the dragon’s lair, you’ll find that the cave extends all the
way through to the other side of the mountain. Cut your
distance in half and it will be safe traveling, now that the
dragon’s dead.
“No, no, we’ll be fine on our own. I know where Lord
Gunthar’s house is. Known all along. We make a left at the
pass instead of a right,” he said.
I was about to say that’s what I’d said all along, only
Owen was obviously real anxious to get on his way.
He said good-bye and shook hands with me very
formally and politely. And I gave him back the painting
and told him – rather sternly – that if he thought so much of
it he should take better care of it. And he smiled and
promised he would. And then he shook hands with Fizban,
all the time looking at him in that odd way.
“May your moustaches grow long,” said Fizban,
clapping Owen on both shoulders. “And don’t worry about
my hat. Though, of course, it will never be the same.” He
heaved a sad sigh.
Owen stood back and gave us both the knight’s salute.
I would have given it back, only a snuffle took hold of me
right then, and I was looking for a handkerchief. When I
found it (in Fizban’s pouch) Owen was gone. The snuffle
got bigger and it probably would have turned into a sob if
Fizban hadn’t taken hold of me and given me a restorative
shake. Then he raised a finger in the air.
“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he said, and he looked very
solemn and wizardly and so I paid strict attention, which I
must admit sometimes I don’t when he’s talking, “you
must promise me that you will never, ever, ever, tell
anyone else about the dragonlances.”
“What about them?” I asked, interested.
His eyebrows nearly flew up off his head and into the
sky, which is probably where my eyebrows were at the
moment.
“You mean . . . um . . . about them not working?” I
suggested.
“They work!” he roared.
“Yes, of course,” I said hurriedly. I knew why he was
yelling. He was upset about his hat. “What about Theros?
What if he says something? He’s a very honest person.”
“That is Theros’s decision,” said Fizban. “He’ll take
the lances to the Council of Whitestone and we’ll see what
he does when he gets there.”
Well, of course, when Theros got to the Council of
Whitestone, which – in case you’ve forgotten – was a big
meeting of the Knights of Solamnia and the elves and
some other people that I can’t remember. And they were
all ready to kill each other, when they should have been
ready to kill the evil dragons, and I was only trying to
prove a point when I broke the dragon orb (That’s ORB
not HERB!) and I guess they would have all been ready to
kill me, except Theros came with the dragonlances and he
threw a lance at the Whitestone and shattered it – the
stone, not the lance – so I guess he had decided the lances
worked, after all.
Fizban took his slobbered-on hat out of his pocket
and perched it gingerly on his head. He began to hum and
wave his hands in the air so I knew a spell was coming
on. I covered my face and took hold of his sleeve.
“And what about Owen?” I asked. “What if he tells
the other knights about the lances?”
“Don’t interrupt me. Very difficult, this spell,” he
muttered.
I kept quiet or at least I meant to keep quiet, but the
words came out before I could stop them, in the same sort
of way a hiccup comes out, whether you want it to or not.
“Owen Glendower’s a knight,” I said, “and you know
how knights are about telling the truth all the time. He’s
bound by whatever it is that knights are bound by to tell
the other knights about the lances, isn’t he?”
“If he does, he does. It’s his decision,” said Fizban.
And he was suddenly holding a flapping black bat in his