"I had thought of it. But Mark will not allow it."
"I should hope not," said Sniveley. "Do you know what the Wasteland is?"
"It's enchanted ground," said Gib.
"It is," said Sniveley, "the last stronghold of the Brotherhood…»
"But you—"
"Yes, we are of the Brotherhood. We get along all right because this is the Borderland. There are humans, certainly, but individual humans—millers, woodcutters, charcoal burners, small farmers, moonshiners. The human institutions, government and church, do not impinge on us. You have never seen the lands to the south and east?"
Gib shook his head.
"There," said Sniveley, "you would find few of us. Some in hiding, perhaps, but not living openly as we do. Those who once lived there have been driven out. They have retreated to the Wasteland. As you may suspect, they hold a hatred for all humankind. In the Wasteland are those who have been driven back to it and those who never left, the ones who had stayed there and hung on grimly to the olden ways of life."
"But you left."
"Centuries ago," said Sniveley, "a group of prospecting gnomes found the ore deposit that underlies these hills. For uncounted millennia the gnomes have been smiths and miners. So we moved here, this small group of us. We have no complaint. But if the so-called human civilization ever moved in full force into the Borderland, we would be driven out."
"Humans, however, have traveled in the Wasteland," said Gib. "There was that old traveler who wrote the tale that Mark read."
"He would have to have had a powerful talisman," said Sniveley. "Has this friend of yours a talisman?"
"I do not think he has. He never spoke of it."
"Then he truly is insane. He has not even the excuse of treasure, of finding some great treasure. All he seeks are the Old Ones. And tell me, what will he do if he finds the Old Ones?"
"The ancient traveler did not seek treasure, either," said Gib. "He simply went to see what he could find."
"Then he was insane as well. Are you certain there is no way to dissuade this human friend of yours?"
"I think not. There is no way, I am sure, that one could stop him."
'Then," said Sniveley, "he does have need of a sword."
"You mean you'll sell it to me?"
"Sell it to you? Do you know the price of it?"
"I have some credit with you," said Gib. "Drood has credit. There are others in the marsh who would be willing…"
"Take three marshes like the one down there/ said Sniveley, "and there would not be credit enough in all of them to buy the sword. Do you know what went into it? Do you know the care and craftsmanship and the magic that was used?"
"Magic?"
"Yes, magic. Do you think that a weapon such as it could be shaped by hands and fire alone, by hammer or by anvil?"
"But my ax-"
"Your ax was made with good workmanship alone. There was no magic in it."
"I am sorry," Gib said, "to have bothered you."
Sniveley snorted and flapped his ears. "You do not bother me. You are an old friend, and I will not sell the sword to you. I will give it to you. Do you understand what I am saying? I will give it to you. I will throw in a belt and scabbard, for I suppose this down-at-heels human has neither one of them. And a shield as well. He will need a shield. I suppose he has no shield."
"He has no shield," said Gib. "I told you he has nothing. But I don't understand…»
"You underestimate my friendship for the People of the Marshes. You underestimate my pride in matching a sword of my fabrication against the howling horrors of the Wasteland, and you underestimate, as well, my admiration for a puny little human who, from his studies, must know what the Wasteland is and yet is willing to face it and its denizens for some farfetched dream."
"I still don't understand you fully," said Gib, "but I thank you just the same."
"I'll get the sword," said Sniveley, rising from his chair. He was scarcely on his feet when another gnome, wearing a heavy leather apron and who, from the soot on his hands and face, had been working at a forge, came bursting unceremoniously into the room.
"We have visitors," he screamed.
"Why must you," asked Sniveley, a little wrathfully, "make so great a hullabaloo about visitors? Visitors are nothing new…»
"But one of them is a goblin," screamed the other gnome.
"So one of them is a goblin."
"There are no goblins nearer than Cat Den Point, and that is more than twenty miles away."
"Hello, everyone," said Hal of the Hollow Tree. "What is all the ruckus?"
"Hello, Hal," said Gib. "I was about to come to see you."
"You can walk back with me," said Hal. "How are you, Sniveley? I brought a traveler—Oliver. He's a rafter goblin."
"Hello, Oliver," said Sniveley. "And would you please tell me just what in hell is a rafter goblin? I've heard of all sorts of goblins…"
"My domicile," said Oliver, "is the rafters in the roof atop the library at the University of Wyalusing. I have come here on a quest."
Coon, who had been hidden from view, walking sedately behind Hal, made a beeline for Gib and leaped into his lap. He nuzzled Gib's neck and nibbled carefully at his ears. Gib batted at him. "Cut it out," he said. "Your whiskers tickle and your teeth are sharp." Coon went on nibbling.
"He likes you," said Hal. "He has always liked you."
"We have heard of a pack-train killing," said the goblin, Oliver. "Word of it put much fear in me. We came to inquire if you might have the details."
Sniveley made a thumb at Gib. "He can tell you all about it. He found one human still alive."
Oliver swung on Gib. "There was one still alive? Is he still alive? What might be his name?"
"He is still alive," said Gib. "His name is Mark Cornwall."
Oliver slowly sat down on the floor. "Thank all the powers that be," he murmured. "He is still alive and well?"
"He took a blow on the head," said Gib, "and a slash on his arm, but both head and arm are healing. Are you the goblin that he told me of?"
"Yes, I am. I advised him to seek out a company of traders and to flee with them. But that was before I knew to whom that cursed monk sold his information. Much good that it did him, for he got his throat slit in the bargain."
"What is going on?" squeaked Sniveley. "What is all this talk of throat slitting and of fleeing. I dislike the sound of it."
Quickly Oliver sketched the story for him. "I felt that I was responsible for the lad," he said. "After all, I got myself involved…"
"You spoke," said Gib, "of this human to whom the monk sold his information."
"That's the crux of it," said Oliver. "He calls himself Lawrence
Beckett and pretends to be a trader. I don't know what his real name is, and I suppose it does not matter, but I know he's not a trader. He is an agent of the Inquisition and the most thoroughgoing ruffian in the border country…»
"But the Inquisition," said Sniveley. "It is…"
"Sure," said Oliver. "You know what it is supposed to be. The militant arm of the Church, with its function to uproot heresy, although heresy, in many instances, is given a definition which far outstrips the meaning of the term. When its agents turn bad, and most of them turn bad, they become a law unto themselves. No one is safe from them, no perfidy too low…»
"You think," said Gib, "that this Beckett and his men massacred the pack train?"
"I would doubt very much they did the actual killing. But I am certain it was arranged by Beckett. He got word to someone."