"This is Chane's," Jilian stated, turning the rough hammer over in her hands. "I'm positive it is." It was a crude tool, obviously wrought by someone who had almost nothing to work with. Wingover crouched beside the primitive stone forge and brushed his hand across the cold ashes in its firepit, then turned his attention to a mudstone thing beside it, puzzling over what it might be. A piece of rock – tough, flaky mudstone that had been shaped into a rough oval with a flat top – its sides were bound with sapling withes. Wingover glanced at the firepit forge again, then realized that the mudstone thing, bound as it was atop a fallen log, had served as an anvil. A contrivance beside the forge might have served as a bellows.

Flakes of stone fallen around the makeshift anvil indicated that someone had done something here recently.

"Interesting," the man muttered. "Whoever was here certainly made do with what was at hand. But how can you be sure it was Chane?"

"He made this hammer," Jilian said cheerfully. "See, it has his mark on it. CF. Just like on his nickeliron dagger."

She handed the tool back to Wingover, and he studied it. "I thought it might be a hammer," he said. "So we can suppose that Chane Feldstone did stop here and make himself a hammer. Why would he have gone off and left it?"

"Oh, Chane wouldn't have wanted anything as crude as that," the girl explained, wondering again at the vagaries of the human mind. This human seemed quite intelligent in many ways, but there were some things he just didn't seem to grasp. Things any dwarf would understand immediately.

The man stood and frowned at her. "Well, if he made it and didn't want to keep it, what did he do with it?"

"He used it to make another hammer, of course."

Wingover sighed and shook his head. Jilian was probably right, he decided. It sounded like good dwarven logic.

"The inscription is right there." She pointed. "Right on top. Here…"

Opening her small pack, Jilian brought out a beautiful dagger with a mirror-bright blade and a grip of ebony and brass. "Here, see the inscription on this blade? It's the same as the one on that hammer. I imagine we'll find him just any time now. Don't you think so?"

Wingover didn't answer. He was walking slowly around the forge site, looking at the ground. He circled it twice, stopped, and squatted for a closer look at something. Then he circled it again and stopped to look again, in a different place. "There's no clear trail," he said finally.

"He might have gone anywhere from here. But he wasn't alone. There were others with him – at least one, maybe more. One was a human, about my size."

She blinked up at him. "How do you know that?"

"The same way you know this thing is Chane's hammer, I guess. I know what to look for. It's called reading signs."

"Outside certainly is different from Thorbardin," Jilian observed. "In

Thorbardin, signs are written on planks or linen and hung on walls for people to see. They say things like, 'Trespassers Will Be Mutilated,' or

'Gorlum's Friendly Furs,' or 'No Aghar Allowed.' "

"Those are signs," the man said. "This is a sign… in this case, footprints. But they've been here a while, so I can't tell where the trail leads from here."

"Then let's keep going the way we were going and see what else we can find," Jilian decided.

He shrugged and stepped toward the horse. "Come on, then. 111 help you up onto Geekay," Wingover said. "I'll walk and lead for a while. Maybe I can pick up a trail."

"I'll walk, too," the dwarf said, backing away a step.

"I've had enough riding for a while."

"Geekay doesn't mind," he told her. "Ride if you like."

"He may not, but I do. I hurt."

"You hurt?" He glanced around at her. "Where?"

"That's none of your business," the dwarven girl snapped, her cheeks turning pink.

"Oh, I see," he grinned. "Saddle sores, huh? It won't last long. I'll bet this is the first horse you ever rode."

"I never even saw a horse until I left Thorbardin," she admitted. "I don't mean the people there don't have horses, of course. A lot do, but they don't bring them into Thorbardin. They keep them outside, in the pastures beyond Southgate."

"I know that," he said a little testily. He took up Geekay's reins and led off, heading north. Jilian followed, grateful to have her feet on solid ground again instead of bouncing along on her bottom, behind

Wingover in his hard saddle. Riding a horse was just one of thousands of interesting new experiences she would have to tell Silicia about when she returned to Thorbardin.

They had gone nearly two miles and had come into open, rolling land when

Wingover glanced westward, shaded his eyes, and then pointed. Above distant treetops, wide wings tilted in a descending turn. Bobbin was back.

Jilian squinted, shading her eyes as Wingover had done. "I think he has someone with him," she said.

The flying thing closed until it was directly overhead, sixty feet above. Two heads appeared at the wicker rail, silhouettes against bright sky. The one farthest aft cupped his hands and called, "Do you have any raisins yet?"

"Sorry!" Wingover shouted. "Still no raisins, but we have some other food." He beckoned to Jilian. "Can you get something together to send up to him?"

She nodded and began opening packs. "Right away."

Wingover shouted aloft, "What do you have to report?"

There was hesitation above, then the gnome replied, "Chane Feldstone is a famous warrior!" More dimly, they heard him ask his passenger, "How was that?"

"Perfect," another voice said aloft. "Tell enough people that, and he'll be really famous in no time at all. Then all he has to worry about is how to get rich."

"That's a kender," Wingover noted. 'Where in Krynn did that gnome get a kender?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "And what kind of report is that?"

He started to repeat his question, but Jilian Firestoke had jumped to her feet, dancing with excitement. "Have you seen Chane Feldstone?" she shouted. "That's who we're looking for!"

"All I know is, he's famous." Bobbin responded. "Oh, yes, and we saw danger. If that food is ready, I'll try to let down a line." Without warning the soarwagon lurched, nosed upward, and shot away, straight up into the bright sky. In a moment it was a tiny dot, circling wildly, this way and that.

An hour passed, and part of another, before the flying thing approached

Wingover and Jilian again. This time, as it completed its final pass, a rope descended from beneath it and a small figure slid down to the end of the rope and clung there. He touched down on nimble feet as the soarwagon again hovered just overhead.

Jilian ran to meet the newcomer, took the rope from him, and attached a parcel of food to it. A winch creaked over their heads, and the rope rose as it was reeled in. Jilian gaped at the newcomer. She had never seen a kender before. He was no taller than herself and slight of build. His clothing was strangely colored, and he had a forked stick slung at his back. He grinned at her – a friendly, open grin on a childlike face that was neither human nor elf and certainly not dwarf – but was not so very different from any of them. What she had first thought was a beard, she now realized was a great mane of hair coiled and looped around his neck, resembling a fur collar.

"I'll bet you're Jilian," the kender said. "That dwarf ah, I mean Chane

– has mentioned you several times." He executed a slight, courtly bow.

"I'm Chestal Thicketsway. I've been helping Chane become rich and famous so he can go back to Thorbardin and do unpleasant things to your father."

"Where is he?" she managed to say.

"Your father? I don't know. I haven't seen him. Oh, you mean Chane? He's out there a few miles… kind of that direction… camping with a bunch of refugees from the Vale of Respite. I'll bet you won't even recognize him in his new suit. Does he know you're coming? He didn't mention that to me."