“He was here, then?” Sorter looked around, appalled. He couldn’t believe the kender’s bad luck in village- visiting. “Did he survive?”
“We haven’t found him yet,” said one of the men darkly, “if that’s what you mean.”
Elder Bammion looked uphill, where Sorter could see what remained of a dam. “I suspect he was on high ground when it happened.”
“That’s a relief,” Sorter said. He explained briefly about the missing books. “So I must find him before he hurts himself. Can you imagine how dangerous it would be for him to be roaming around with a Perambulating Hole-Puncher?”
The men stared at Sorter in a silence he took to be fraught with concern for the kender.
“And what will you do with him when you find him?” asked the Elder. “Will you be bringing him back here?”
“Thanks for your care and generosity,” Sorter said politely, “but clearly, the village of Dormar is much too dangerous a place for the little fellow.” He gestured at the wreckage of a warehouse. “What was this place anyway?”
“Our goods warehouse. Cloth, fur, jewelry, metals… The jewels can be washed, but I fear the metals will rust and the cloth is ruined. And the children are now without any place to work.”
“But now they can play,” said Sorter.
The elder grunted.
“What was in here? Trade goods?” Sorter asked.
“Exactly. We are on a trade route.” The elder’s eyes narrowed as he chewed his beard. “And trade is very competitive.”
Sorter nodded. “So Elder Ammion said.”
Elder Bammion stiffened. “Ammion from Gormar sent you?” He gestured. The men with the farm implements moved closer. “He didn’t happen to send the kender, too, did he?”
“Oh, no,” Sorter said. “But he did say that if I saw the kender, I was to bring him here to this lovely village. And he wished me a safe journey, and a long one.”
“Did he now?” The Elder seemed thoughtful. “Then we can do no less. Take our blessing, and food for the journey. Do not stop until you have reached the next village on the road. The village of Mormar. If you find your kender friend, I trust he will be comfortable in Mormar. I can’t help but feel our corn-petit- I mean, our sister village would benefit by his presence.”
Sorter, touched, shook the elder’s hand. “You say competition is fierce, but you can’t keep yourself from thinking of others.”
“I can’t,” the elder admitted, chewing on his beard. “It is a habit born of trading.”
Noon of the third day found Sorter walking down a non-muddy road with no more damage to it than wheel ruts. The gnome was highly gratified to arrive in the village of Mormar without seeing any signs of disaster. The dam on the hill above the city looked strong. No buildings were going up in flames. The marketplace was free of firefighting equipment and sandbags. The central warehouse stood as solid as if it had been erected yesterday. Through its windows, Sorter could see bundles and crates piled from the floor to the ceiling.
Ragged children worked carrying bundles and crates from the market into the warehouse.
“Hello,” said Sorter, thinking that he’d never seen children look so very tired or unhappy.
One of the children, a girl with golden hair, wearily dropped her wooden box before she spoke to him.
“Are you people?” she asked.
Sorter smiled and bowed to her. “I’m people, but not mankind. Have you seen a gnome before?”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “An inventor! This is wonderful-” She stopped and looked back at a frowning adult. “I’m sorry. I have to stay in line.” She hoisted the wooden box over her small shoulders that bent beneath the weight.
“Wait!” Sorter said. “What’s your name?”
“Lila. I’m sorry, but I can’t wait.” The child turned and shuffled into the warehouse.
Sorter peered through the window, watching her as Lila climbed carefully to the top of a stack of crates. He was startled by a hand on his shoulder.
“May I ask your business here?” said an old man, chewing his beard.
“I’m looking for a kender named Franni,” said Sorter.
“And what would your business be with a kender?” asked the elder.
“I just want to make sure that he is safe.”
“Safety is our first priority. After profit.” The old man bowed. “I am Elder Cammion.”
Sorter looked at him curiously. “Do you come from a large family?”
“Large,” he said, nodding, “and, like trade, competitive. Are you a friend of the kender?”
A number of humans carrying sickles and scythes came up behind Elder Cammion.
“I’m an acquaintance,” Sorter said, “but I’m working in his best interest. Is he safe here?”
“Oh, yes.” Elder Cammion said. “We act in his best interest because he acts in ours. He has offered us the help of wonderful technology.”
“Technology?” Sorter gasped. A chill traveled up and down him before settling near his heart.
Elder Cammion nodded. “The plans he carried were quite interesting.”
“But they are plans for war machines! Machines for killing! Machines for war!”
“Just so. We are, after all, one of three trading villages. Competition,” the elder said slowly and solemnly, “is fierce.”
Sorter looked about in all directions, but saw no kender. “Will you tell me where he is?”
Elder Cammion looked as he chewed his beard. “Franni the kender is working at our technology a good distance from the village. I thought that was for the best.”
Sorter was relieved. “It seems to me that villages like this are dangerous places for a kender.”
Sorter followed the elder’s directions that led to a cleared field outside the village. He saw that someone was raising a wood frame for a house in the field.
As he drew closer, he saw that he had been mistaken. The frame had three sides, not four, as would he required for a house, or at least so Sorter supposed. Three upright poles connected with what must be roof beams. The beams in turn connected at the apex, above a platform.
Sorter moved closer. Why a platform? Why did the platform have a rocker arm on it, with a huge pole extending, and a mallet head on the pole.
“That’s the Automated Siege Engine with the remarkable
Sorter walked under it, staring up. Strange noises came from above, but he couldn’t see anyone.
“Franni?” he called.
An iron chain with links as long as his forearms dropped almost on top of him. He dived for the ground as a cast-iron hook came to a stop so close to him that it ruffled the hair on the back of his neck.
An oil-soaked and thoroughly delighted kender slid down the chain, stopping with one foot in the hook.
“Mr. Sorter?”
“Just Sorter.” The gnome crawled out from under the hook. The kender had so much grease, oil, glue, and other substances on him that he was barely recognizable. “Franni?”
“It’s good to see you!” The kender hopped off the chain. “What are you doing here?”
Sorter said with a stern glare, “I’m looking for library books.”
Franni stared innocently back. “Then you should have stayed where you were, Mr. Sorter. There were lots of books there.”
“I’m looking for three books that aren’t there,” Sorter said.
“Three books? Now there’s a coincidence.” Franni pointed to his duffel, which lay alongside one wooden leg of the Walking Sledgehammer. “I happen to have exactly three books. Do you think they’re the ones you’re looking for?”
Sorter rubbed his eyes. “That depends. Where did you get them?”
“Oh, around,” Franni said vaguely. “Nobody was reading them, and that seemed a shame. They’re really
