They had no idea he was there, and that suited him just fine.
Teamsters shouted and a horn blew as the spicers’ caravan began to move. Enormous draft horses leaned into their harnesses and heaved the large, brightly colored wagons of the trade caravan into motion once more. Lanterns swayed back and forth, the shadows they cast among the trees and underbrush wobbling as the wagons passed. Imposing guards kept a careful eye on their surroundings as they walked alongside.
They rumbled into the distance, leaving the small shrine to the Wayfarer deserted. The statue of the hooded goddess seemed to smile mysteriously in the glow of the lantern held in her hand.
The bushes behind the shrine began to rustle and shake, and with a considerable amount of struggle and cursing, a gnome crawled out from where he’d hidden from the caravan. After standing to his full height (about waist-high to the average human, maybe less) and brushing leaves and mud from the knees of his breeches, he pulled his cap out of the thorns and jammed it on his head. Combing dried twigs from his goatee and mustache, he stamped his booted feet in frustration. He reached up under his green woolen cloak and shrugged off his pack, then shuffled around to the front of the shrine. He sat on the step, set down his pack, and sighed.
“This getting out of town and disappearing business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is it Dell?” he asked himself. He rummaged through the pack, producing a handkerchief and flask, poured a bit of clear liquid onto the handkerchief, then dabbed at the shallow cuts on his face he’d gotten from diving into the thorns to hide. Hissing at the sting, he put the handkerchief in his pocket before taking a deep pull off the flask.
After a few moments’ rest, the gnome stood up and shouldered his pack again. He pulled his cloak back into place, straightened his cap, and walked up to the statue of the goddess.
“Hello again, it’s Dellromoz Kablizzawack. You probably already know that. I’m not any good at this...” he began. He pulled the cap off his head, and wrung it in his hands, his head lowered. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me get this far, it’s been a rough couple of weeks since I left Drumlummon. I’ve been trying to avoid being seen, so I haven’t been able to sleep in the taverns or inns along the way, you probably know why. There’s been a safe place to rest every time I needed to, and my luck isn’t that good on its own. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed my journey, but I haven’t come to grief from bandits or a wild beast. So thank you, and I hope you can continue to show me the way.”
He pulled the flask out of a pocket and unscrewed the cap. “I don’t have any lamp oil, sorry about that. I had to pack in a hurry, and I haven’t traveled much before, so I forgot it. Hopefully this is alright.” He stood on his toes and reached up to pour a bit of the clear liquid into the oil reservoir for the statue’s lantern. The flame danced merrily as the volatile spirits began to burn.
“Well, I’d best be off, I still have a ways to go. Thank you again!” Dellromoz gave a bow from his waist, then straightened and pulled his cap back on between his large, slightly-pointed ears. He turned and strode out into the night as the full moon rose over a distant, snow-covered peak, nervously picking at the cockleburs stuck to his clothes with his long fingers.
A few nights later, Dell climbed out of a ninebark bush after a handful of riders passed. He marched down the rutted dirt track as it wound along the side of the ridge until it turned, giving him his first view of his destination. The waning moon drifted over a mountain valley, with a forest of fir, spruce, and larch trees rising up the slopes to the treeline, above which the peaks were still covered with snow. A river wandered through the valley floor, its course traced by lanterns hanging from horse-drawn barges. Near the center of the valley, a small city perched over the riverbank, surrounded by a wooden palisade. The bank there was reinforced with stone, and a wharf bustled with barges coming and going, despite the late hour.
“Stanhope, at last!” he whispered to himself. Finally, his terrible journey was over. No more scrambling into a treetop to sleep, no more meals of ship’s biscuit and acorns, no more hiding amongst the thorns of a wild rose while other travelers took their sweet time passing by, no more smelling like an unwashed beggar, no more hypothermia after bathing in a frigid stream. He pulled off his cap, its long green tail adorned by a single tassel the red of autumn leaves, and brushed off a couple of small twigs before carefully replacing it atop the bald crown of his head. With a renewed spring in his step, he set off down the road again.
Soon, Dellromoz was beaming up at the impassive faces of a pair of watchmen who stood next to a door through the main gate, which was closed. They wore broad-brimmed, black felt hats, a coat of thick brown leather that covered them completely from their chins down to their ankles, and heavy black boots. Each had a billhook in their right hand, the intimidating spiked head looming above, and a keyring on their belt.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” Dell smiled as he pictured himself knocking on his second-cousin’s door, eating a warm meal, and taking a hot bath for the first time in weeks.
“That remains to be seen.” The one on the right replied, his face displaying neither malice, nor mirth. The watchman on the left watched Dell silently, his face also giving nothing away. “State your name.”
“Findlay,” Dell replied with a hint of nervousness, “Findlay Dustromplexcet.”
“What’s your business in Stanhope, Mr. Dustromplexcet?” the watchman on the right asked, pronouncing the alias exactly as Dell had, without even a hint of a stumble. That wasn’t a good sign, a man who could easily remember the unfamiliar name likely wouldn’t forget his face either.
“I’m visiting family, they have a house on Meadowlark Lane.” That was actually true, he had chosen the story to lend his false identity credibility. Meadowlark Lane was part of Half Hill, a neighborhood catering towards the more diminutive races; gnomes, goblins, jackalope, maybe the occasional brownie.
“Papers?”
“Of course, of course!” Dell took off his pack, unbuckled a pocket near the top and reached in, quickly choosing a wallet with a set of documents he’d paid a forger to produce for him back in Drumlummon. He had two other sets of fakes, as well as his real papers, tucked away in the pack. The counterfeits were the best he’d ever seen, and he smiled confidently as he handed the leatherbound bundle over.
The watchman on the right accepted the documents and pulled a lantern off a nearby hanger to examine them, the billhook tucked against his body by his elbow. The watchman on the left never took his eyes off Dell, his billhook firmly in hand. He still hadn’t said a word.
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After reading every document in the wallet front to back, the (relatively) talkative watchman snapped it shut, but instead of handing it back to Dell, he slid it into a pocket inside his coat. “Step this way, Mr. Dustromplexcet.” He turned, opened the door, and stepped through, without turning around to see if Dell was following.
Dell glanced at the other watchman, who was still watching him, but had yet to move or speak. Not knowing what else to do, he jogged over and hopped through the doorway, hustling to catch up to the man carrying hisextremely illegal falsified documents, who did not appear to be concerned about whether Dell was following him or not. The silent watchman stepped through the doorway, closed it, and locked it behind them, the keyring jangling as he clipped it back onto his belt.
“You still have my papers...” Dell huffed as he caught up to the watchman.
“That is correct.”
“May I ask why?”
“You may ask.” the watchman replied. He did not elaborate.
After a few seconds Dell realized his error. “Why do you still have my papers?” he asked.
“The gates are closed. After-hours entries are subject to mandatory documentation.”
Dell winced before he could catch himself. He’d been trying to avoid a paper trail, but he’d never been to Stanhope, and wasn’t familiar with their procedures.
It’s fine, he thought to himself, nobody is looking for Findlay Dustromplexcet. This isn’t a problem.
The silent watchman had caught up to them, his long strides more than sufficient to overtake Dell and the watchman with his fake documents. He walked a step behind Dell, who could feel his gaze on the back of his neck. They arrived at a two story building next to the wall, which Dell assumed must be the watchhouse. Several of the windows had lamplight shining through, especially on the second floor. The first story windows featured iron bars to prevent unauthorized entry or exit. A thick wooden door bound in wrought iron was illuminated by a lantern hanging from a hook next to it. The watchman who Dell was beginning to think of as “Talker” lifted the latch and stepped inside. Dell decided to call the one behind him “Fighter”, since there was no point in lying to himself about why the man never said anything or took his eyes off him.
Talker walked through the entryway, ignoring a sturdily built woman wearing the same coat as himself and Fighter, who was sitting behind a counter inside the entryway. The only sound she made was her pen scratching away at something Dell couldn’t see. She didn’t bother to look at Dell as he trotted past, doing his best to keep up. Fighter closed the door behind them and brought up the rear of their little procession, his heavy boots thumping on the planks of the wood floor.
Talker continued halfway down a narrow hallway before he opened a door on his right and entered, leaving the door open behind him. Dell followed after, hoping to get his entry paperwork over as soon as possible. The watchmen were unnerving, in a way officials in Drumlummon hadn’t been. He couldn’t tell if they were bored, getting ready to shake him down for a bribe, or preparing to lock him up and throw away the key.
The room contained a table, with some documents on it, and a pair of chairs, one on each side of the table. It was illuminated with a single lamp over the center of the table. The furniture was built for human proportions, and Dell set down his pack and clambered awkwardly onto the seat. Talker took the seat across from him, and Fighter stood behind him, in the doorway.
“Time, Davina?” Talker called down the hall.
“Eleven and a half.” The woman at the counter called back.
“Right, thank you!” Talker replied, scratching it onto a list with a quill. Fighter reached back and closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving Dell, who was getting more nervous by the moment.
“Can you write, Mr. Dustromplexcet?” Talker asked, looking up from the documents at Dell.
“Of course, all gnomes can write!” Dell huffed indignantly. He’d briefly attended a university, now people didn’t even believe him to be literate. The reality of his new life as a fugitive stung his pride.
Talker ignored the offense he’d caused. “Full name here, please.”
Dell picked up the quill, dipped it into the offered inkwell, and wroteFindlay Dustromplexceton the line for entrants, next to where Talker had noted the time and the purpose of his visit. He set down the quill and slid the document back across the table to Talker, who picked it up and carefully read what Dell had written. He stood up and walked to the door.
“Wait, is that it? You still have my papers!”
“Wait here.” Talker replied without turning around. He opened the door and strode out, his heavy boots thumping down the hall. Fighter reached out and closed the door as Talker’s tromping footfalls began to climb a staircase to the second floor.
“Do you ever say anything?” Dell asked in exasperation. The watchman stared back at him, unblinking. After a couple of seconds Dell turned back around and, not knowing what else to do, sullenly sat down on the oversized chair.
A little while later, Dell heard heavy footsteps in the hall. The door flew open and in walked Talker, followed by another man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with graying blonde hair tied in a ponytail behind him, and squinting brown eyes set above an arched nose. His lower lip protruded slightly, and his face was lined as if he never stopped scowling. He certainly was now. He wore a midnight blue uniform, with a cape that covered him down to his knees, and polished black boots. He revealed a jacket with polished silver buttons on it as he threw the cape over his shoulder and sat down, holding the sheathed saber on his belt out of his way with practiced ease. A bicorn hat was perched atop his head, with a silver pin depicting a rampant stallion. The pin held a single red feather at attention like a small spearhead. Talker placed himself at the elbow of the new figure, who was clearly some kind of officer.
“Mr. Dustromplexcet, is it?” His voice was harsh and he spoke slowly, not the slowness of someone struggling to be understood, but the slowness of someone important enough to do things in his own time.
“Yes, that’s me.” Dell replied, doing his best to keep his voice steady. Something about the presence of the man across the table from him seemed to change the room, filling it with a pressure that had been absent before.
“No.” The officer’s tone implied not even a hint of doubt.
“Excuse me?” Dell swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“That is not your name. Tell me your name.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it is my name, and I have provided documentation to attest to the fact that it is!” The air felt thick in Dell’s lungs, but he thought he got the incensed tone in his voice right.
“You have provided documentation. I have it right here, in fact.” The official removed a pair of black leather gloves as he spoke, tugging them off each finger individually, then reached into a jacket pocket to produce the wallet Dell had given Talker at the gate. “However, this documentation is for a gnome by the name of Dirwaack Cranklethixshire.” He turned the wallet around to let Dell see for himself.
Dell paled as he realized the magnitude of his mistake. He’d grabbed the wrong gods-damned wallet! His mind raced, trying to find a way, any way, he could salvage the situation, but he drew a blank. An awkward moment passed as the official waited for Dellromoz to say something for himself. Finally, he sighed and lowered his head.
“Shit.”