was a child; he couldn't have been more than four feet tall. Then she noticed the minor disproportions in the sizes of his head, trunk, limbs, and hands. As well, his facial features resembled an adult, and his manner seemed mature by several decades of experience. A dwarf, she realized, relaxing.
He made for the camp, but only went a couple of feet before he spotted her: he came to an abrupt halt and stared at her with an expression that mixed surprise, apprehension, and keen interest. Suddenly mortified with embarrassment, she whipped around in an about-face.
"Oh, bollocks, I'm terribly sorry!"
"No, please, it's all right. I just wanted to wash off the trail dust." His voice was a smooth, gentle, lyric baritone, melodic and soothing, and it calmed her frazzled nerves. "It's probably my fault, anyways. This road is so seldom used anymore I assumed I would have privacy. But, you know what they say: when you 'assume' you make an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me'!"
She couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of that statement.
"You have a nice laugh. You can turn around now."
She did so and saw he had dressed in what looked like a monk's hooded habit.
"I suppose this will sound like a dumb question," he went on, "but are you an adventurer? As opposed to being a hedge robber, assassin, or lady of pleasure."
She flashed a smirk. "I'm journeying to Cwmhir Abbey, but it's taking me longer to get there than I anticipated."
"Do tell! I'm bound there myself, but I'm afraid you won't be able to make it before night; there's another twelve hours of traveling ahead of us, at least."
"Hmph. I thought as much."
"Then allow me to offer you the hospitality of my campsite, such as it is."
"No, thank you, I couldn't intrude--"
"Don't be ridiculous. I would appreciate the company, and I don't see how you could intrude more than you have already." But he said that last with a wry grin.
"I'm sure I'll be able to find some other place--"
"Nonsense. There isn't any along the entire length of the ridgeway, and I wouldn't advise trying to camp up there, not with the way the wind can blow in off the mountains."
She grinned and shook her head. He certainly was persistent. "Very well, in that case I accept." She walked under the overhang.
"Splendid! My name is Michael by the way." He extended his hand.
She removed her glove and shook. "I'm Flynnette." She had adopted that alias for when she traveled alone. Being Kuranes's heir, she figured it wasn't a good idea to advertise her movements.
"Please, make yourself at home. I'll just get the fire started." He squatted down beside the ring of stones.
She walked over to the lean-to, taking off the other glove and stuffing both into a pocket of her red great coat. Sometimes she felt self-conscious about its colour, being British and all. She leaned the makila against the cave wall and slipped off her pack, placing it beside the stick. She then unhooked the harness that supported Caliburn on her back.
"That's quite a sword!"
She looked back at him and held it upright on the tip of its scabbard. The pommel came to just under her chin.
"Family heirloom." Which was no lie. Caliburn was another name for Excalibur. She descended from King Arthur Pendragon through her mother. Every member of that matrilineal line had been able to summon Caliburn in times of great need, and she had inherited that talent.
He hit flint against steel. "Is it a claymore?"
She placed the sword beside the makila. "Similar, but much older. You know about swords?"
"I have some small knowledge." His lilting tone suggested he was being facetious.
"Where should I sleep?"
"You're welcome to share my lean-to; there's plenty of room."
She examined it and decided he was right, if she lay lengthwise. Still: "Are you sure?"
"Of course. If you're worried about propriety, while I would love to ravish you, as my guest I am bound by the demands of hospitality to protect you and treat you well." He glanced up at her with a grinning leer, and winked.
She realized he was being facetious again. "Hmph. Well, if you do, and I ever find out about it, I'll hurt you good, little man."
He laughed. "My word, such wit! As Speedy Gonzales might say, 'I like you, you're silly.'"
She removed her coat and hung it over the closest upright support of the lean-to. "That isn't as obscure a reference as you might believe."
"You've heard it before?"
She unbuckled the harness over her sleeveless doublet. "From a friend in the Waking World." It was one of Sunny's favorite lines.
"Ah, so, you're a Dreamer--good heavens, woman!"
She glanced at him and saw him staring at the six pistols hanging in the harness. She had two more in belt holsters, along with a rondel dagger and a few pouches.
"Expecting bear?"
She flashed a lopsided grin. "I get it. In a manner of speaking. I'm a pistol marksman in the Waking World. I feel more comfortable with a gun in my hand than a blade, and even if these are not what I'm used to, they're still better than nothing. Having eight of them just makes it possible to get off multiple shots before having to reload."
Then the shilling dropped. "You don't seem too surprised to see these."
He shrugged. "I've seen matchlock guns before, but nothing like those. Are they flintlocks?"
She slipped off the harness and laid it over the coat. She understood his confusion. Nothing more recent than 1500 could exist in the Dreamlands. "No, they use a mechanism called a wheellock. It was developed just before the 16th century. A spring-driven wheel turns against a piece of pyrite to create sparks." She unbuckled the belt and hung it off the harness.
"Are they common?"
She removed her red, wide-brimmed hat and laid it on top of the coat. "No; I believe my collection is the only one so far, but these were made by a weaponsmith in Ulthar, and he offers others for general sale. So you may see more of them as time goes on." She untied her pink ascot from around the doublet's high collar and draped it over the hat.
"Ulthar, you say. They could make my life a bit easier; safer, too."
She untied the lacings on her doublet and draped it over her pack. Underneath she wore a chemise tucked inside a pair of tight-fitting trousers. "It takes a goodly amount of practice to be a passable shot, and they require a great deal of care and maintenance to keep in working order, but for all that, they're still easier to master than a knife or a bow."
"Might be difficult finding a teacher."
She knelt and unbuckled the straps on her boots. "The smith in Ulthar can show you all you need to know. After that, it's just a matter of practice making perfect." Standing, she leaned with one hand against the cave wall and pulled them off, dropping them beside the pack.
He didn't say anything more, and the tapping of flint on steel resumed.
She walked over and knelt down to watch. Eile and Sunny had shown her how to start a fire that way, but she had had little opportunity to practice. After about a minute, she saw a wisp of smoke rise from the tinder. He bent over and blew into the pyramid of wood, and in seconds the tinder blazed up. He quickly added fresh material, then larger pieces of kindling, and in no time the center blazed strongly. He then stood and went over to the other side of the lean-to.
"Is there anything I can do?" She watched as he rummaged around inside his own pack.
He shook his head. "You're my guest. Aside from seeing to your own needs, nothing."
"I'm a fairly good cook."
He pulled out food packs. "I'm not too bad myself."
"I meant no offense."
He straightened up and came back to the fire, carrying half a dozen parcels. He had that wry grin on his face again. "None taken. Feel free to kibitz."
"I just think I should pull my own weight."
He passed the packages to her and she laid them beside the cooking gear. Then he knelt beside the growing fire. "Would you consider traveling with me? I could use the company."
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He looked and sounded rather earnest, almost like a child frightened of the dark. It made her wonder if, for all his confidence and high spirits, he wasn't in some measure intimidated by the huge world around him.
She smiled and extended her hand. "As would I. I would be honoured."
He beamed at her with what seemed like ecstatic relief, and took her hand in both of his. "Then that would be good enough."
He flashed that wry grin and winked as he recovered his composure. "Besides, it never hurts to have a big person by your side, does it? Especially one as alluring as you."
She chuckled. "You are outrageous, you know that?"
"It has been said of me," he replied in a mischievous tone as he unwrapped one of the packs.
From "We Deliver"
It is a curious biological event, but whenever someone enrolls at a university, metabolic changes occur within every cell, creating a nutritional need for pizza and beer. Fortunately, most students revert to a normal biochemistry upon graduation, but some never fully recover.
Pizza is big business in Delasalle, Illinois. There are over two dozen parlors alone, and virtually every restaurant offers pizza in some form on its menu. Yet by far the most popular store is Checker's Pizza. It is a small shop, without a parlor; instead, it bases its entire business on delivery. While other establishments make deliveries as an optional service, at an extra charge, Checker's makes it a way of life, at no extra charge. The owner, Michele Horne, believes that what students want most is dependable delivery right to their door. So, she makes it standard policy to guarantee 25