Feeling a little less exasperated, Teldin watched as Gomja closed the door and leaned against it. The farmer was exhausted by the day’s grueling examinations and disappointments.
“Peace, at last,” the lanky human sighed.
“Yes, sir,” Gomja rejoined slowly. He crossed to the window and stated down at the Unquenchable with a pained look on his face. He finally turned away and stood stiffly, almost at attention. Teldin ignored the giffs curious mood as he sprawled across the small chair.
Looking at the ceiling, his hands nervously twisting, Gomja finally ventured to speak. “Sir,” he began hesitantly, “what you told the gnomes, sir, about not going-did you really mean it?”
Teldin cocked his head toward Gomja and answered with a yawn, “If they can get this cloak off, then I’m free of all this. I’ll go home and try to start over. There’ll be a lot to do before winter.”
“But what will you do with the cloak, sir?” Gomja countered.
Teldin sat up a little straighter, noticing the giffs extreme nervousness. “Leave it for the gnomes to study, I suppose. I haven’t had time to think about that.” Unconsciously, Teldin’s fingers began to drum on the arm of the chair. “Just what are you getting at?”
Gomja swallowed. “Well, sir, it’s just like Astinus said. There are spelljammers here. And now, well, sir, I asked the gnomes for passage on the Unquenchable, for both of us, I mean.” Gomja’s voice stiffened, and he stood straighter. “I thought you would be coming along.”
“And now I’m not,” Teldin finished.
Gomja nodded affirmatively. “I have broken the chain of command, sir. Accordingly, you have the right to discipline me for this,” the giff said bravely.
“Discipline?” Teldin echoed, surprised that Gomja even thought he was upset.
“According to regulations, sir.” Gomja closed his eyes and recited from memory. “‘Unauthorized transfers shall be considered desertion of the third grade and are punishable by imprisonment not greater than 30 days, lashes not to exceed twenty-” Gomja’s voice shuddered-”and reduction in rank or grade, or such penalty as the commanding officer deems appropriate, not to exceed the severity of those listed.’”
“You’re saying I’m supposed to punish you for asking to go home?” Teldin rose to his feet.
“Yes, sir,” Gomja answered, his body still at attention. Teldin strolled to the window and rested his weathered hands on the sill. “And if I don’t?”
Startled by the suggestion, Gomja broke his rigid demeanor to steal a glance at the human, who stood with his back to the giff. “That’s the way it’s done, sir,” he explained, his voice filled with confusion.
“Hmmm,” Teldin mused, thinking over the curious request. Below him, a rope ferry towed a load of gnomes to the Unquenchable. Finally, Teldin turned back to the giff, who had resumed his rigid-backed and unmoving stance. “Private Herphan Gomja,” he began formally, “since you have admitted a minor infraction of regulations, I sentence you as follows: For the duration of our visit to Mount Nevermind, you are to prevent all gnomes in my presence from saying more than ten words at a single time unless I say otherwise.”
Gomja’s mouth dropped open, and his ears twitched. “‘What, sir?”
“Keep them from rattling on and on,” Teldin interpreted with a grin. “I think you’ll find it harder than it sounds. Now relax.”
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the bewildered giff. His shoulders abruptly drooped, his big chest sagged, and, with the lapse of tension, he finally breathed again.
Teldin, prowling the room, stopped at a table and toyed with a gadget made of gears and pendulums suspended from a numbered dial. Accidentally touching a small switch, the cogs started to whir and the pendulums swung. The thing made an irregular ticking noise and, justifiably suspicious of any gnome invention, the farmer quickly set the device down. “You still want to leave, don’t you, Gomja?"
Once again the giff hesitated. “Sir,” the giff eventually began, searching for the words, “I request a transfer from our platoon to the crew of the Unquenchable. Will you approve it?”
Teldin looked to the table, where the gnomish device still rattled and clicked. “We’re saying good-bye,” he said slowly. The farmer found himself reluctant to let the giff leave, even felt a twinge of sorrow at the prospect.
“If you approve the transfer,” Gomja answered. “The gnomes will be leaving within the week. You’ve been a good commander, sir.” The giff offered gamely as he patted at his elven sword, “I’ve even earned a trophy or two.
I’ve grown to like the big fellow, Teldin thought. Still, he knew he couldn’t keep the giff from his own people. “Once you leave, you won’t have a commander, you know,” Teldin pointed out.
“There are the gnomes, sir.”
“For your own sake, I wouldn’t want to see you under the command of any gnome. Are you ready to assume command?”
Gomja’s face was solemn and concerned, and he answered, “If I must, sir, but I’ll only have myself to command.”
“It’s not much of a platoon,” Teldin commented. “No, sir, but I won’t have to worry about mutiny.” Teldin chuckled at the joke. “You’ve changed since we first met.” The farmer held out his hand as an equal. The giff took it in his own, which dwarfed the human’s. “Very well, I approve the transfer. And as my last official act as your commander, I promote you."
The giff froze in mid-handshake and opened his mouth to protest, but Teldin cut him short by clenching down on the big fellow’s hand. “You can’t command a platoon without a rank. Congratulations, Sergeant Gomja.”
The flustered giff stammered a reply. “Th-thank you, Commander. I think it’s rather irregular, though.” The giff unconsciously squeezed Teldin’s hand back until the farmer winced and wrenched his hand from the giff’s grasp. The giff was so overcome with the honor of his new rank that he didn’t notice.
Teldin discretely shook out the pain, took Gomja by the elbow, and steered the giff toward the door. “Since you’re now an officer, I want to buy you a drink. Then we’d better find you a gnome tailor and see about getting a proper uniform.” Gomja, still dumbfounded, followed without protest.
Night or day made little difference to the gnomes of Mount Nevermind. With few windows around the outside conical peak, most never saw the sun for hours, days, even weeks, at a stretch. Each gnome adopted his own pattern and schedule, comfortable for him- or herself, yet utterly impractical for everyone else. One slept while another worked and a third ate, all in the same quarters. Some of the agricultural engineers tended their terraced outdoor fields by the light of the moon while others enjoyed their breakfasts when the sun hung directly overhead. All this confusion and disorganization did not seem to matter one whit to the gnomes. They blissfully accepted the strange routines of their neighbors and adjusted their own schedules accordingly.
For Teldin, though, it meant that within the dark heart of the mountain, the cacophony of deep-throated whistles, rippling bells, and gnashing gears continued unabated and the shafts through the rock throbbed with the jarring, unmusical rhythm of grotesque machines. In time, his senses dulled and he became immune to even the infrequent but distant explosions that belched from dark workrooms. Mount Nevermind never stopped doing something, but the human eventually found it necessary to collapse with exhaustion.
Floating on these waves of noise, Teldin tried to sleep after his very long day. While Gomja seemed to have no problem falling into a deep, rumbling slumber, the constant thrumming kept Teldin awake, each change in pitch and rhythm rousing him just as he started to doze off. The giffs burbling snores only added to the racket. It had been difficult for Teldin to convince the gnomes that he and Gomja needed rest, but finally the little tinkers had arranged a room, deep in the heart of Mount Nevermind, for their use. Suspicious, lest the curious, scientific types- Niggil in particular-decide to attempt some nocturnal testing on his cloak, Teldin had locked the door carefully before retiring.