Chapter 13

Tasslehoff awoke in Baron Knakold’s home to the musical strains of a tuba floating in his window from somewhere below. Oktoberfest! Leaping up from the feather bed — which was a little too soft for his taste — the kender ran a hand over his blue leggings, checking to see if they had dried from their washing the night before.

The few damp spots left would dry quickly next to his skin, Tas decided, and slipped them on with a satisfied sigh. He never felt quite comfortable without them. A night’s airing had done the rest of his clothes a world of good, and he donned them with glee. Finally the kender strapped on his belt-pack, picked up his hoopak, and strode to the door.

The hallway was silent and empty as he stole down the stairs. He listened for sounds of life and heard pans rattling somewhere at the rear of the house. None of his friends seemed to be awake yet, nor did he see any sign of the baron or his dour wife.

“I’ll just go see what’s happening with the festival,” he said softly as he let himself out the front door. “By the time they wake up, I’ll have a lot to report. They’ll be so pleased when I tell them where all the best food halls and magicians are. Maybe I can even find other traders for Gisella to do business with.”

The sky was partly cloudy but it did not look like it would rain, Tasslehoff thought. He decided to find the tuba player first and, after stopping to listen for the direction, he set off straight down a cobbled street.

Shutters and doors were beginning to open, and cooking hearths were being stirred to life. Tas paused in front of a bakery and looked inside for the baker. Not finding him, the kender counted twenty-eight pies cooling on shelves just inside the windows. There was blueberry, cherry, rhubarb, apple, currant, and mulberry — Tas’s favorite — plus a large tray of raspberry cinnamon tarts.

A few doors from the bakery, a knife-grinder was setting up his display cases along the sidewalk. Still licking mulberry from his fingers, Tas paused to admire the keen edges on the blades of every size and description. His own little belt knife could use a good sharpening, he thought, continuing his stroll. A few moments later, the grinder was puzzled to discover an unfamiliar dagger with a worn blade sitting prominently in his case where an elegant, stag-handled clasp-knife should have been.

The tuba sounded very close as Tas rounded a corner and found himself back on the edge of the square where, on the previous evening, they had watched the workmen. His mouth dropped in surprise. Overnight the square had been transformed from a jumble of timbers into a wonderland. The bandstand, with its polished, carved timbers and rounded roof, looked as if it had been rooted to that spot for generations. The side toward the spectators’ bleachers was open, affording an excellent view of the band.

Actually, ‘band’ was a bit of an overstatement. Seated on the stage were two rotund dwarves in colorful, shortsleeved shirts and black knickers with embroidered suspenders. The tuba player’s cheeks and moustache puffed in and out in time with the music. His face was as red as his hair. The other dwarf, his moplike black and gray hair and beard bobbing in time, was strapped to an instrument like nothing Tasslehoff had ever seen before.

Though straps supporting the instrument crisscrossed the dwarf’s broad back, his stomach was so round that the contraption rested on it like a shelf. His stubby fingers danced happily over a row of square, wooden keys, carved alternately from white and black wood. Above them were round, black buttons, which he would occasionally push or pull. On top of all that, the instrument was connected to a bellows which the musician had to pump furiously the whole time he played. Its honking tone reminded Tasslehoff of a duck in flight.

For the next hour and a half, the kender wandered around and through the festival grounds, continuously discovering new things of interest, such as the locations of all the metalsmiths’ booths; where and when the axethrowing competition would be held; the judging standards for the rock-splitting contest; which ale tents were best; and where the tastiest dwarven stews could be purchased. He even met the oompa band members, Gustav and Welker, who let him blow into the tuba and play the instrument Welker called an “accordian.”

Tasslehoff was having such a good time that he lost track of how long he had been at the square. The festival was now in full swing. The kender stood at one of the ale tents, slurping from his second flagon, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Good morning, Mr. Burrfoot.”

Tasslehoff spun around, slopping ale on Woodrow’s cleaned and buffed shoes. “Woodrow! I’m glad I found you! I’ve met the most marvelous people this morning!”

“Found me?” Woodrow’s voice cracked, “Mr. Burrfoot, did you stop to think what Miss Hornslager would do to me if I lost you? She’d fire me for sure! Not that it’s such a great job, but I need the money.”

Tas’s voice filled with concern. “Gee, Woodrow, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard you sound so angry.”

“I’ve never had to watch a kender before,” Woodrow almost snarled. “When I woke up and couldn’t find you anywhere, I had to lie to Miss Hornslager at breakfast.

Do you know how much I hate lying? I told her you were still sleeping and that we would meet her here later. Then I slipped away and prayed that I’d find you.”

“Well, here I am. And if you must know,” Tas said, trying to sound indignant, “I’ve been exploring the festival and talking to people to determine the fastest route to Kendermore.” Or at least I intended to, Tasslehoff reasoned.

Woodrow’s ire lessened a bit at that news. “What have you discovered’!” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, I know where the richest ale is — would you care for some?” Woodrow shook his head impatiently. “And I’ve found a silver bracelet with gold filigree that I simply must have — actually, it looks a lot like this one here on my wrist.” He paused, studying a band around his wrist in puzzlement. “Anyway, I’ve just had a mug of the tastiest stew ever!” Dropping his voice, he added, “Please don’t tell Flint I said that.”

“Mr. Burrfoot,” Woodrow interrupted, “what have you found out about Kendermore?”

Tasslehoff fidgeted under his friend’s gaze. “I was just about to start asking people, actually.”

The wiry human took the kender by the arm. “Let’s hope Miss Hornslager has learned something, because she’s waiting for us right now over by the carousel.”

Excited, Tasslehoff slipped from the human’s grip, dancing by his side. “Have you seen the carousel yet? If you haven’t, brace yourself. It’s the most magnificent thing you’ll ever see.”

Woodrow glared at Tas. “Please, Mr. Burrfoot!”

Woodrow looked so worried that Gisella would find out about Tasslehoff’s solo adventure that the kender made a mental note not to let the human down. They found the shapely dwarf glancing around anxiously near the strange ride. She wore a skin-tight, sand-colored shirt and slacks that made her look, in certain light, like she was wearing nothing at all. A broadbrimmed hat perched on her pomegranate-colored hair shaded her fair skin from the autumn sun.

“Woodrow, Burrfoot!” Even their names sounded like a scold on her tongue. “I was beginning to get worried.”

Gisella suddenly turned her attention to the festival, and her eyes scoured the stalls, the tents, and the men.

“I’ve got a lot of deals to make today if I’m going to come out of this fiasco with a copper to my name, aside from what the kender is worth to me. I make my best deals in this outfit.” She was half-talking to herself as she unconsciously smoothed the tight fabric over her rounded hips.

Suddenly she remembered the kender and grabbed him by the collar. Her small, dark eyes burned into his.

“This is work, and I need to concentrate. I don’t want to be distracted by fretting about you. So stay close — but not too close. Better yet, stay close to Woodrow. Keep your eyes open and learn something.”

Adjusting her hat to a jaunty angle, she strode up to the first booth next to the carousel, that of a fabric merchant. Tasslehoff and Woodrow both noticed that she put a lot more wiggle in her walk than before. She paused for a few moments among the tables filled with bolts of brightly colored fabric, running expert fingers over each one.

“Good morning, handsome,” the redhaired dwarf purred to the buck-toothed, hunch-backed dwarf seated inside the booth. She judged his age to be well in excess of three hundred years. His crossed arms were so hairy that Gisella couldn’t tell where they ended and his beard began. “May I speak with your father, the proprietor?”

The old dwarf’s eyes roamed across Gisella’s tightly clothed form. “I am the proprietor,” he announced, his lips rolling back over his teeth in a grotesque smile.

Gisella’s hand flew to her mouth in a masquerade of shame. Somehow she coaxed color to flood her cheeks.

“I don’t believe it! Oh, now I’ve insulted you! I’m usually not such a blunderer at guessing a person’s age!”

She clucked her tongue and shook her head gravely.

“I’ve ruined everything. You won’t want anything to do with me, and you have the best merchandise at the fair t Please accept my apology.” She touched his hairy arm gently and turned to leave. “I won’t bother you further.”

She took a step from the booth, putting more wiggle in that one step than either Woodrow or Tasslehoff thought possible.

“Please, don’t be sorry, Miss — ?”

“— Matron Hornslager,” Gisella supplied, letting a grateful smile grow on her face as she turned to him again. This was one of the easiest fish she had ever reeled in. “Then you will deal with me? Oh, you dear man! To show you how guilty and grateful I feel, I’ll buy twice as much as I can afford! Mr. Hornslager will surely be angry with me, but I don’t care!” she said defiantly.

“By Reorx,” he responded, “I’d hate to think of you in trouble with your husband, whoever the lucky fellow is.

I can’t imagine any greater tribute to my wares than for them to adorn your lovely figure. I’ll gladly sell you twenty bolts for what they cost me, if only you promise to tell people where you got them.”

“Any twenty bolts?” cooed Gisella.

“My shop is yours,” he replied, with a sweep of his hairy hand. Gisella knew his eyes were glued to her swaying bottom as she brushed past him. Even though she found him repulsive, she did love the attention.

Now the hard dealing began. Gisella flipped through the bolts, casting aside anything she judged to be of inferior quality and grilling the merchant over weavers, cost, dyes, and age.

“This isn’t real silver thread!” she snorted, raveling a strand from the end of a bolt.

As Tasslehoff watched the dwarves bargaining, a whooshing, clanking, grinding symphony started up behind him. Turning, Tas realized that it was coming from the carousel! He immediately started forward, but Woodrow’s hand stopped him.

“But the carousel is starting,” the kender pleaded.

“Look at it! Animals going up and down and around in a circle. And it’s playing music!”

Woodrow stood fast.

“OK, then come with me and I won’t be lost,” reasoned Tas.

Woodrow eyed the carousel, intrigued but unsure. “I don’t know…”

“I do!” Tas cried. “Come on. Gisella will be looking at cloth all morning. She’s still arguing about the third bolt.” He pulled at Woodrow’s sleeve. “Just one ride.

We’ll be back before she even notices we’ve left. Come on, Woodrow!”

At last, Woodrow’s own curiosity overcame his better judgment. He looked back at Gisella, then trailed behind the kender toward the carousel.

Next to the carousel was a churning mass of gears and pulleys and knobs and chains that obviously made the whole thing go. Even though the ride was in motion, a short, bald gnome wearing an ankle-length, white coat and goggles on a cord around his neck, scurried to and fro with a handful of wrenches, twisting this screw, pulling that rod, and banging on that other gear.

“It’snotrightyet; themusicistooslow,” the gnome mumbled almost incomprehensibly fast, as gnomes do. He yanked out a knob and the music, a dirgelike stew of whistles, honks, and clanks, slowed down even more and went flat. Then suddenly it sped up until it was so highpitched that dogs in the city howled in pain. The gnome pushed the knob back in, and the music returned to its normal blare.

Arms crossed, the gnome stood back and nodded with satisfaction. His expression suddenly fell. “That’sfixedbuttheunicornismovingtooslowly. Where’smy wrench; IknowIleftitrighthere. Someonetookit!” He rummaged through the pockets inside his long, white coat and produced the missing instrument, nonplused. He poked it into the gears blindly, giving another bolt a twist.

As he did, the carousel’s wooden statue of a dog-faced kobold started pumping up and down faster and faster, moving so violently that the kobold figure’s head smashed through the roof of the carousel, giving its young dwarf rider the fright of his life and an instant headache to boot.

The gnome scratched his bald head in puzzlement.

“Thatshouldbetheswitchfortheunicornnotthekobold,”

he murmured, reaching in blindly again and giving another switch a twist. The kobold kept on bashing through the roof.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry.” He released the lever and the kobold slowed down. The dwarf on its back swayed dizzily.

“Where’sthatoffswitch? IknowIputonein.” Extending his arm through the grinding gears in a way that made Woodrow wince, the gnome groped around in the gear box and pulled things seemingly at random. The swan flapped its wings, boxing its rider’s ears, while the leprechaun pinched a passing matron and the unicorn bucked its rider completely off.

“IknowIputoneinheresomewhere. Orwasthatonmyboatsharpeningmachine? Ohdearohdearohdear….”

Frantically, he began pulling even more switches, making things worse with each tug.

“Maybe it’s this one marked ‘OFF,’ ” Tas suggested at his side.

“Itcouldn’tbethat —” The gnome shook his head, but before he could say more, Tasslehoff reached out and flicked the lever down with his index finger. The ride ground to a halt.

“Wellwhatdoyouknow?” The gnome’s face stretched into a surprised smile, which grew as he considered Tasslehoff.

“Your carousel is fantastic,” Tas breathed, trying to decide which animal to ride. “If you can fix a few things, like the animals smashing their heads through the carousel’s ceiling, it will be perfect. Did you think this up yourself? Is this your Life Quest?”

Tasslehoff knew that gnomes were born inventors.

Each was assigned a quest at birth — or inherited it — that they were expected to complete before they died so that they and their ancestors could sit next to their god Reorx in the hereafter.

“You could say that,” the gnome said, deliberately slowing his speech for Tasslehoff’s benefit. “You’re a kender, aren’t you? I’ve never seen a kender around here before.” The gnome smiled at Tasslehoff in a strange way, until the kender began feeling like a bug under a glass.

“I’ve only seen pictures of dragons and hippocampuses — that’s the one that looks like a horse with a fish tail and flippers for feet, isn’t it? Your animals look so real, like you’ve actually seen them up close, but of course that’s impossible, since dragons exist only in stories.”

“Many people think that, yes,” the gnome said absently. He looked closely at Tasslehoff’s face, then reached out a hand to squeeze his waist, as though checking for something. “You’re not very old for a kender, are you?”

Tasslehoff pushed the gnome’s hand away. “Do you ask everybody this many questions before letting them on your ride? If you’re worried that I’m too heavy, I’m sure I weigh less than a dwarf, wouldn’t you say, Woodrow?”

The human was looking back with concern at Gisella, who was nearing the end of the first of two tables of fabric. The carousel ride was taking far longer than he’d thought it would. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Burrfoot,” he said distractedly.

“Are you going to start the carousel up again soon?”

Tasslehoff asked. “I have to be going, and I really would like to ride on that dragon.”

“Of course, right away; let me help you,” the gnome said excitedly, gripping the kender by the shoulder and leading him onto the platform. “And may I say that the red dragon is an excellent choice?” He hurried Tasslehoff halfway around the carousel until they stood next to the dragon.

Tas knew that, as a race, dragons had been banished from Krynn by a legendary knight, Huma, long before he or any of his friends had been born. His eyes opened wide in wonder as he beheld the statue of the mythical creature. The dragon had been carved with painstaking detail. Six long, rubbery-looking bones, linked by fleshy webbing, formed the creature’s mighty wings. Its powerful, deadly claws had horned hocks. Spikes ran down its long, spade-shaped tail and continued up the dragon’s entire length, ending at the base of the horned skull. The monster’s face was a lumpy, frightening mass of bulging muscles and veins. The jaws were parted in a vicious snarl, displaying two rows of double-edged teeth, each sharper than a butcher’s axe.

Tas was most taken with the paint job. Each rounded scale was daubed with such precision that it looked as if the dragon could lift and flap its wings if necessary. The ruby-red color was rich, vivid, and glistening. Tas was reminded of tightly packed, juicy pomegranate seeds.

Looking at the spikes on the dragon’s back, Tas was relieved to find a saddle of a sort carved into the creature’s neck. Putting his booted foot into the stirrups that dangled from it, the kender hopped aboard the dragon’s back.

Woodrow selected the centaur statue behind the dragon so that he could keep an eye on his charge. Settling himself on the centaur’s lifelike, chocolate-brownhaired back, the straw-haired young man waited for the ride to fill up with dwarves so that it could begin.

Standing by the gears, the gnome rubbed his hands with glee and threw a big lever. The carousel jerked to a start, and the slightly flat, peppy bell tones of the carousel’s music roared from somewhere in the ceiling above the statues, drowning out all other noise. The animals bobbed alternately on their poles — when the dragon soared upward, the centaur plunged. It seemed that the gnome had everything under control this time. He hopped up and down by the gears, clapping his hands happily.

Tasslehoff was delighted, too. As the dragon rose and fell, its wings glided upward, then lowered again, as if the monster were truly flying.

“What fun! I hope this ride never ends,” Tas said to himself fervently. “I’m sure this is how it would feel to ride a real dragon — it’s too bad there aren’t any more on Krynn.”

Just then, Tas felt the dragon statue shift under him and rock slightly. “The gnome should attach these statues more firmly,” the kender thought. “I’ll just mention it to him when I get off.”

But to Tasslehoff’s surprise, the ride didn’t slow down one bit. Worse still, the shaking and shifting under him intensified, until it was difficult to stay on the dragon’s back. He wondered if Woodrow was having similar trouble, so he glanced behind him at the human riding on the centaur statue. Woodrow’s expression was bored, but turned to concern when he noticed the kender.

“My dragon is coming loose!” Tas called to him.

Tas felt his grip slipping even further. He pressed his chest to the dragon’s back, locked his arms around its neck, and wrapped his legs around the pole behind him.

Why wouldn’t that silly gnome stop the ride? Had he forgotten where the off switch was again?

Behind him, Woodrow saw the kender’s lips moving, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. Woodrow, too, had had more than enough of the ride. He gestured at the gnome as the carousel spun past. Wearing a strange smile, the gnome waved back.

Just then, there was a sharp sound of splintering wood, and the poles connected to the dragon statue ahead of Woodrow tore loose. Woodrow opened his mouth to shout a warning to Tas. Then his blood froze as he saw the red dragon’s head swing around to look at the kender on its back. The human’s jaw dropped when he saw the dragon flick its tail and flex its wings. The muscles in the monster’s back rippled beneath its red scales!

The dragon was alive!

Woodrow shook his head, unsure whether he’d imagined the dragon’s movement or really had seen it. When he looked up again, the centaur he was riding was staring into his face. “The dragon is getting away with your friend,” it said.