protection to the place, as neither mountain nor hill dwarves was amenable to having their lands entered by those who sought trouble.
As they neared the settlement Wingover recalled the simple rules of the place. 'Don't kill anybody,' he chuckled. 'It isn't allowed.'
The faint trail they followed wound down into a valley, toward Barter, and within a mile of the village they were among cleared fields on a gentle slope, with the village visible ahead. Wingover pointed toward a large pavilion draped with red and yellow awnings. 'The mountain dwarves are here,' he said. 'That's Goldbuckle's stall.'
Just ahead, on the trail, an odd object was moving toward the village — a triangular white thing more than a dozen feet from end to end and half that in width, it had the appearance of a giant spearhead, creeping along on spindly-looking narrow wheels that glinted in the sunlight. Garon
Wendesthalas studied the thing ahead, then shook his head and pointed, questioning.
Wingover shrugged. 'I haven't the vaguest idea what it is. I've never seen anything like it.'
They went on, and within a few minutes were close enough to see more details of the creeping thing. More than a spearhead now, it resembled half a bellows, partially closed. A series of slender ribs extended back from the forward point, all covered over with a layer of white fabric pleated so that each fold at the rear draped at least two feet below the rigid supports. Near the rear was a thing like a wicker basket, two or three feet across, set into the fabric so that only the top of it was clearly visible from behind. Narrow, slightly bowed poles slanted outward below the basket-thing, each tipped with a wheel that was nothing more than a metal ring braced from a hub by thin, gleaming wires. Beyond, someone was walking, only his feet visible, the rest of him hidden by the forward point of the contrivance.
'Maybe it's some kind of a rollable tent,' Wingover suggested.
'Half an umbrella?' the elf wondered.
'That big? Nobody would build an umbrella that big. And why does it have wheels?'
'Maybe because it's too big to carry.'
They came closer, and a suspicion arose in Wingover's mind. He swung into his saddle, touched heels to the horse, pranced ahead, and pulled up alongside the strange thing. It was longer than he had thought, possibly as much as twenty feet from point to rear, and while its trailing end was no more than three feet high, its long, slim point was well above his head as he sat in his saddle. He walked the horse alongside and leaned down to look below the thing's edge. He sighed and straightened. 'Just as I thought,' Wingover chuckled. 'A gnome.'
The thing stopped moving. Its point lowered a bit as a metal shaft swung down to take its weight, and its owner stepped out to look up at the horseman. He stood bellyhigh to Wingover's horse, and had a bald head surrounded by long white hair that blended into a silvery beard. That trait would have made him look very old…had he been human.
'Ofcoursel'magnome,' he said in a voice that sounded thin and irritated.
'That'sonethingtheycan't takeawayfromme. Bobbin'sthename.
I'meverybitasmuchgnomeasanyofthem, thankyou. Whoareyou?'
The question was so imperious, and came from such a small creature, that
Wingover couldn't suppress a smile. 'If I understood you correctly, you want my name, which is Wingover,' he said. 'But don't take it out on me, whatever you're boiling about. It isn't my fault.'
'Of course not,' the gnome said more slowly as he calmed down. 'It isn't anybody's fault. These things just happen. Though they could have been a little kinder about it, in my opinion.'
'Who could? And kinder about what?'
'Everybody. The Transportation Guild, the Master Craftsgnome… the whole colony. Kinder about getting rid of me, is what they could have been. If it had happened at home, I'd have had my say about it. But no.
'Out in the colonies,' they said, 'this sort of thing can't be tolerated.
Good of the colony,' they said. 'Best just to send the poor soul packing off into the howling nowheres, than to chance his infecting anyone else.'
So out I went. Kit, klacker, and Krynnbook, as they say. Speaking of which, I sincerely hope my map was right. That's supposed to be the village of Barter just ahead. Is it?'
'It is,' Wingover nodded. Garon had come up to them, and the man turned.
'I kind of thought there'd be a gnome under this thing,' he said. 'And here he is. His name's Bobbin.' He waved a casual hand. 'That's Garon
Wendesthalas. He's from Qualinost.'
Bobbin nodded curtly, then turned to Wingover again.
'How much for the use of your animal?'
'The use of… for what?'
'To pull my soarwagon. What else?'
'This thing? You look like you're doing all right, pulling it yourself.'
'I don't mean now, I mean later. Does your horse run fast?'
'As fast as I need him to, when I need him to,' Wingover replied cautiously.
'Good,' the gnome said, and ducked under his contrivance, then turned and peered up at the human again.
'I'll look you up when I need you. 111 supply the rope, so don't worry about that.'
Without further conversation, the small creature hoisted the nose of his contraption and trudged on toward Barter, towing the thing as he went, only his feet visible beneath it.
'Did you find out what that thing is?' the elf asked.
'He didn't say, just called it his soarwagon. But it doesn't matter.
Whatever it's supposed to do, it probably won't. I've seen gnomish things before.'
'Odd,' the elf said softly. 'I think that's the first time I've ever seen just one gnome. Usually, where there is one there are dozens.'
'I gather he's an outcast,' Wingover said. 'He was part of a colony, but they kicked him out. He isn't too happy about it.'
'That explains it, then. But I wonder why.' They resumed their pace toward Barter, but the elf remained thoughtful. 'Did you notice the wheels on that thing?'
'Yes. Very nicely made. That's a novel idea for wheels, to use wire spokes. Light and practical.' Wingover hesitated, then turned. 'I see what you mean. Usually if gnomes set out to put wheels under something that weighs ten pounds, they'll wind up using fifteen or twenty wheels and each wheel might weigh a ton… then there'll be traction devices, and who knows how many clutch and brake assemblies, and whistles and bells and adjustable levers to adjust the adjustments, and the whole thing won't move an inch under any circumstances.'
'Or it might throw itself off a mountain, or dig itself into the ground,' the elf added. 'Whatever that thing is, it doesn't look like any gnomish thing I've seen.'
Barter was busy. First snow shone on the high peaks of the Kharolis
Mountains, late harvests were being completed in the valleys, and people everywhere were preparing for winter. The trading taking place now would be the last until spring for most who came, and the village was bustling with activity. Dwarves, elves, gnomes, kender, and humans walked the ways and gathered at stalls and pavilions. Bards, acrobats, jugglers, and elixirhawkers plied their trades. Warriors, farmers, craftsmen, and clerics rubbed shoulders with wizards and rangers, and the usual volatile peace of Barter held sway. At any streetcorner, at any moment, there might be a dozen separate swindlings, thieveries, fair deals and foul going on simultaneously, but weapons were kept sheathed and no blood flowed.
'I see the Inn of the Flying Pigs is still in business,' Wingover noted.
'I'll be there when I've done my business.'
'I'll be around.' The elf nodded and started on his way.
'Give my regards to Goldbuckle.'
Some travelers were staring in fascination at the three pigs above the inn. On Rapping wings, they saiied about in lazy circles and figure-eights, as cheerfully content with their lot as any pig with wings might be.
Wingover grinned at a gaping newcomer. 'The innkeeper did a favor for a wizard once. No one knows what it was, or who the spellcaster was, but the wizard repaid him by making that unique sign to advertise his place. The pigs fly around up there every afternoon for a few hours, and it's good for his business. Just be a bit careful when
