A caravan of traders traveling north into the Melchor to obtain metal implements and weapons from the Trolls crossed their path around midday, and they shared lunch. The gossip was all connected with the hunt for the black unicorn and the strange events of the past few days. The King had gone into seclusion, refusing to see anyone, even the Lords of the Greensward. Public works projects had been put on hold, judicial and grievance councils had been dismissed, envoys had been sent home from Sterling Silver, and everything in general had come to a dead halt. No one knew what was happening. There were rumors of demons flying the night skies, monstrous things that carried off livestock and stray children in the manner that the dragons once had. There were even rumors that the King himself was responsible, that he had made some devil’s bargain to give the demons of Abaddon their way in Landover if they in turn would bring him the unicorn.
Everything seemed to revolve around the unicorn. The King had let it be known in no uncertain terms that he meant to have the creature, and the one who brought it to him would be hugely rewarded.
“If you can catch smoke, you’re a rich man,” one trader joked, and the others all laughed.
Ben didn’t laugh. He took his leave hastily and continued north at an even quicker pace. Things were getting out of hand, and a good part of that was clearly his fault.
By midaftemoon, he was in the country of the G’home Gnomes.
The G’home Gnomes were a burrow people he had encountered during his early days as Landover’s King. They were small, furry, grimy creatures that looked something like overgrown moles. They were scavengers and thieves and they couldn’t be trusted any farther than your pet dog could be with the evening roast. As a matter of fact, they couldn’t be trusted with your pet dog, because they considered dogs, cats, and other small domesticated animals quite a delicacy. Abernathy considered the G’home Gnomes cannibals. Questor Thews considered them trouble. Everyone considered them a nuisance. The appellation “G’home Gnome” came from the almost universally expressed demand of those who had the misfortune to come in contact with them: “Go home, gnome!” Two of these gnomes, Fillip and Sot, had made a pilgrimage to Sterling Silver to seek Ben’s aid in freeing some of their people from Crag Trolls after the Trolls had carted the unfortunates away for stealing and eating a number of their pet tree sloths. Ben had almost lost his life in that venture, but the G’home Gnomes had proven to be among the most loyal of his subjects — if not the most reformed.
And Fillip and Sot had once confided to him that they knew the Deep Fell as they knew the backs of their hands.
“That’s exactly the kind of help we need,” Ben told Dirk, despite his vow not to tell the cat anything. “Nightshade will never be persuaded to give up the bridle willingly. Willow has to know that, too — but that won’t stop her from trying. She’ll probably be direct rather than circumspect; she’s too honest for her own good. Whatever the case, if she’s gone into the Deep Fell, she’s likely in trouble. She’ll need help. Fillip and Sot can let us know. They can sneak down without being seen. If Willow or Nightshade is there, they can tell us. If the bridle is there, perhaps they can steal it for us. Don’t you see? They can go where we can’t.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dirk replied.
“Do you have a better plan?” Ben snapped back immediately.
Dirk was oblivious to his anger. “I have no plan,” he answered. “This is your problem, not mine.”
“Thank you very much. I gather you wouldn’t consider undertaking this reconnaissance and theft yourself then?”
“Hardly. I am your companion, not your lackey.”
“YOU are a pain, Dirk.”
“I am a cat, High Lord.”
Ben terminated the discussion with a scowl and stalked off toward the burrow community. The G’home Gnomes lived in towns in the same manner as prairie dogs, and sentinels warned of his approach long before he could see anything. By the time he reached the town, there wasn’t a G’home Gnome anywhere — just a lot of empty-looking holes. Ben walked to the center of the town, seated himself on a stump and waited. He had been here a number of times since becoming King, and he knew how the game was played.