It had the same blank-eyed stare she’d seen on similar pieces, except this one seemed to be staring straight at her. She couldn’t explain it, and her rational mind railed against the very idea, but she couldn’t deny it. There was something there—a presence, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.
For a moment she almost convinced herself that this was what Varnell had been conversing with. Then she shook off the idea, feeling ridiculous for giving credence to it for even a second.
He must have been talking to his familiar, she thought, somewhat doubtfully. She tried to picture the second voice she’d heard coming out of the many-legged thing that had coiled around the Guildmaster’s neck. Though I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a familiar that can talk back.
Whatever the explanation, she was clearly alone down here. The chemspheres on the wall began to dim as she stood still, regarding the stairwell and the door beyond.
She’d heard the key turn; it was a heavy door with a heavy lock. She might be able to eventually pick it, but not quietly. For all she knew, the door opened directly into Varnell’s personal privy, and she didn’t fancy the idea of bursting out and finding herself face to face with the man in that scenario or any other.
But she’d already seen that he left the door open when he came down here—she’d heard it close but not open. It would be safer to wait until the next time Varnell came down here—which, from the lack of dust in the study area, was fairly often—and then somehow sneak past him up the stairs to freedom.
Her time would come. Soon.
Well. She gazed around at the vast wealth of reading material that surrounded her, less despairingly than she probably should have. At least I won’t be bored while I wait.
Thirty-Four
Hoot-Hoots
Corey
“The little crapbags shat on my ark. Again.”
All five of the owlets cooed in chorus as though I’d just paid them a compliment.
Ket tsked. “They’re part of the tribe now, Corey. You should call them by their proper name.”
“Hellbirds? Mite factories?”
“No. And no.”
“Well then, what?”
“Hoot-hoots, of course!”
I glared at my sprite.
My denizens had driven me to distraction with their near-constant mimicking of the sounds made by the baby owls. For the last few days, all I’d heard was, “Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!” Naturally, Ket found it equally endearing and hilarious.
Gneil, being the animal magnet that he was, had taken charge of them. Apparently his reduced duties in priesting (and Hoppit’s increased responsibilities as a group leader) left him plenty of time for extra-curricular activities, and he and the acolytes seemed to be taking great delight in playing nursemaid to the little horrors.
“Hoot-hoot,” my high cleric cooed as he dangled a worm above five gaping beaks.
“Hoot-hoot,” echoed the acolytes as they scrubbed excrement from the sides of my holy box.
“This is an outrage,” I told Ket. Bad hoot-hoots.
Though I wasn’t massively impressed with this new development—particularly the part where the gnomes decided my chariot was the perfect location on which to build the owlets a new nest—I tried to think of it as an investment. The hoot-hoots—no, the owls, damn it—might be useless flea-ridden sacks of feathers at the moment, but my denizens should be able to train them up over time. The badgers had gone from four-legged freeloaders to draft animals and even occasional steeds; the owls would—hopefully—turn out to be just as useful.
Besides, if Ris’kin was okay with them being here, then so was I.
My avatar was handling her injury as stoically as Longshank was dealing with his. Still, I wished I could do something to help compensate for her lost eye. I’d already perused my blueprints carefully, making plans to evolve her with bat-like echolocation as soon as I had access to my mana again.
Since the incident, I’d contemplated switching our schedule so that we marched at night and slept during the day. The gnomes could see just fine at night, and most of the forest’s predators—including tiger owls—were nocturnal; it made sense that we should all be awake and alert when they were. In the end, though, I decided we had a better chance of defending against them from a guarded camp, especially with the non-combatants mostly sheltered inside their tents, than we did when we were all strung out in a line while walking. The latter just seemed to be asking for trouble.
The owl attack had shown that we couldn’t simply rely on the warriors and wagon barrier for safety. To prevent another kidnapping incident—and ending up with even more baby owls—our preparations for making camp became a little more complex. Well, at least for Binky.
At my suggestion, my beloved spider hybrid busied himself each evening constructing a complex net of webbing above the camp. The crowded trees made for the perfect framework, and in less than an hour the camp below was entirely safe from any attack from above. It meant pitching the tents much more closely to one another than before, which caused a few arguments to break out, but I’d rather have my gnomes grumpy and alive than comfortable and dead.
I was surprised when, on the fourth day, Swift and Cheer climbed up and removed Binky’s silken rigging from the branches. At first I was concerned that the sticky threads would damage the skin of their hands. Then I remembered the tanner had made a recent discovery: rubbing lanolin on the surface created a strong, waxy protective layer that let the gnomes handle the silk threads without incident. They could also scrub this layer away again in places where they needed the webbing to stick once more.
Swift and Cheer brought the webbing to Heidi. The tanner paid them in teeth—from animals, I hoped—and the three of them huddled around the stringy material, stretching it
