Aran raised his hand to make sure the scarf he had wound around his nose and mouth had not slipped. “A pox on all Solamnic Knights, I say. I think we’ll go have a look. Good day to you, sir.”
“Here,” said the shopkeeper, handing Aran a rotting tomato. “I can’t leave the store, but throw this at him for me.”
“I’ll do that, sir, thank you,” said Aran.
The three ran off, joining the throng of people heading in one direction. They found their way blocked by people yelling insults and tossing the occasional rock. Judging by the craning heads, the prisoners were coming in their direction. Brian peered over the shoulders of those in front of him and saw the small procession come into view. The Tarsian guards had their prisoners surrounded. The crowds fell back and grew quiet at the sight of the guards.
“There’s Brightblade, all right,” Aran announced. He was the tallest of them and had the best view. “And to judge by his ears, that man with him is the half-elf. There’s a true elf and a dwarf, and that must be Lillith’s prize kender.”
“Where’s the diversion?” Brian wondered.
“We can at least get closer,” said Derek, and they shoved their way through the mob that was milling about indecisively. The crowd had grown bored yelling at the knight and it seemed they might disperse when, suddenly, the kender lifted his shrill voice and yelled at one of the guards, “Hey, you! Adle-pated pignut! What happened to your muzzle?”
The guard went red in the face. Brian had no idea what an adle-pated pignut was, but apparently the guard did, for he lunged at the kender, who dodged nimbly out of the guard’s grasp and swatted him over the head with his hoopak. Some in the crowd jeered, others applauded, while others began throwing whatever came to hand—vegetables, rocks, shoes. No one was particular about his aim, and the Tarsian guards found themselves under fire. The kender continued to taunt anyone who caught his fancy, with the result that several in the crowd tried to break through the guards’ defenses to get to him.
The commander of the guard started yelling at the top of his lungs. The elf was knocked off his feet. Brian saw Sturm halt and bend protectively over the fallen elf, fending off people with his hands. The dwarf was kicking someone and punching with his fists, while the half-elf was trying desperately to make his way to the kender.
“Now!” said Derek. He commandeered a gunny sack he found lying in front of a vegetable stand and shouldered his way through the crowd. Brian and Aran followed in his wake.
The half-elf was about to grab hold of the kender. Not knowing what else to do, Aran tossed his tomato and struck the half-elf full in the face, momentarily blinding him.
“Sorry about that,” Aran said ruefully.
Derek swooped down on the kender and clamped his hand over his mouth. Brian and Aran grabbed the kender’s feet. Derek popped the sack over his head and carried him, wriggling and squeaking, down the street.
Someone yelled to stop them, but the knights had acted so rapidly that by the time those watching realized what had happened, they were gone.
“You take him!” Derek shouted to Aran, who was the strongest among them.
Aran tossed the kender over his shoulder, keeping one arm clamped over his legs. The kender’s topknot had fallen out of the sack and straggled down Aran’s back. Derek ran down an empty side street. Brian came last, keeping an eye on their backs. With only a vague idea of where they were, they feared getting lost and they made their way back to the main road as quickly as possible.
The bagged kender was emitting muffled howls and wriggling like an eel. Aran was having difficultly hanging onto him and people were stopping to stare.
“Keep quiet, little friend,” Aran advised the kender, “and quit kicking. We’re on your side.”
“I don’t believe it!” shrieked the kender.
“We’re friends of Sturm Brightblade,” said Brian.
The kender ceased to howl.
“Are you knights like Sturm?” he asked excitedly.
Derek cast Aran a stony glance and seemed about to launch into one of his tirades. Aran shook his head at him.
“Yes,” he said, “we’re knights like Sturm, but we’re in hiding. You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t, I promise,’ said the kender, then he added, “Can you take me out of the sack? It was fun, at first, but now it’s starting to smell of onion.”
Derek shook his head. “Once we reach the library. Not before. I’ve no mind to go chasing a kender through the streets of Tarsis.”
“Not just yet,” Aran said conspiratorially. “It’s too dangerous. You’d be recognized.”
“You’re probably right. I’m one of the heroes of the battle of Pax Tharkas, and I helped find the Hammer of Kharas. When are we going to rescue the others?”
The three knights looked at each other.
“Later,” said Aran. “We… uh… have to think up a plan.”
“I can help,” the kender offered eagerly. “I’m an expert at plan-thinking. Would it be possible for you to open a small hole so that I could breath a little better? And maybe you could not jounce me around quite so much. I ate a big breakfast and I think it’s starting to turn on me. Have you ever wondered why the same food that tastes so good going down tastes really horrible when it comes back up—”
Aran dropped the kender on the ground. “I’m not going to have him puke on me,” he told Derek.
“Keep a firm grip on him,” ordered Derek. “He’s your responsibility.”
Aran removed the bag. The kender emerged, red in the face from being dangled upside-down and out-of-breath. He was short and slender, like most of his race, and his face was bright, inquisitive, alert, and smiling. He twitched a fur-lined vest and garishly colored clothes into place, felt to make sure his topknot of hair was still on top of his head and checked to see that all his pouches had come with him. This done, he held out his small hand.
“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he said. “My friends call me Tas.”
“Aran Tallbow,” said Aran, and he gravely shook hands, then offered his flask. “To make up for the onion.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Tas, and he took a drink and almost took the flask, quite by accident, of course, as he told Aran in apology.
“Brian Donner,” said Brian, extending his hand.
Tas looked expectantly at Derek.
“Keep moving,” said Derek impatiently, and he walked off.
“Funny sort of name,” muttered the kender with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Sir Keep Moving.”
“He’s Derek Crownguard,” said Aran, getting a tight grip on the kender’s collar.
“Humph,” said Tas. “Are you sure he’s a knight?”
“Yes, of course, he is,” said Aran, grinning at Brian and winking. “Why do you ask?”
“Sturm says knights are always polite, and they treat people with respect. Sturm is always polite to me,” said Tas in solemn tones.
“It’s the danger, you see,” Brian explained. “Derek’s worried about us. That’s all.”
“Sturm worries about us a lot, too.” Tas sighed and looked back over his shoulder. “I hope he and the rest of my friends are all right. They always get into trouble if I’m not with them. Of course,” he added on second thought, “my friends get into lots of trouble when I am with them, but then I’m there to help them out of it, so I think I should go back—”
The kender made a sudden jerk, gave a twist and a wriggle, and before Aran knew what was happening the knight was holding an empty fur vest, and the kender was dashing off down the street.
Brian leaped after him and was finally able to catch him. Fortunately, Derek was far ahead of them and hadn’t seen what had happened.
“How did he escape like that?” Aran demanded of his friend.
“He’s a kender,” said Brian, unable to help laughing at the bewildered expression on Aran’s face. “It’s what they do.”
He assisted Tas in putting his fur vest back on, then, said, “I know you’re worried about your friends. So are we, but we’ve been sent on a very important mission to find you.”