Sorter shook his head. Stacker and his crew had many months of work to do before the library could re-open. For a while, at least, no one would miss Sorter at all.
Sorter had no sooner left Mount Nevermind than he found himself at the first fork in the road beyond the mountains. He looked about, confused. He knew little geography and even less about the inhabitants of these strange lands. He knew that the island of Sancrist was not large, but at the moment, it seemed as immense as all of Ansalon with a few other unknown continents thrown in. He knew that one of these roads was an important trade route, leading through several small villages and finally into the great city of Gunthar. He knew that the other road was inconsequential and led into a swamp, but which was which?
Peering down the right-hand fork, Sorter thought he could see a wisp of smoke in the distance.
That decided him. If Franni had gone that way, he might be in need of help. Sorter tightened the knots on his sack, grasped his walking stick, and strode determinedly toward the smoke.
By the time he arrived at the village of Gormar, the wisp of smoke was a thick, dark, black cloud. A bucket brigade of men and women extended from a nearby stream to the center of town, where flames shot from the roof of a huge warehouse. Smoke poured from the front double doors and an upper window with a hoist above it. Men and women dashed through the doors of the warehouse, emptied their buckets, and dashed back out, coughing.
Just behind the bucket-wielding adults stood a knot of dirty children dressed in tattered clothes. The adults looked harried and worried. The children looked extemely happy as they toasted bread and cheese over the conflagration and watched gleefully as the fire consumed the building.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Sorter asked the children.
“School?” said one. “What’s that?”
“We don’t go to school,” said another. “The adults made us work there.” He pointed to the blazing building. “That is-they used to.”
The children laughed and munched toasted cheese.
“Guess we won’t be working there anymore,” said another. “Maybe we’ll have time to play.”
“Play,” said a small child. “What’s that?”
Sorter naturally wanted to do his part to help the poor people of Gormar. Sitting down on a rock, he pulled a scrap of parchment from his bundle and began designing a bucket conveyor with a flow-and-direction control trough at the upper end..
He worked feverishly and was able to complete the entire schematic by late afternoon. He hastened over to an old man, who was standing beside a vast expanse of smoldering ashes, chewing his beard. The children were long gone. They had gone off to play.
Sorter handed the man the schematic drawing. “This will save your building,” he said earnestly.
The man blinked at the drawings, then blinked at Sorter. “Oh.” Rolling the plans up, he tucked them under one arm. “Thanks,” he said with a nasty tone.
“What was in the building?” Sorter asked.
“Trade goods. Cloth, furs, some jewelry and worked metals. The metal and jewelry, at least, will be likely unharmed. And I suppose the children won’t grow too spoiled by their time off from work.”
“I’m sure they’ll have a wonderful time,” Sorter agreed. He felt about children the way he felt about Franni. “Ten years from now, they’ll remember this day as something special, roasting cheese and dancing by firelight.”
“I suppose.” The old man chewed on his beard again. “I am Elder Ammion. I lead the village of Gormar. Who are you?”
“I am Sorter.” To clear up any confusion, he added, “A gnome.”
Elder Ammion eyed him suspiciously. “You are the second stranger to stop here this day. And the coming of the first was not a sign of good fortune.”
“Was he a kender?” Sorter burst out.
Ammion raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. A friend of yours?” He gestured to a young man and woman who both wore swords. Fingering their weapons, they walked up to stand beside the elder.
“I barely knew him,” Sorter replied.
The two holding the swords put them away.
“I’m following him,” Sorter continued. “It’s my duty.”
“Someone should,” Elder Ammion agreed, glancing back at the ashes of warehouse. “What else has he done?”
Sorter raised his index finger in the air for emphasis. “By accident, and I’m sure through no fault of his own, Franni-this kender-departed from Mount Nevermind carrying on his person instructions for building some of the most dangerous machines that gnomes have ever designed.”
He paused for emphasis, then went on solemnly, “Can you imagine the disaster that could befall a kender in possession of the Fire-Breathing Calliope? Can you understand how important it is that we come between him and danger?”
Elder Ammion, chewing on his beard even more slowly, looked at Sorter in a sort of pitying way. “Tell me, gnome, what do you know about kender?”
“Not much, really. Just what they look like.” Sorter added earnestly, “But I’ve met this kender, and he is friendly, he loves books, and I’d hate to see him come to any harm because of the gnomes.” He added, sadly, “Because of me. It was my fault, you see.”
“Then you must leave here at once if you’re going to catch him.” Ammion led Sorter out to the road. The elder had a thoughtful expression on his face. “This road leads to the village of Dormar, our rival- That is to say, our sister village. If you find your kender before you reach Dormar, be sure to take him to Dormar. It’s a trading town, like ourselves.” He stared hard at the gnome. “Trade competition is fierce. Yes, I would think Dormar would be a good place for a kender to stop and rest.”
Sorter was touched by the human’s concern for the kender.
The third-to-last thing Elder Ammion said, as Sorter was starting off, was, “Will you be coming back this way?”
Sorter looked at the twisting road ahead. “I hope to.”
The second-to-last thing Elder Ammion said was, “And will you be bringing your kender back with you?”
“Oh, no.” Sorter shook his head vigorously. “Only the books he mistakenly took with him. The village of Gormar is obviously much too dangerous a place for a kender.”
The last thing Elder Ammion said was, “In that case, I bid you safe journey. Travel far, good gnome.
The village of Dormar was a day’s journey away, but the trip took Sorter far longer, due to the poor conditions of the highway. The road was extremely muddy. Entire parts of it had been washed out. Sorter walked carefully, leaping over the gullies, slogging through the mud, and climbing around the potholes. Finally, he left the road and walked alongside it. The grass and brush were soaking wet, but at least they didn’t stick to his boots.
The village of Dormar looked odd to him upon arrival. It was all roofs with no houses. When he got closer, he realized that there were houses, but they had all been covered with mud.
Upon entering the mud-clogged village, Sorter noticed children having a wonderful time, stomping in the puddles, wrestling in the mud, sailing small stick-boats in the streams of water that ran down the streets. He smiled, and stopped a moment to help a child create a three-masted schooner that sailed upstream until it grounded itself on a cobblestone.
Next Sorter noticed a group of adults moving through the village. The men had sopping wet hair and clothes and were covered in mud. They carried shovels, rakes, and threshers and looked extremely menacing.
Leading them was an old man, who chewed menacingly on his beard. Glaring at Sorter, the man stopped and brought his troops to a halt behind him.
“I am Elder Bammion. Who are you, and what brings you to Dormar?”
“My name is Sorter,” said Sorter. “I’m looking for a kender.”
“So are we!” the men growled.
