“Hmm. Not worth much,” said Arvid.
“No, but—I wouldn’t have thought the robbers would throw it away.”
“That’s true. I—” Suddenly he stopped. They had all heard the sound: a rhythmic pounding, not loud, but distinct. Paks looked around. In flickering candlelight, she could just see a doorway across from the way they’d come in, and another door, closed and barred, centered the right-hand wall. Otherwise the room seemed empty.
“It’s that door—the closed one,” said Mal. He wrenched his axe free of the creature’s backbone and started for it. Paks got there first, sword drawn. Arvid and Mal levered the heavy bars up and threw them aside. Then they pulled the door open.
Candlelight showed a small room, hardly more than a cell. A gnome, one shoe off, stood poised by the door; his shoe was in his hand, where he’d been pounding the door. Another gnome lay on the bare stone floor, covered in cloaks.
The standing gnome nodded stiffly and put his shoe back on. Then he addressed Paks in gnomish. She shook her head, and he frowned, then spoke in clipped accented Common.
“It is that you lead this rescue? Or do you claim us prisoners?”
“I—” Paks looked sideways at Arvid. He spoke.
“Lady Paksenarrion commanded us for the capture of the robbers, and now we have come to see what else hides in this keep.”
The gnome bowed from the waist, and met Paks’s eyes as he stood upright. “It shall be that you have the reward of the Aldonfulk, lady. For this indeed shall value be given. It is that our partner of Lyonya is eaten by that monster, true?”
“We haven’t seen him,” said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. “Is that what you think happened?”
“It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will not say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical.”
“Is your friend hurt?” The gnome on the floor had not moved.
“Only slightly—he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength.”
Paks was surprised by the gnome’s composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome showed no distress. He turned to the other gnome, and spoke loudly in gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to see if the others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor stirred, and opened his eyes.
“Surely you are hungry or thirsty,” said Paks, counting how many days they’d been imprisoned. “We have water and food.”
The response was less than she’d expected; the unwounded gnome nodded and came forward. “It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the first day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gone. Then we had nothing. You will take us back to Brewersbridge?”
Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried it to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. “We need not so much food as you,” he said, returning the flask. “If you take us now—”
“But we haven’t found the priest,” said Ambros.
“Priest?” asked the gnome, with no change of expression.
“We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby—perhaps deep in this place—and directed the robbers.”
“Oh.” The gnomes looked at each other. “It is a matter for humans. We are not daskdusky, to search after the webspinner’s lair. If return to Brewersbridge, the return of your favor will be granted.”
“We might as well,” said Arvid. “We’ve lost all chance of surprise.”
“And we can’t leave these behind us,” said Paks. “They can’t defend themselves, with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get them to safety.”
“I agree,” said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. “I don’t know as I can fight as good as most days.” Ambros looked at him in surprise, then concern. His voice seemed slurred.
“Will your friend need to be carried?” asked Paks.
The gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. “It is generous of the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far.”
In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader’s death. Ambros and Mal hacked off the creature’s right hand and an ear as proof of what they’d found. The gnomes took rooms at The Jolly Potboy—they were well known enough that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained with blood, found Suli dogging her every step.
“Did I—I mean, I couldn’t get through the hide, but did I do all right otherwise? I didn’t scream, or anything—”
Paks felt tired. “No. You did fine, Suli—I said that—”
“Yes, but—you are going back, aren’t you? You’ll let me come? And I can take your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them—”
“No!” It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.
“But—”
“Sevri has her own duties—she’s not a washing maid. I’ll do it; any soldier learns to keep her own gear clean.” Paks could see that this was not pleasant news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. “I told you before, Suli—being a warrior’s not what you thought. Most of it is like this—cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you don’t do it yourself, you can’t be sure it’s done right.”
The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until she was tossed out.
“Your own sword, for instance,” said Paks severely. “Have you inspected it yet? Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It’s the grange’s sword—you should return it in perfect condition.”
Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard—sticky with drying blood and hair.
“Go clean that,” said Paks. “When you’ve got all the blood off, then polish it, and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard, then—”
“But how?” asked Suli. “It’s inside, and—”
Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this was a simple wood casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was notched for attachment to a belt.
“You’re lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge—sedges are better—and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to dry—don’t put the sword back inside, or it’ll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow, you’re done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart.”
“Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off,” grumbled Suli. Paks glared at her, sure now of her ground.
“Trouble! You don’t know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in your scabbard, and then nick yourself with dirty steel.” She remembered the surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. “It’s the way some tribes of orcs poison weapons, Suli. Store ’em in rotting flesh and blood.” She was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further argument. “Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening—you’ll need to pick up another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us.”
“Yes, Paks,” said Suli, subdued.
Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the kitchen, and her wet hair still chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to tell her the gnomes wanted a word with her.
“Why?” she asked.
“Gird knows,” he said. “Being as it’s gnomes, it’s some trading matter, I’d say. Remember that they’re as full of pride as bees of sting—and as quick with it, too. They don’t like jokes, and they don’t like someone misjudging them on their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange—good for good, and blow for blow. They don’t do favors, but they’re perishing fair, if you can understand their idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of the world.”