Chapter 7 – Part 1

TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER SPY, ENEMY FRIEND DANGER ALLY

The Town of Cree, in the Eldeen Reaches, on the third day of Vult, 993 Y.K., in the mid-morning.

The first impression that customers got of the station was one of tidiness. There was not a speck of dust to be found, and the multitudes of cubbyholes and shelves were uniformly maintained. Each had just the right amount of wood polish, and the ones that held messages had the papers tied with the same exact length of ribbon, and each was inserted at exactly the same angle.

The Speakers Guild office may have been in the rustic town of Cree, but its standards were uniform across the continent. The gnomes actually competed at being fussier than one another.

To the left of the entryway was a long, low counter, meant for smaller folk, and to the right was a higher, human-sized counter. A large clock hung over the gate that joined the two counters. The markings on the clock were words in the gnome language for numbers, and each hand bore a stylized etching of a bird with leathery wings – a cockatrice, symbol of House Sivis.

A gnome in a long-tailed tuxedo stood precariously atop a tall stool of polished pine. The stools feet ended in tiny balls of elemental air that allowed it to rise up and down, slide sideways, or rotate clockwise. It was supposed to also rotate counter-clockwise, but the artificer who had last ‘fixed’ it had been in a rush, and as he was the office supervisor’s second cousin, no one was allowed to mention that little flaw. The gnome in the tuxedo had mentioned it. He was new. Now he was examining every square inch of the upper shelves for dust – and woe betide him if there was any to be found.

The bell over the door jingled, and the gnome turned to see who the visitor was. Or he tried to, since he first attempted to turn counter-clockwise. In any event, only a second or two passed before the gnome realized who was before him.

A humanoid of about three feet in height, plus or minus a few inches, came trundling through the door on feet that barely made a sound. It was a goblin. He was of a size with the gnome on the flying stool, but there the similarities ended. The gnome had carefully styled and greased hair, and perfectly trimmed mustaches. The goblin had a shaved head – or so it seemed, since a soldier’s leather helmet covered most of the things pate. A rough shadow around the jaw said that the goblin wasn’t much for shaving, either. The gnome had a fancy, long-tailed tuxedo, with shining brass buttons, and boots that gleamed. The goblin had ragged clothing, leather armor over a tunic so worn and stained its original color was only a guess. The gnome smelled faintly of cologne, and bathed at least three times a week. The goblin smelled of living in the woods. The gnome had a bearing of intelligence and decorum (or so he thought, from his practicing a professional demeanor in front of a mirror), but the goblin looked like it could barely string a paragraph of nouns together.

“We have no available lavoratories,” the gnome said huffily, sliding the stool so that it hovered above the counter to the left of the entryway. He enjoyed towering over the filthy creature. “And we do not encourage solicitors, beggars, or loiterers! Be gone, then!”

“Huh?” blinked the goblin.

The gnome sighed. “We are a message station, and we are not for –”

“Brezzy send message here?” the goblin asked, pulling out a bag and emptying some coins on the polished counter. Four silver coins, three coppers, and two gold galifars rolled out.

“Yes,” the gnome said, re-evaluating the creature. “You are someone’s servant?” The goblin nodded, a stupid smile spreading across its face. “Well then, you want a message sent I expect.” The gnome reached down and scooped up all of the coins. The idiot thing was over-paying, and there was no need to let it know that. “You have just enough here to use our dragonmarked agent here, he possesses a least mark, so it will travel at a mile a minute, it may take some day for the message to arrive. Where and to who, then?”

“Sharn,” the goblin said. The little wrinkled humanoid squeezed its eyes shut, concentrating so hard that its fangs slipped from its lips. The gnome shivered in revulsion. Even shifters were more civilized. “Ummmm…ummm…yeah!” The goblin’s eyes snapped open. Homer the half-orc! With Tharashk. Have to tell him about prospecting!”

“Ah, you found a mine, lovely,” the gnome said. “There are many Sivis stations in Sharn, which one –”

“Cogs,” the goblin said.

“Ah.” There was only one station in the Cogs. The deepest underbelly of Sharn invited all sorts of disreputable types. Likely this Homer fellow was looking for a private strike that he wouldn’t have to share with the rest of his House. No matter, not Sivis’ concern. “What’s the message?”

The goblin fumbled in another pouch, and finally drew out a nugget of some kind. The goblin turned it over, showing a spiraling pattern of quartz on the bottom of the nugget. “Describe this to Homer, yes? Homer will say if this is good value?”

The gnome barely kept from rolling his eyes. The idiot gnome had found pyrite! Fools gold! And it was attached to a geode of simple quartz! No doubt the filthy creature thought it was a dragonshard! “I will gladly describe it,” the gnome said.

“Get the pattern exactly right?” frowned the goblin.

“Exactly right,” said the gnome. He took a blank sheet of paper, produced a pen that conjured its own ink, and scribbled down a short message. The he looked up. “You can go now,” the gnome said. The goblin nodded, took his nugget back, and padded out of the station. The bells rang, and the door opened and closed, and the thing was gone.

The gnome shook his head, sniggering at the fool goblin, even as he cast a minor spell that cleaned the floor where the goblin had been standing.

An hour later the gnome was done inspecting the shelves and cubbyholes, and an hour after that the gnome with the least dragonmark of scribing came in, read the description, and sent it into the speaking stone. Twenty-two hours later the message arrived in Sharn, in the Cogs station.

And the following day, a changeling spymaster who carried great rank within the Dark Lanterns (a changeling who frequently pretended to be Homer the half-orc of House Tharashk), read the message, and passed the meaning of the nugget’s description on to King Boranel’s chief adviser. Bresbin Delavane was alive, and he was with Pienna.