Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

“Worse,” said Brack, “I might have been forced to accompany them into the field the next time.”

“You let the report stand,” said Augie.

“With some minor clarifications,” said Brack. “I made it one gnome leader, in particular, made it an accident as opposed to an ambush, and named the gnome. Rumtuggle. It sounded like a gnomish name.”

“Your leaders bought it?” snarled Augie. “Old Verminaard would have seen through that in a moment if I laid it on him.”

“Ah, but old Verminaard is no longer around, is he?” countered Brack. “No, my superiors bought it, because they assumed there would be some resistance anyway, which up to that point had been pretty nonexistent. Gnomes were considered the least dangerous of the lot. Kender, for example, would rob you blind and then come back for your seeing-eye lizard.”

“So you used this Rumtuggle to explain a patrol’s decimation,” said Augie. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, the saying is that once something is created, it has to be used. You make a plow, you have to farm. You make a sail, you have to explore.”

“You make a sword,” put in Augie, “you have to lop off a few heads.”

“Exactly,” said Brack, “and Rumtuggle proved to be a very capable excuse. A few head of cattle went missing and were blamed on Rumtuggle. A patrol got lost: Rumtuggle. The cash box was a few hundred steel light: Rumtuggle.”

“Your superiors never saw through it?” spat Augie, astounded.

“The rear echelons had other, more important matters to worry about,” said Brack. “I was careful never to put too much blame on Rumruggle at a time. One or two of my fellow lieutenants caught wind of it, and a captain as well, eventually. They saw the value of Rumtuggle, and soon most of the mischances of our unit were blamed on a single gnome.”

“Your superiors, the dragonlords themselves, must have caught wise at last,” guessed Augie. “Did you admit your deceit?”

“I wish it were that easy,” said Brack. “Actually it was much, much worse.”

The gnomish delegation arrived at dawn. There were fifteen of them, all looking about as threatening as a pack of rabbits. Some were dressed in leather work-aprons, and others in farmer’s shirts and slacks. One or two looked as if they had been rousted from their beds and dragged along by the mob.

They were led by a short gnomish woman with fire-red hair braided down her back and a stern look plastered across her face. The gnomes presented themselves to one of the guards by the outer paddocks, demanding to see someone in charge.

In another part of Ansalon, a band of gnomes suddenly appearing at an oupost would be cause for alarm, but this part of the front had been pacified, and this outpost was little more than a garrison with a few scout units. The guard, amused by the small delegation, demanded the gnomes’ business.

“We are here to see about release of one of our people, unfairly held,” said the flame-haired gnome.

The guard raised an eyebrow. He was unaware that the army had even taken “good faith” hostages. He asked what hostage the short woman was talking about.

She told him, and the guard fought the urge to laugh. He thought about it a moment, and asked the gnomes to wait. Then the guard beetled his way quickly to Lieutenant Brack’s quarters.

“Rumtuggle?” said Lieutenant Brack, commanding officer of this particular outpost in the Green Dragon-army. “They want us to release Rumtuggle?”

The guard nodded, snorting a laugh in the process. “They say they heard that we were holding him captive, and they have demanded his release.”

“You told them he doesn’t exist?” Brack asked, wide-eyed.

“I thought about doing exactly that,” said the guard, “but then I thought they might not understand and might go somewhere else and ask someone else about it. The people they ask might not think to come to you about it.”

“Hmmm. .” Brack ran a thumb along his jawline. “I see your point. They might ask questions, which may cause others to ask questions.” Brack sighed. “Send them to my tent.”

The guard nodded, and within five minutes the delegation was in Brack’s command tent. Several of the gnomes became immediately distracted and started sketching the design of the tent supports for future application. The red-haired gnomish woman would not be turned from her purpose and zeroed in on Brack with a sniper’s precision.

“We understand you have one of our numbers here as a prisoner,” she said curtly.

Brack managed his widest, sternest smile. “You have been misinformed. We hold no prisoners at this camp, not even good-faith hostages.”

“We understand you have had problems with a gnome named Rumtuggle,” said the woman.

Brack paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. There was no telling who else the gnomes would be talking to. “There have been reports of small accidents involving someone of that name.” He chose his words carefully, telling the truth only as far as it served him.

“We”-she motioned to her motley crew-”represent the various small gnomish communities in our area. Rumtuggle is not among any of our communities. Therefore,” she growled, screwing up her face and glowering at the lieutenant, “he must be your prisoner. You should release him at once.”

Brack looked at the guard, who stood at the doorway. The guard shrugged. To the gnome the lieutenant said, “I assure you we don’t have your Rumtuggle at this camp.”

“You have him at another camp?” asked the woman.

Brack sighed. “No. We don’t have him at any camp.”

“We don’t have him in any of our communities!” said the gnome woman. “No one has seen him for months!”

“Had anyone seen him before?” said Brack.

The gnome bridled and said, “I don’t think you’re taking this matter with the proper seriousness.”

Brack took a deep breath and regarded the group. A small, heated discussion had broken out in the back of the party about how the lantern wicks in the tent could be better cut. These were not rebels, Brack decided. These were barely targets. Gently he said, “Your Rumtuggle was probably a wanderer. He wandered into our lives, caused some havoc among our occupying forces, and now will wander out. I doubt,” Brack added with a hard look at the guard, “that we will ever hear about him again.”

The gnome woman was not mollified. “Your answers are evasive, human. You have three days to release Rumtuggle. After that we will have to take action.” She stomped her foot for effect. “Three days, human!” She spun on her heel and left the tent, her gaggle of gnomes in tow. One took a lantern with him, peering at the wick.

The guard waited behind, looking at Brack. The lieutenant sighed deeply and said, “I think we may have a small problem.”

“Emphasis on the small,” said the guard, breaking into a smile.

Brack smiled as well. “Very small, but for the next while, Rumtuggle should vanish from the reports. No point in stirring up the locals.”

“And when she demands his release?” asked the guard.

Brack shrugged. “She’s a gnome,” he said. “In three days she’ll have found something else to worry about.”

Of course the gnome leader did not. Each day, for the next three days, a gnomish messenger arrived at the edge of the camp, demanding Rumtuggle’s release. Each day Brack explained that they did not have Rumtuggle in their keeping.

On the morning of the fourth day, the cattle disappeared.

Brack never figured out how they did it. One night the cows were in the pasturage, the guards keeping an eye on them between games of dice. Then the sun came up on empty fields. Several hundred head of cattle, the provisions for most of the outpost, had vanished.