any surviving furniture). This time, when they broke, the
Highlord’s sword separated from its owner, burying its
point in the china cabinet (shattering the last of the
unbroken teapots). Oster brought his sword around in a
mighty blow, aimed at his opponents’ throat, as smooth
and as level as carpenter’s beam.
Kali stepped forward and, in a loud voice, shouted,
“Oster, don’t do it! It’s your Columbine!” Or rather, he
fully intended to. A great, soft explosion blossomed at the
base of his own skull and he toppled forward. The room
pitched and the floor rose up to meet the gnome. He was
dimly aware of two other forms striking the floor before
he reached it, one the shape of a full human helmet, the
other resembling a human sans both helmet and head. A
part of Kali’s mind paused to calculate how long it would
take a plummeting gnome, a falling severed head, and a
crumbled body to all hit the ground at the same time. Then
the void closed up over him.
Kali awoke to find himself in his own bed, looking up
at a grim Oster and a worried-looking Eton. The
expression on his fellow gnome’s face told the story – that
shamed-dog look of gnomish responsibility when an
invention goes slightly awry, combined with a mild sense
of pride that the idea proved feasible. He still had his
combination plowshare-shovel in his hands.
Oster’s face was human and therefore unreadable.
Gray. It looked like that of a gnome who has realized his
invention is unworkable, and nothing could change that
fact. A look of defeat, tinged with worry.
“She’s dead,” Kali croaked. Not a question, but a
notation, a footnote.
“They both are,” said Oster, putting a hand on the
reclining gnome’s shoulder. “And the priest, too, I’m
afraid.”
“Both?” Kali’s brow clouded.
“The Highlord, and . . . and . . .” Oster shook his head.
“Eton showed me the tomb you made for her. It is very
sweet. Almost as if she were alive. When I pointed the
priest toward the bedroom, the Highlord was waiting. If
you hadn’t come home, he would have caught us both.”
Kali looked hard at Eton, hoping to elicit from his
fellow gnome an explanation that would at least bring him
up to date.
Eton avoided his eyes, and instead grabbed Kali’s big
toe and looked at his wrist. “Hmmm, confused from a
lateral conclusion. He’ll need his rest. If you don’t mind,
Oster?”
The human nodded and saw himself out. The
bedroom door had been replaced with a roughly-hung
carpet, and Kali could hear the human busying himself
outside.
Eton leaned over to check the dressing wrapped at the
base of Kali’s skull. The small healer grabbed his
caretaker’s beard and pulled him close, hissing so Oster
could not hear.
“How did you keep him from finding out?”
“Quick presence of mind,” whispered Eton. “Before
he could examine the body, I told him that if the Highlord
was near, other enemies may be around as well. Oster
scouted. I gathered up the pieces. By the time he had
returned, I had placed the body, still in its armor, on the
pyre.”
“And Columbine?”
“Still in her crypt. The Clockwork Hero made up his
own story, and did a better job than we did. He’s broken
up about it, but he’ll get over it. I think. Humans are so
difficult-to figure out.”
“Why the . . .?” Kali glowered at the destructive
weapon Eton held.
The other gnome sighed and said, “Because you
created something that worked, and I did not want you to
throw it away.”
Kali’s head hurt, perhaps just from the shovel blow,
but he wasn’t sure. He frowned, but remained silent. And
silence for gnomes means agreement.
“You created a hero, Kali,” Eton said quietly, gently.
“Oster arrived as a prisoner, a failure as a merchant and a
rebel. But because of all the lies you spun – the tale of
Columbine, the errands to fetch useless items – he found a
purpose in life. I knew you had decided to tell him the
truth, and I had to stop you. If you had told him, he might