Okay, so getting the boy into the city might present a small problem. And keepin’ him safe once he was here might present another. But Gazlowe didn’t mind havin’ a couple problems to solve. He was good at solvin’ problems. Talented at it, really.

  Besides, it gave him an excuse to pay a visit to her. To Sprinkle. To the lovely Sprinkle. To the lovely Sprinkle, one of his many former flames. To the lovely Sprinkle, one of his many former flames, who was now married. To the lovely Sprinkle Noggenfogger, one of his many former flames, who was now married to a pompous goblin baron.

  Gazlowe laughed just thinkin’ ’bout it.

  Malus’s crewmen might have been waiting at every possible entrance to the city. But that was his mistake. Because Gazlowe’s crew were waiting outside every entrance to the city. Far enough outside that it was child’s play to spot two humans traveling with a gnoll, a murloc, and a dryad long before they were at risk. It was Sprocket himself who spied them through his telescopic lens, a good mile from Gadgetzan’s western gate. He intercepted them and, per Gazlowe, warned them of the danger they faced.

  If Sprocket’s warning sounded almost begrudging even to his own ears, he wasn’t quite sure why. All right, fine, he had wanted to pilot the Steamwhistle. But he could hardly argue with the end result. Or with the science that told him in clear terms that Thorne was the right choice on the basis of the weight issue alone. Or with the fact that Thorne had respected the engineering of the boat, had been a willing student and a successful pilot. Or especially with the money Sprocket had won in the endeavor.

  So what was it about this Thorne that rubbed Sprocket the wrong way?

  He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. He left them in hiding and returned to Gazlowe.

  On a lark, the baroness Noggenfogger decided to go on a picnic. She invited her very important husband to accompany her but was hardly surprised when he groaned that he had too much work. That was the best part of the enterprise. She could have her way, and he would feel he owed her something for it. Hah!

  So the baroness had her servants pack up her caravan with all manner of treats. Frankly, it was enough food to feast twenty hungry goblins. Nevertheless, she left nearly every servant at home, taking only the trusted Winifred and the two most mindless hobgoblins in her husband’s employ.

  On a whim, she left by Gadgetzan’s western gate. After about a mile, she had another whim and stopped to enjoy her picnic. And look who was there. Why, if it wasn’t her old friend—and once much more than a friend—Gazlowe. And didn’t old Gazzy have some charming friends of his own with him, as well? There was his engineer, Sprocket. And a rather charming human boy named Aramar, who drew the loveliest sketch of her in his little leather book. He had a tall sister, who looked nothing like him, named Masasa or Makasa or somesuch. Then there was a gnoll and a murloc, and the loveliest springtime dryad she had ever laid eyes upon. Her picnic was a great success.

  And just to be a bit silly, she hid the humans, the gnoll, the murloc, and the dryad in the secret smuggling compartment of her caravan. (She had once had to hide a stuffed yeti in there, so she knew there was plenty of room.) They were all going to Gadgetzan anyway, so why not have a little fun with the sentries at the gate?

  So she waved good-bye to Gazlowe and Sprocket and nodded to Winifred to turn the caravan toward home.

  She was the baroness Sprinkle Noggenfogger, so the sentries simply bowed their heads as the caravan passed.

  There were a couple of classless humans—they appeared to be little more than brutes or pirates—who actually stuck their noses inside the caravan as if they were looking for someone or something. Of course, all they found was the baroness. She expressed a certain amount of outrage over the incident to her hobgoblins, and she thought that maybe she heard the uncouth men being soundly beaten. But really that was none of her affair.

  On one final whim, she allowed Winifred to take a somewhat circuitous route home. The caravan passed through winding streets until Winifred was quite certain they had not been followed. Then it paused outside Winifred’s own small two-story abode. It was here that the charming Aramar and his only slightly less charming companions chose to come out of hiding. Since they were strangers in town and needed a safe house to stay in, the baroness suggested that perhaps Winifred might rent them a room. Before they could answer, who should arrive on the scene but good old Gazzy himself? He offered to pay for their rooms (which was the single biggest surprise of the afternoon, until Gazzy admitted the coins he had slipped to Winifred came out of money he already owed Aramar). They waited until Winifred signaled that the coast was clear, then ran en masse inside.

  Well, it was really none of the baroness’s concern. She was just gratified that all her nice friends were safe inside the city—and that in the process, both her husband and her former beau would each owe her one. Hah!

  Makasa eyed the goblin Winifred. Gazlowe assured Flintwill that their hostess could be trusted.

  “More than I trust you?”

  “Oh, yes. Considerably.”

  Makasa nodded.

  Gazlowe said, “You’ll be safe as long as you stay inside.”

  “There are things we need to do,” Aram said hesitantly.

  Gazlowe cocked his head and asked, “Like what?”

  He watched Makasa and Aram exchange a quick glance before Aram said, “Um. We need to bring Drella to a druid tender named Faeyrine Springsong.”

  Gazlowe said, “I know Springsong a little. I can quietly bring her here to you.” He got up to go. But he stopped and turned once more to reiterate, “Stay. Put.”

  “Frrnee Srngshng.”

  “Faeyrine Springsong.”

  “Frrnee Srngshng.”

  “No. FaeyRINE SPRINGsong.”

  “FrrRHNNE SFRNGsrng.”

  “Close enough,” said Drella.

  Murky repeated, “Frrrhnne Sfringsrng, Frrrhnne Sfringsrng, Frrrhnne Sfringsrng,” a few times. Then he rubbed up against Drella and cooed sadly, “Murky fflllur frund Drhla …”

  Drella said, “He says he will miss me.”

  It was only then that it hit Aram. Probably only then that it hit Makasa and Hackle, too. Gazlowe was bringing the druid tender, who would take Taryndrella away from them.

  Aram tried to tell himself it was a good thing. Good for Drella. Good for him. The responsibility to keep her safe had weighed heavily on him from the moment she’d blossomed.

  And yet … And yet … He’d grown quite fond of her. She was naïve and self-centered, while simultaneously fearless and generous. She was charming and adorable and capable of driving him quite insane. And, yes, he would miss her terribly.

  “It’ll be hard,” Makasa said with a wry smile. “She causes you nothing but trouble—and yet it’s a trouble that’s revealed something about yourself you didn’t know was there. It’ll be hard for you to let her go. Trust me, I know the feeling.”

  “You are all being quite silly,” Drella said sincerely. “It will not be hard to let me go to Springsong. You will not miss me.”

  Murky repeated, “Murky fflllur frund Drhla.” And Hackle nodded, too.

  “You will not miss me,” Drella insisted. “And I will not miss you.”

  Aram sighed. But he was distracted by a tug at his shirt. For the third or fourth time that day, he told the compass to “settle down.” And it did … for now.

  It had begun when they were hiding in the caravan. The compass had flat out gone crazy. Aramar Thorne was glad he wore it on Lighthammer’s new iron chain, because as the caravan maneuvered through the winding streets of the city of Gadgetzan—in an attempt to lose any possible pursuers
—the compass was yanking Aram left, then right, forward, then backward. It was glowing like crazy, too, and the needle was spinning like a top. Inside the secret compartment, he had told the others, “There’s another shard here in Gadgetzan, for sure. And I think it’s a big one.”

  Now, Makasa said, “You and I should go look for the shard.”

  Aram looked at her with surprise. “You think it’s safe enough?”

  “Of course not. We’ll wait for dark, but otherwise we don’t have much choice. Calculated risk was your father’s way. He wanted us to find those shards. So that’s what we will do.”

  “What about Springsong?”

  “Somehow I doubt ‘old Gazzy’ is in any rush to bring her. In any case, I doubt he’ll bring her tonight. If he does”—she turned now to Hackle—“don’t let her take Drella away until we get back. Understood?”

  Hackle nodded, glad as always to be Makasa’s trusted lieutenant.

  A voice said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  They all turned to see Winifred in the doorway. She was a handsome—if somewhat stern—goblin, with pale-green skin and unusual iron-grey eyes. Like many a trusted servant, she knew how to listen at keyholes and enter a room silently. Makasa looked to be on the verge of drawing her sword—enough on the verge that Aram took the precaution of physically staying her hand. “How much did you hear?” he asked.

  “Enough,” she said dryly. “But you don’t dare go anywhere smelling the way you do now. Even an ogre would notice that aroma. And you’re certainly not lying down on my bedclothes filthy as you are. They’d never recover.”

  Murky and Hackle both sniffed themselves and shrugged.

  Winifred held up a pile of white linens. “Strip off your clothes. You can put on these nightshirts while I launder everything. I have a hot bath drawn already. And there’ll be four more in quick succession after the first one’s done. You go first, ma’am.” She held out the top nightshirt.

  Now Makasa really looked ready to stab her. But she subtly gave herself a sniff and—unlike the murloc and the gnoll—clearly didn’t care for the result. “I suppose I could use a good bath,” she admitted begrudgingly.

  Winifred rolled her eyes—nearly setting Makasa off again—and said, “Been saying that, haven’t I?”

  So Makasa followed their hostess out. She came back in half an hour, wearing the long white nightshirt and carrying all her weapons. Aram had never seen any one person look so uncomfortable and so relaxed at the same time. “I’m going to take a nap,” she said gruffly. “Wake me at sundown.” She lay down on the bed and was practically asleep before Winifred had ushered Aramar out for his turn.

  By sundown, all five of them were clean and relatively cheerful. There was only one problem. Their laundered clothes, hung on a line outside in the late summer heat on the roof of Winifred’s house, weren’t quite dry. So all five of them sat around, waiting in five identical nightshirts. Truthfully, Makasa was the only one tall enough for the nightshirt to fit properly. (What the goblin Winifred was doing with five nightshirts better suited to worgen was anyone’s guess.) Aram felt like he was wearing a ball gown. Hackle was so embarrassed, he was practically curled up in a corner, the long nightshirt tangling him up like he was wearing a cocoon.

  Murky and Drella seemed delighted. Murky’s nightshirt didn’t fit over his head, so he had wrapped it around his torso in much the way he used to wrap his nets, which seemed to give him comfort. Drella, who generally wore no clothes except the fur, leaves, and flowers that were part of her person, was thrilled to try the nightshirt on. Hers fit over her head all right but lay bunched up on her faunlike back to no real purpose. But she liked the feel of the fabric and said as much multiple times.

  Finally, Winifred came back with their clothes. Makasa and Drella left the room to change elsewhere—though, again, for the dryad, changing simply meant removing the ill-fitting nightshirt. Aram waited for Winifred to follow the other females. But she was tsk-tsking over Aram’s ruined shirt. “This won’t do,” she said. “It’s all shreds and tatters. Hmmm. Mr. Gazlowe said he has money for you in trust.”

  Aram chuckled. “Yes, he seems to trust himself with my winnings far more than he trusts me with them.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll send word. Have him purchase a new shirt. He can bring it next time he visits. Is there anything else you need?”

  Aram thought about that. “Is there a boat to Lakeshire? I mean, a ship leaving for Stormwind Harbor? That’s the closest port to Lakeshire.”

  “Never heard of Lakeshire.”

  “It’s a small village in the Eastern Kingdoms. It’s my home.”

  “Well, there’s bound to be a boat to Stormwind. One leaves for there every week or so. You want Gazlowe to book five passages for you?”

  Aram thought of Taryndrella and the coming tender and sadly corrected Winifred: “Four.”

  Winifred raised an eyebrow and whispered, “So you’re really letting her go?”

  “We made a vow,” he said hoarsely. “It’s what’s best for her.”

  “If you say so,” said the goblin. “All right, that’s one shirt and four tickets east. Anything else?”

  He looked around the room for inspiration, and his eyes alighted on his cutlass. Or rather, Old Cobb’s cutlass. He picked it up and handed it to her. “A cutlass,” he said. “I need a new cutlass.”

  She examined the one in her hand. “What’s wrong with this one? It looks practically brand new.”

  “I don’t trust it.”

  She didn’t question that statement. In fact, it seemed to make some sense to her. Perhaps more sense to her than it even made to Aram. “All right,” she said. “Mr. Gazlowe can probably get you a decent one in trade. He’ll find a bargain. He’ll enjoy finding a bargain, I’d guess. So that’s one shirt, one cutlass, and four passages. Anything else?”

  Aram racked his brain, and one last thought occurred. He leaned over and whispered two words in Winifred’s long pointed ear. She looked at him strangely, but then nodded and left the room.

  He quickly changed. His shirt really was a disaster. Washing it hadn’t done the thing any favors. That is, it was cleaner than it had probably been since he left Lakeshire, but “shreds and tatters” was a generous assessment at this point. Nevertheless, he pulled his father’s leather coat on over it and figured he could make do for the time being.

  Under cover of darkness, Aram and Makasa ventured out with the compass to find the next shard. It was Aram’s first real view of Gadgetzan, with its strange circular buildings, sand-covered sandstone streets, and perpetually scurrying populace (composed of nearly every race known to him). The latter was a boon, as no one paid much attention to the children of Greydon Thorne as they followed their odd and eccentric course. Aram kept the device in his hand and let it lead them. It glowed and tugged, and the needle would turn this way and that, as the labyrinthine streets refused to provide a direct path to their prize.

  They seemed to be getting closer, however, when Makasa suddenly pulled Aram back harshly and pressed him up against a wall. They peeked out slowly and carefully. One of Throgg’s ogres from the Speedbarge—the giant with the pale-red skin—was leaning against a house and yawning.

  They backtracked and tried another route.

  Once again, it seemed that they were getting on track when Aram—his nose practically touching the glass of the compass—pulled up short and stopped without looking, grabbing Makasa’s arm.

  What? she mouthed silently.

  He sniffed the air, and she did likewise. An intense odor of jasmine wafted toward them on the summer breeze. Jasmine … and something rotten beneath it. Both of them knew what that meant: the undead Whisper-Man was near. They looked around but didn’t see him. But Makasa licked her finger and gauged the bearing of the wind.

  They took off in the opposite direction.

  Needless to say, their lack of substantial progress was frustrating. But they kept at it.

  A few
twists and turns later, Aram looked up from the compass and again stopped short.

  Again, Makasa mouthed the word, What?

  But Aram wasn’t looking at her and didn’t notice. He was looking inside the window of a darkened shop. A bookseller’s. He approached the window cautiously, as if seeing some kind of illusion that might vanish any second.

  Makasa risked a whisper: “Is it in there? Is the shard in there?”

  But it wasn’t a shard in the window. It was a book, a large volume. Common Birds of Azeroth. His father had kept a copy of this wonderfully illustrated tome on a shelf in his cabin aboard Wavestrider. Aram leaned his head down and inhaled the leather smell of his father’s coat. Between the coat and the book and the compass, he suddenly felt closer to his father than … well, than he had ever felt when the man was alive. Closer, at least, than he had since Greydon Thorne had left Lakeshire and his family on Aram’s sixth birthday.

  As if Common Birds were a book of spells that had enchanted the young Aramar, he found himself slipping the compass down beneath his disaster of a shirt, taking three steps toward the closed shop, and knocking three times on its locked door.

  “What are you doing?!” Makasa hissed.

  Aram hardly knew. But he knocked again.

  Through the glass window, he saw a candle floating toward the door from the back of the shop and heard a cross voice grumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” As the candle approached, it illuminated its bearer, a male goblin.

  This cranky goblin proprietor came to the door and said, “Can’t you read? We’re closed. And if you can’t read, why knock on the door of a bookseller?”

  Aram gawked. I know him, he thought.

  The goblin said, “I know you …” He unlocked and opened the door. There was a sliver of the Blue Child out, but the White Lady was almost full, and in her bright light Aram instantly recognized the distinguished goblin artist from the Speedbarge.