"I just don't want them to do anything foolish," the Harper added. With one finger, she nervously scratched patterns in the dirt "I gave my word you'd be safe."
A dry chuckle purred in the gnoll's throat "My people, your people all alike," Krote whispered as he slid into the darkness. After only a moment, he returned from the shadows and tossed something through the pen's slats. Martine started and scooted backward. Krote broke into a dry laugh once more. "Look at it. It does not bite. Hakk was making it"
Martine gingerly picked up the small object, which curiously felt both smooth and raspy to her touch. In the light, it flashed wheat gold. She saw it was made from bundles of straw twisted and woven into a crude doll.
"Hakk make it for his cubs." The gnoll's voice was a gravelly whisper. "My people, your people, who is different?" The doll was cunningly fashioned from scraps of leather and cloth. The head was decorated with two specks of color for eyes, while two tufts of fur gave it wolflike ears. The hair was a thin daub of mud. Martine could imagine Hakk carefully mixing spittle and dirt until the texture was just the right consistency. In one knotted hand, the doll held a stone flake that looked almost like a sword. A braid of straw formed a belt; another scrap of fur made a loincloth.
Looking at the crude toy, Martine remembered the dolls her own father had made for her birthday, lovingly carved from a block of wood and then dressed in little gowns sewn by her mother. In her mind, she saw the image of Hakk, writhing beneath Vreesar's blood-soaked jaws. A lump choked in her throat, and tears blurred her vision. Furious with her lack of control over her own emotions, she flung the doll away into the darkness. "No! Cyric's damnation on you! You're not the same! You're not like the gnomes, and they're not like you!"
As if to prove her words, Martine sprang to her feet, and as she hurried down the hall, she heard Krote chuckle grimly as he crawled once more into the darkness.
It took Martine little time to make her way back to the main hall, her natural sense of direction holding her in good stead. The other gnomes were gone and the hall was almost dark, but Vil remained, squatting on the floor in serious conversation with Sumalo. The pair rose as she approached and had said their good-nights before she even joined them.
"'Ibis way," Vil said as he guided her down the hall to a
door. "Sumalo's arranged for us to stay the night I accepted for both of us. It wouldn't be a good idea to go back to the cabin tonight if the gnolls are about" He pushed the door open and waited for her to duck through the short portal before following her inside.
The room was narrow and windowless, a claustrophobic little chamber. It was furnished with a bed, table, and chairs, all gnome-sized, but these were all pushed against the back wall and stacked on each other to clear as much floor space as possible. The floor was covered with two neat mounds of thick bedding.
The warren doesn't have many human-sized rooms," Vil explained as he edged past Martine, "and Sumalo didn't want us sleeping in the halls in case they need to be used in an emergency. Hope you don't mind."
"It's fine. Almost as nice as your cabin." Martine pulled off her boots and laid claim to one of the beds. Compared to the snow cave she had slept in several nights earlier, this was positively spacious. Besides, she couldn't help noting, the company was much better.
Suddenly there was a loud, thunderlike clap, followed by the acrid smell of ozone in the air.
Vil sprang to his feet, practically upsetting Martine as she rose, startled by the explosive report. Quickly the pair sprang for their weapons.
With their blades flickering in magelight, the pair whirled on the source of the disturbance. A cloud of sulphurous smoke billowed in the doorway. When the smoke began to clear, a thin-faced man, smartly dressed in a traveling cloak, puffed and slashed doublet, and woolen breeks, strode out of the swirl of fumes, brushing tendrils of smoke from his slender goatee. In his other hand, the stranger carried a large satchel made of well-worn leather.
"Martine, my dear," the stranger said in an easy, familiar voice, "put away your sword. You're not under attack." 'Jazrac?" the woman blurted, practically dropping her blade in the process. Vil stood alongside her, his sword wavering with uncertainty.
The wizard casually sauntered across the room, giving the small quarters a disparaging once-over. The fight from the unflickering wail scones highlighted the silver and black of his hair with a theatrical glow. "Precisely, my dear Martine. It was the deuce to track you down. Now, may I put my bag here?" the tall wizard continued, hoisting his luggage. Vil let the tip of his sword sag to the floor in confused stupefaction.
"What what do you mean, track me down?" Martine stammered. "What are you doing here, Jazrac?"
"I read your letter," the wizard replied calmly as he plopped his satchel onto the furniture laden bed. The straps undone, the bag opened with slight hiss, like the sucking in of a breath. "And that curious bit of carving you got that gnoll to do. That was a clever bit of work on your part. But as I said, you're a hard one to track down. It took me a while to figure out just where you were."
As he spoke, Jazrac reached into the small bag until his arm disappeared all the way up to the shoulder. He removed his arm to produce a thick bundle of scrolls, neatly bound with string. That set aside, he reached back inside the bag and rummaged for something else. Confused, Vil watched the unannounced visitor shove his arm into the small satchel again.
Martine had no patience with the deliberately obtuse tack her mentor was taking. "Jazrac, I repeat, what in the hells are you doing here?"
The wizard paused in his unpacking and stared at the woman with mock injury, his arched eyebrows raised even higher. "Why, Martine, I've come to find out what kind of a mess you've made of things."
Eleven
Oh, gods, I'm doomed! Martine thought as she sagged against one of the paneled walls. At the same time, the color drained from her face, leaving her deadly pale. The thought that Jazrac needed to check up on her inspired in her a dread awe of the wrath the Harpers.
Where do I begin? How do I explain what's happened? Martine couldn't see any simple way to tell about her misadventures that wouldn't cast doubts on her judgment. Lying was unthinkable. The woman knew there was really nothing she could do to avert Jazrac's displeasure, and trying to conceal any of her errors would only make it worse. The knowledge that there was no escaping the truth didn't help her either. The fear of her superiors was instilled too deeply to ignore.
"Excuse me," Vil said sharply as he banged the flat of his sword against the wall. The loud crack was a sure attentiongetter. "What in the world is going on?" The warrior looked to Martine for an answer, all the while watching the stranger from the corner of his eye.
The color rushed back into Martine's cheeks and blossomed into a full blush as she was suddenly reminded that Vil was a spectator to her mortification. "Uh, Vilheim, this is Jazrac, Mage of Saerloon. Jazrac, this is Vilheim Baltson. He's the one I mentioned in the letter."
The wizard stopped unpacking, which was fortuitous, for the bed was almost overflowing with furniture, scrolls, bundles, shoes, even a thick pair of robes. Holding one hand to his chest, the senior Harper bowed slightly toward Vil, tilting the tip of his goatee toward the floor. "Greetings, Vilheim Baltson. Your home is extremely well built." The wizard looked down at the sword Vil still held clutched in ' his hand.
"Greetings to you, Jazrac, but 1 must explain that this is not my cabin," Vil replied, grinning at the error. "I'm not that good a carpenter. You're in a gnome warren."