"Wiglaf, I have the honor to present the official countenance of the honorable Has'san Hairsplitter," Thorin said in a barely disguised singsong voice.

"Hars'plittar," the weasel corrected.

"Anyway," Thorin said with a roll of his eyes, "this is the tax collector."

"Underassistant domestic economic redistribution specialist," the little man remonstrated, "for the west-northwest semi-urban trade zone, city of Calimport, kingdom of Calirnshan, in service to the Mightiest of Mighties, His Majestic Royal Benevolence."

"We've made our graft payments," said Thorin.

"Ah, but this is a special command visit," said the bureaucrat. "It has come to the attention of His Mammoth Munificence that a discovery has been made on his lands, in his kingdom, of certain items of arcana that may have significant historical… mm, significance."

"Your customers have been talking, Wiglaf," Thorin said with a rueful glance at his son.

"It's nothing but a bloody loaf of bread," said Sam, still absently kneading the dough.

"Nevertheless, under footnote eleven, subsection double-T, paragraph thirty-four, of His Unutterable Awesomeness's five hundred twenty-fifth royal decree, historical artifacts are subject to a special levy."

"This bread is definitely unlevied at the moment," said Thorin, as the bakers stifled chuckles. "Has'san, how are you going to valuate a pile of dough?"

"His Magnanimous Puissance understands the problem, and has instructed me to receive the tribute in kind. I fall to my knees and weep over his glorious generosity toward you."

"What did he say?" asked Wiglaf.

"His boss wants dough," Thorin sighed.

Hars'plittar slinked to Sam's table and reached for a knife. "The special levy for arcana is satisfied… so." He lopped off two thirds of the dough, draped it in a piece of Thorin's cloth, and hobbled for the door. "On behalf of the artisans in His Fearsome Omnivorousness's kitchens, and all of Calimshan, we salute your patriotic initiative in this matter and wish you a sincere and pleasant good evening."

The foul residue of his visit lingered for many moments after he was out of the door.

"Can he do that? How can he do that?" pleaded Wiglaf.

"It could be worse, laddie," Sam said as he rolled the fractional piece again and kneaded it into shape. "At least he left us with something. And that jar over there never made it up the chain of command. The bean counters forgot all about it. Better take it away before that ferret decides to come back."

"I'd love to pour this over his head," Wiglaf said as he stashed the jar in a pocket of his robe.

"Never mind that," Thorin said. "Let's get ready to close up. We'll have to leave it out overnight to let it rise." Sam placed the pitiful little measure into a greased wooden bowl-the smallest one on the premises-then covered it with a cloth and nestled it near the warmth of the great ovens. "Coming home later for dinner, Son?"

"In a while, Dad. I'm going to find Sasha and stop in at the Sheets. I want to see their faces when they hear that Calimport's biggest news comes from the bakery."

Finding Sasha and stopping in at the Sheets turned out to be one and the same task. After an hour or so of fruitless search, Wiglaf finally peeked into the tavern to find the late-afternoon trade in full flower, and Sasha at the bar in rapt conversation with Garadel, sipping some of the innkeep's best spiced wine and surrounded by five or six regulars. She noticed him at the doorway and waved him inside.

"It didn't take you very long to make friends," Wiglaf smiled.

"Well, some folk are friendlier than others," she said, pointing to Angrod and his mates, each nursing a tankard of ale at a far table in the crowded tavern. "That one there, he's very friendly."

"He told her he'd like to wrestle with her!" said a gap-toothed customer. • "He'd show her a few moves!" from another, and the group burst into cackling glee.

Wiglaf blanched. "Why-" He started toward Angrod, but Sasha held him back.

"No, no. I said it sounded like fun."

"So Sasha suggested they arm wrestle," said Garadel, not looking up as she swabbed the top of the bar with a cloth. A restrained giggle suddenly left her mouth as a spit sound.

"You beat him?" Wiglaf was incredulous.

"That hulk? Oh no, he won, all right. But trust me, he paid for it."

"It took two out of three falls!" crowed a patron, and others joined in.

"His face turned red as an apple!"

"He screamed like a banshee!"

"I thought he'd burst his bullocks!"

"Notice he's drinking with his left hand." Sasha nodded toward Angrod as he set down his ale to massage his right wrist. "I think Mister Swordthumper's had enough wrestling for today."

Over dinner that night, Thorin Evertongue laughed loud and long at Sasha's story, while Ariel smiled shyly at her son's "lady friend." To his slight dismay, there had been no need for Wiglaf to recount his seashore triumph in the Sheets, for during the afternoon the news of his discovery had spread there just as quickly as it had reached the pasha's palace. But he'd received his fabled free tankard of ale from Garadel, and before long he was in the spotlight as he'd hoped: adding plenty of delicious detail for a rapt audience, small bits of it perfectly accurate. Finally the pangs of hunger had called everyone to their evening meals, and Wiglaf and Sasha to their temporary home.

"Young Swordthumper won't stew for long," Thorin said. "He struts and roars like a wild beast, but he'll do no real harm. Your little match today was probably good for him."

"It certainly did me good," Sasha said. "He'll think twice before-"

"Thorin!" came a muffled voice from outside. The Evertongues' front door shook with repeated pounding. Thorin ran and opened it on a frantic Garadel.

"Someone's inside the bakery!" she spluttered. "Your cat's howling, crashing noises-we've got to stop them!" Sasha bolted to her feet and slung her broadsword's strap around her neck as Thorin grabbed an axe from the fireplace. Wiglaf fumbled through his pockets in vain, terrified he'd left the precious spell-book back in Schamedar and that Fenzig would therefore be roasting him on a spit soon after the intruders were done murdering his father.

"My book!" he shrieked.

"Oh, my goodness," said Ariel, going to the mantel. "Is this what you're looking for?" She held up the most wonderful, most delightful, most beautiful spellbook Wiglaf had ever, ever seen. "I always empty the pockets before I wash clothes, dear."

"Mom…" He grabbed the book and they were gone.

As they dashed to the bakery, Garadel shouted that some inn guests had complained about the racket outdoors: cats in heat, maybe, from the unearthly hissing and wailing. Then they heard utensils scattering to the floor and a loud crash, the cat only moaning louder. Thieves rarely plied their trade in this working-class section of Calimport, and heaven only knew what valuables they expected to find in a bakery. There was a first time for everything, though, and after all, there were such things as very stupid bandits.

Adrenaline pumping, they reached the bakery in minutes, braced for action. The street was nearly deserted in the soft moonlight and the flickering glow from strategically placed overnight torches on poles. A few boarders from Sheets to the Wind watched in their nightclothes from the doorstep across the way. Sasha crept up to the bakery door and quietly tried it. Locked.

They listened. There was no crashing, no clanging, just one thing alone: the kind of spooky, ululating wail that fathers use when telling ghost stories to their children. They had never heard Piewacket make such noise. She sounded like a wretched alto mutilating her scales; she was beyond upset, spiraling down toward full-blown feline catatonia.