Conundrum Page 3

  “Your Life Quest is to slay a dragon?” the kender interjected. “How interesting! Most gnomes” Life Quests are to build some useful device or other.”

  “Well, actually, it is a rather interesting story,” Sir Grumdish said, flattered and brightening visibly. “My great-grandfather Jugdish, you see, was trying to build a flying machine to aid the Knights of Solamnia in the great War of the Lance. He dreamed of one day becoming a Knight himself, and hoped his invention would pave the way for his admittance. Since dragons are formidable aerialists-as even I, who am sworn to slay them, must admit-he decided to model his machine on dragons, with various improvements, of course.”

  “Of course,” the three listeners agreed, nodding.

  “Yes, but he needed a dragon in order to obtain his measurements and design his pattern. Dragons are notoriously unwilling volunteers, having a natural dislike of being boiled down to their bones for the sake of our technological curiosity. Therefore, Jugdish determined to slay one. It became his Life Quest. After he was burned to crisp, the Life Quest passed to my father, Lugdish, and after he was frozen into a solid block of ice, it passed to me.”

  “Sir Grumdish, we are all servants of the Life Quest of our race,” Commodore Brigg answered fervently. “No evil has or ever shall corrupt our noble purposes, and if you come with us, you shall see that we are devoted to a quest of our own that will accrue to the further glory of the gnomish race. This I swear by the Cog and the Wheel, and the All-seeing Mobile Optical Scanning Device of Reorx, our god of old.”

  The gnome’s faced hardened a bit below his turban. “Those are indeed grave oaths. But be that as it may, what would you have of me? By the devices on your uniform, you are a ship’s captain.”

  “I am Commodore Brigg of the MNS Indestructible. This is Navigation Officer Snork, Cartographer and Chief Acquisitions Officer Razmous Pinchpocket, and Science Officer Professor Hap-Troggensbottle.”

  Sir Grumdish nodded to each in turn as he was introduced. Then he turned back to the commodore, his bushy white eyebrows raised in curiosity.

  “Indestructible is a Class C Deepswimmer,” Commodore Brigg said proudly.

  “A submersible!” Sir Grumdish exclaimed.

  “You’ve heard of them, then?”

  Sir Grumdish nodded his turbaned head. “Deathtraps,” he said.

  “Yes, well…" the commodore hemmed and hawed. “Most likely, you are thinking of the Class A or Class B. We’ve added a number of safety features.”

  “Of course,” Sir Grumdish said as he stooped and grabbed his armor legs by the belt. “Pardon me. I have work to do.”

  The gnomes parted to watch him struggle to drag his legs across the meadow to where the upper body armor still lay. Commodore Brigg followed after him. “And we’ve made the hull out of iron instead of bronze this time,” he persisted.

  “That… should… help it… sink… much… faster,” Sir Grumdish grunted as he tugged. Razmous and Snork each grabbed a foot and helped him carry his legs the rest of the way. With a sigh, they set the legs beside the body.

  “Thanks, lads,” Sir Grumdish said as he removed his turban and used it to mop his face.

  “Our mission, if you must know, is to try to complete the voyage of the MNS Polywog," the commodore continued. “The Polywog actually completed the west-to-east leg of the journey, but it was lost during the return voyage. It is Navigator Snork’s Life Quest to complete this journey.”

  “Good show. Best of luck,” Sir Grumdish said to Snork. “It’s getting dark. I’d better be a-looking for my warhorse. Thanks for stopping by and telling me about all this.” He extended one grease-grimed hand. Razmous shook it vigorously.

  “But we want you to come with us, to serve as security officer,” Navigator Snork begged.

  “We were hoping for a Knight, but of course a gnomish knight is much better,” Commodore Brigg added. “After all you are the only one… that is, I mean, you are a sterling example.”

  “Of course! But I must confess I am not a true Knight of Solamnia,” Sir Grumdish said as he retrieved his shield. “That’s why I want to slay a dragon. If I can slay a dragon, the Knights of Solamnia have no more cause to deny my petition.”

  He lay the shield over his armored legs and paused, thoughtfully stroking his moustache. “It’s funny, though. I have no interest in building a flying machine anymore, and the war’s been over for many years. But I still want to become a Knight. That part of the Life Quest is still important to me.” His face hardened once more as he turned back to the commodore. “In any case, I have no desire to be cooped up in a ship, or dragging drunken sailors out of portside taverns. Besides, there would be no room on your ship for my steed, Bright Dancer.”

  Commodore Brigg frowned and chewed his beard in frustration. Behind him, the sun lowered behind the nearby hills, casting long shadows over the meadow. Sir Grumdish dragged his lance over to his armor and shield, aided once again by Razmous. They placed it carefully on the ground.

  Sir Grumdish straightened his back with a groan, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Commodore,” he said sincerely. “I’m sure you understand. I have my own Life Quest to pursue.”

  Professor Hap stepped forward and placed one hand on the commodore’s gold epauletted shoulder. “Did we mention that we’ll be diving dangerously close to the portal to the Abyss?”

  “Is that so?” Sir Grumdish said, trying not to appear intrigued.

  “Indeed!” the commodore said, brightening to this new persuasive tack. “As a matter of fact, “will be diving right down into the abyssal chasm.”

  The gnomish knight raised a shaggy eyebrow, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. He then asked in a low, noncommittal voice, “You don’t suppose there will be any dragons there, do you?”

  “It seems inevitable,” Commodore Brigg answered.

  3

  The pounding on the door woke him from a black dream, one in which spirits crowded round him, touching him with fingers fine as spiderwebs, drawing the breath from his lungs until he didn’t even have the air to scream. He awoke from the dream already rolling out of bed, his hand fumbling at the dagger under his thin pillow. He sucked air through his clenched teeth and glared about the room.

  As he gradually recognized where he was and the last tatters of his dream began to fade, he tossed the dagger on the small, filthy bed and stumbled to a small table beside the window. Atop it, a pewter ewer stood beside a battered pewter bowl. He lifted the ewer and poured a stream of brown water into the bowl, then dunked his shaved head into it. Through the water, he heard someone pound on the door again.

  He lifted his head from the bowl and listened, water streaming down his long, narrow nose. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Messenger,” came the answer from the hall outside his room. It was a woman’s voice, muffled by the wooden door.

  “Messenger?” he asked suspiciously, still stooped over the bowl. With a sigh, he leaned against the small table, its rickety legs creaking under his weight as though about to collapse. “One moment. Let me dress. I just woke up.”

  He glanced out the window, seeing that it was midday outside. He could almost feel the messenger’s disgust at his apparent laziness, sleeping until the sun was high overhead. The city of Flotsam was a-bustle with business and trade at this hour, while he snored half the day away, dreaming of bodiless spirits. He shuddered slightly at the memory, and he could almost feel their feathery fingers upon him.

  He picked a tattered gray robe from a pile on the floor and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Not even bothering to belt it around his waist, he walked to the door, but as he reached for the door handle, he paused. He returned to the bed and, lifting his dagger from the soiled linens, tucked it into his sleeve.

  In former days, he might also have surrounded himself with a protective shell of magic strong enough to deflect almost any attack. The words of the spell came to his lips almost without thought, but they were bitter as bile, and powerless. The magi
c was a sluggish pool in him now, where once it had been a hot, raging river of power. The simplest spell drained him, where once he had commanded powerful magics in the service of his Dark Queen. He was a Knight of the Thorn, a gray-robed sorcerer in the armies of the once-Knights of Takhisis, now called the Knights of Neraka.

  He was still a Knight, still serving the Order of the Thorn, but he had little enough magic to command these days. The Order still found him useful, though-as a knife, a hand to wield a dagger in places an army could not go. Unlike many of his fellow gray-robed Knights, he was no pasty, thin wastrel quivering under the weight of a spellbook. He might have been a warrior, a Knight of the Lily, had he applied himself, for he was very good with orders-this person to be murdered, that cargo of grain to be poisoned, a ship to be sabotaged, a noble blackmailed, a merchant kidnapped in order to bring his family into line. If the Knights of Neraka needed something done in territory not directly under their control, they always seemed to call upon him.

  Because he got the job done. He didn’t always do it the way they wanted it done, but in the end the job was done. Even the impossible jobs.

  And it always began this way.

  He opened the door a crack and peered out into the hall. A little light managed to penetrate the grimy window at the other end of the hall, dimly outlining the face of a young woman with close-cropped black hair. She wore tight riding breeches and boots on her shapely legs, with a loose yellow blouse of thin cotton providing numerous places to secret a dagger or poisoned dart. A plain canvas backpack was slung over one shoulder, and she stood with one hand on her hip as she glared at the door.

  “Sir Tanar?” she asked incredulously. “Tanar Lob-crow?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?” he asked through the crack. “You’re not the usual messenger. Where’s Rogar?”

  “Dead,” she answered.

  “Figures. So you’re the new messenger. Did they tell you what to say?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Good,” he answered. “The password is that there isn’t a password. I’ll take that now.” He reached for the backpack through the cracked doorway.

  “I’m tired. I could use a bath.”

  Tanar laughed. “You are new,” he said. “Don’t you know where you are?”

  “Flotsam,” she answered angrily.

  “And this inn is the Ogre’s Tooth. You’ll get no bath here. For a bribe, you can get a pitcher of dirty water and a flour sack to dry off with. But you’re welcome to use mine,” he said as he opened the door.

  The woman entered cautiously, glancing quickly around the room at the meager furnishings. A sneer crossed her face as she paused in the doorway, then she flung the backpack at Sir Tanar. He dodged instinctively, catching the pack by one strap as it hurtled past his shoulder. The woman laughed, then crossed to the bowl and pitcher. Tanar shot her a black look and sat down on the bed.

  “What’s your name?” he asked as he undid the straps. His practiced fingers removed the intricate and secret knots in the leather cords binding the pack shut.

  “Liv,” she answered as she gazed in disgust at the brown water in the bowl.

  “Live and let Liv,” he said with a sneer. He searched under the flap without lifting it, finally finding the small metallic disk concealing the firetrap. His sensitive fingertips detected the trap’s invisible tabs, and he pressed them in the correct order to deactivate it. “Do you think you will?”

  “Will what?” she asked. She stirred the water in the bowl with her hand, testing its temperature.

  “Live,” he answered as he opened the flap and shook the contents out on the bed.

  Shrugging, she leaned over the bowl and began to splash water on her face and the back of her neck.

  From the upraised pack, a round silver plate tumbled out on the bed. As Tanar picked it up, he felt an electric jolt pass through his fingertips and up his arm. He almost cried out in surprise, but he managed to bite his tongue as he stared in wonder at it.

  It seemed an ordinary enough thing-a piece of fine silver flatware from some noble lady’s dowry-that is, until one noticed the runes engraved around its rim. And the aura of powerful magic that surrounded this thing was palpable. As he held it, he felt a delicious tingling numbness in all his limbs. He marveled that this woman could have had this thing in her possession for so long without feeling its power. He could almost smell it, like hot metal baking on the stove.

  Then it occurred to him that she probably wasn’t a magic-user. The powers that be would have chosen her to deliver it for that very reason. Any mage on Krynn would give his soul for an item such as this, for with it he could power spells. Artifacts from the time before Chaos could be used to power spells, but such items were rare as a red dragon’s good will. He wondered what its powers were and who had sent it to him. More importantly, he wondered why.

  Inside the backpack, he found a sealed letter. He examined the red wax seal, recognized its authenticity, and broke it open. He unfolded the note and spread it on the bed between himself and the woman. She had opened her blouse and was squeezing water over her shoulder with a rag. A muddy pool had begun to collect on the wooden boards at her feet.

  The note read:

  To Sir Tanar Lobcrow, Knight of the Thorn,

  The object accompanying this letter is a communication device of great power. You are ordered to keep it near at hand, for I shall soon be contacting you through it. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to contact me until after such time as I have initiated contact with you. At that time, you will receive instruction as to its uses and powers.

  You are, however, granted permission to use it sparingly to power your own spells. I cannot stress enough that you are to use its magic sparingly, and only in the direst emergency.

  You are further ordered to kill the messenger. If you fail, she will take your place.

  –The Voice of the Night

  Sir Tanar looked up from the letter to find the woman toweling off with a flour sack. Her back was half turned, but he took no chances. Reaching across the bed, he touched the silver plate and began to chant the words to his protection spell. Magic, so long stagnant, surged through his veins.

  At the weird sound of the chanted words, Liv turned, her eyes widening in alarm.

  4

  Normally, they would not have drawn much attention passing through the streets of the port city of Pax. Gnomes were a common sight here. They had their own shipyard, such as it was, though they didn’t just build ships there. The shipyard was located at a safe distance from nearly everything else of importance in the city, including the dump. Once upon a time, the dump had been much closer to the shipyard, but a gnomish milk-freezing experiment gone horribly awry had set the dump on fire, and it burned for forty days. The citizens relocated the dump closer to their city’s walls, while the gnomes spent the next eight years trying to perfect the garbage-burning steam-driven sugared milk freezer.

  But it wasn’t every day that the citizens of Pax witnessed four gnomes and a kender leading a beer wagon horse, astride which sat a Knight of Solamnia in full battle armor, bound upright in the saddle by an intricate web of ropes. The first real Knights of Solamnia they met upon entering the city tried to arrest them and free their captured “brother.” Only when they sliced through the ropes and their restrained and heretofore silent fellow Knight toppled in two pieces from the saddle did they believe the gnomes” protestations of innocence. Sir Grumdish was especially vociferous, demanding satisfaction with an immediate formal joust in a nearby rutabaga patch. Commodore Brigg and the others helped him set his armor back in the saddle while the offending “churls” rode away, scratching their heads.

  “I told you we should have thrown a blanket over him,” Razmous said as the street ahead grew thick with curious citizens. People hung out of the windows that crowded close along the narrow lanes. Whole taverns emptied into the street. Fishwives gawked and jeered noisily from the stalls in th
e market. Sir Grumdish gnawed his beard and eyed the crowd nervously, as if he might lay about him with his sword at any moment.

  They were followed most of the way from the city gate to the gnomes” shipyard by a concerned contingent of grim-faced Knights of Solamnia. It was apparent they believed that Sir Grumdish’s mechanical armor, though it contained no dead or captive brother Knight, was the ill-gotten booty of shady adventures, and they wondered if some law or other was being broken. That a kender was involved did not lighten their moods. Commodore Brigg’s obvious military rank held them at bay-for the moment-until their lawyers and clerks could scour the Measure and the city laws for some rule by which they could clap the five diminutive miscreants in irons.

  In any case, the gnomes and kender arrived at the shipyard without serious incident. Most of the curious citizens eventually dispersed. The Knights stopped at a safe distance, then posted a guard before returning to their duties. Meanwhile, Commodore Brigg and his companions paused on the overlooking bluff to take in the marvel and majesty of the scene spread below them.

  The bluffs dropped steeply down into the water, providing Pax with its famous deepwater harbor that brought ships from all over Krynn during the balmy months when the seas allowed travel between Ansalon and Sancrist Isle. However, no foreign vessels crowded the quays of the gnomes” shipyard, as it was located across the bay from the city. Instead, each berth held its own peculiar addition to the Maritime Sciences. At one dock, several dozen gnomes were busily installing a giant six-bladed, steam-powered fan into the hull of what appeared to be a large, flat-bottomed ship. Commodore Brigg explained that this ship, the MNS Blowfish, was a Class A prototype of a self-powered ship that would create its own wind to fill the sails. The fan was being mounted onto a hydraulic elevating swivel base that would allow them to change the direction of its airflow, to take advantage of the wind for drying laundry and sea soaked cargoes, and other such menial tasks. They had been forced to invent hydraulics first, of course, before they built the hydraulic elevating swivel base, but this new technology promised all sorts of uses, like keeping doors from slamming shut or for crushing garbage into neat little easy-to-burn cubes.