The descriptive detail was incredible, and Mudwort brought the woman-piece close. Even the eyes were carved finely, wide and open, the carved expression looking wise and kind. Mudwort sniffed it, barely detecting any scent, and placed it carefully on the blanket.
Whoever lived there either died or left in a terrible hurry to leave behind such precious belongings. She decided the set of carved dwarves must have some value. Two sets! Below the first were more figures, carved from a darker wood and shining with some sort of lacquer. There was a woman-piece among that set too, and as before she inspected that one and set it aside. There was also a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco that smelled sweet. Maybe the skull man would like those items; he was plump and so given to fleshly excesses.
There were several small, empty pouches made of soft leather. She put the pipe and tobacco in one, the two women-pieces in another. She found a belt, woven of strips of leather and decorated with green and red wooden beads. It was more colorful than any worn by the dwarves she’d observed outside, and so it must be clothing for special occasions. She tried to put it on, but found it much too big. But when she wrapped it twice, it worked, and she tied the leather bag containing the woman-pieces to it.
There were no clothes, else Mudwort would have replaced the dirt-stained tunic she wore. But there were other interesting objects at the bottom of the chest-beads. Her fingers flew to them, and she brought up string after string. One was a necklace of simple beads, polished and roughly round, carved from some tree with wood so dark it looked almost black. She draped it around her neck and looped it twice because it was so long. Another string was much shorter and made of beads carved into the shapes of animal heads: boar, bear, wolf, ram, and a vicious-looking cat. The eyes were tiny stones that glinted dark blue. The string went quickly around her neck too. Some of the necklaces at the bottom were made of clay beads that were old and chipped. One string was broken, and the beads bounced across the floor before she could catch them.
“Beautiful.” The rare word came out as a croak. The last strand she brought up from the bottom of the chest was made of tiny golden links festooned with small blue stones that caught and held the light that came through the high, narrow window. That strand she held against her bosom for a long moment before putting it in the pouch on her belt. She knew better than to wear something like that and draw too much attention to herself.
The chest stood empty, but she continued to study it; something about it didn’t seem right. She leaned into it and thumped its bottom; the chest did not look as big on the inside as it did on the outside. She was rewarded with a hollow sound, and she tore at the bottom until a piece of wood came loose. Under it were seven leather pouches, so old they were cracked like a parched riverbed.
At that moment Leftear came into the home, grunting and shuffling. “Direfang says take everything that seems valuable,” he said, barely sparing her a glance. He didn’t see her treasure, nor her scowl at him or her waving him away. Instead he went over to the cabinets, roughly breaking a door when he carelessly pulled it open. Then he began grabbing mugs to dump into a canvas sack, along with other things he didn’t bother to take the time to identify.
Mudwort opened the pouches and looked inside.
“Lots of valuable stuff here,” she whispered to herself. She spilled the contents of three of the pouches onto the floor, and it was that noise that caught Leftear’s attention.
“Rocks,” he said, looking at her dismissively. “Just lots and lots of rocks.” He went to the table and plucked the carved wooden Reorx off it and dropped it in his sack. “These rocks are bigger, prettier.” He scooped up some of the polished stones that had ringed the idol and dropped them into the sack. “Might be worth something.”
“Precious rocks, mine are,” Mudwort said with a tinge of awe, looking away from the hobgoblin and stirring the stones. They were not faceted, like ones in a fine lady’s gemstones would be. But they glimmered nonetheless, blue like the surface of a lake when the noon sun hits it. “Humans would have a name for these rocks,” she mused. “Humans have names for all sorts of rocks.”
She managed to fit the rocks into one of the pouches, hooking it to her belt. Then she spilled out the contents of the other four. One contained more of the uncut stones, but the other three contained cut gems, the facets catching the light and drawing a gasp from Mudwort. There were, perhaps, two hundred or more of the cut stones.
“No food in here.” Leftear knocked over a shelf in his search for something to eat. “Going back to the garden,” he told her grumpily. “Going to fill up the rest of this bag with onions.”
She was quick to scoop up the remaining stones, redistributing them so they fit in two more bags, and those she also fitted to her belt. Then she climbed onto the bed and stretched out momentarily. It would be so easy to sleep here, she thought. Even though so many sounds from outside were drifting in-goblins gathering things, more goblins rooting through the garden, all of the noises running together. She thought she could sleep deeply regardless. The pillow was soft, and she thought she might take it with her but then thought better of it-one more thing to carry.
She pushed herself up, deciding she’d better leave or she would get left behind. She slipped off the bed and hesitated, then grabbed the pillow, shaking it out of its case. She took one more look around, and, seeing nothing else of interest, tucked the case under her arm and stepped outside.
Spikehollow poked his head into a home, one near the section of the garden filled with potatoes. He had made sure the goblins he supervised were working hard in the garden, and he saw his chance. He’d seen a few Flamegrass clansmen go into that home and quickly rush out again earlier. Nothing interesting to be found, they thought, as they’d only taken one sack from the place. Or perhaps the Flamegrass goblins were not observant and had missed something tasty.
“A quick look,” Spikehollow told himself. “Then back to the garden.”
He pushed the hide aside and darted inside but stopped as if he’d struck a wall. “Stinks bad,” he muttered. He made a choking sound and turned to leave, then changed his mind. “Stink kept the others away. The stink protects good things, maybe.”
He held his breath and picked through the shadows. It was dark in there, though it was bright outside. A tattered hide covered the lone window, and little light slipped in around its edges. Spikehollow made out a low table and two stools, a fireplace with a big pot hanging in it. A few logs were under it, slightly charred, but looking as though a fire hadn’t burned in it that day. He sniffed the air and recoiled; whatever was in the pot smelled bad, but it wasn’t the only thing contributing to the stink.
Three small beds were against the far wall, only one occupied; the other two had been stripped bare to the wood slats. Spikehollow sniffed again. “Stinky dwarf smell. Stinks worse than … than anything. Should leave and breathe the better air outside. Leave like the Flamegrass clansmen left-quick.”
But he was still curious and so inched closer. The dwarf on the bed looked old, his wispy white hair and beard resembling a mass of cobwebs. A colorful quilt was pulled up to his waist, and his chest was bare and ruddy in places. The quilt was made of yellow, red, and green squares, some with stitching on them. Even with the goblin’s superb vision, there wasn’t enough light to distinguish the intricacies of the stitches, but his fingers traced the outline of a flower in a vase, a bird, and a butterfly.
“Lots of wrinkles, an old, old man,” Spikehollow said. “A stinking one. A sleeping one. Sweating too. Sweating too much for a quilt.” The goblin pulled it off him. “Too stinky and sweaty a dwarf to waste a very nice quilt like this.”