Nearer to the observers of this circus-like scene stood a party-colored canopy, its ropes staked out in the sand near the water’s edge. Beneath it, a gathering of Knights of Neraka, their squires and horses, keenly observed the gnomes” activities. It appeared to be the scene of a siege, yet there was nothing to besiege. No castle crouched on yonder beetling cliffs. While they watched, a catapult loosed a flaming stone out to sea. Hundreds of gnomes stopped their work to stand and cheer, only to groan with disappointment when the stone struck the sea in a mighty splash a good half-mile from shore. Only the Knights seemed pleased with this result, for there was a general round of nodding, backslapping, laughing and pointing at the spot where the stone sank. The gnomes returned to their business. Hammers rapped and saws snored, ropes creaked and chisels rang against stone.

“It looks like things are going well,” the taller gnome observed as he looked over the chaotic scene.

“Indeed,” his shorter companion concurred. “I suspect the professor has nearly completed his studies.”

“What’re they doing?” the kender asked. “Testing new weapons?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The professor is studying the buoyancy of very large hot stones,” the taller gnome answered as he strode off in the direction of the Knights” tent.

“Good evening,” the tall gnome said to the Knight who stopped them outside the tent when it became apparent that they intended to enter. “We are here to see Sir Wolhelm.”

The Knight eyed the kender dubiously and maintained his position in front of the gnome, his mailed hand resting firmly on the sword at his hip.

“I am Commodore Brigg, of the Maritime Sciences Guild,” the tall gnome said. “My compatriot here is Navigator Snork, also of the Maritime Sciences Guild.”

The shorter gnome bowed, taking care to clap a hand over those pockets most likely to spill their contents. The kender stepped forward and extended his small sun-browned hand in greeting.

“This is Razmous Pinchpocket, cartographer and chief acquisitions officer for the maiden voyage of the MNS Indestructible,” the commodore said. The Knight glared at the kender’s hand as if it were a snake, his fingers twitching round the hilt of his sword.

“How do you do?” Razmous asked, edging closer to the Knight and eyeing the large leather pouch at his belt.

The Knight took a cautious step back in the sand and gripped his sword more tightly. “What do you want here?” he demanded. “Go on. Be on your way before I have you arrested… and searched!” This last comment was directed at the kender, whose innocent smile collapsed into an injured pout.

“We have been summoned here, Sir Knight!” Commodore Brigg snapped as he stepped closer, forcing the Knight to take another retreating step.

“Sure. Right.” The Knight chuckled, half-drawing his sword.

“Sir Morsed, who is that?” a booming, basso voice called from the group of black-armored figures beneath the canopy.

“Some gnome,” the Knight answered over his shoulder. “Claims to be a Commodore Brigg.”

“Show him in, please.”

A smug smile spread across the commodore’s face, parting his white beard like a knife-stroke.

“He’s got a kender, sir,” the Knight warned, still not sheathing his weapon.

There was no immediate response, rather some muttering and restless shifting among the tent’s occupants. Finally, the baritone voice said, “Very well. Show them in.” At the same time, most of the Knights and squires departed the tent, many leading their steeds as well, as if they feared the kender might find some way to pocket a warhorse.

This left just a few Knights remaining, their horses forming a restless wall between the open back of the tent and the sea. The largest and most important-looking of the Knights sat on a campstool behind a low table, on top of which was spread a profusion of papers and scrolls, enough to cause even the mildest kender heart to flutter with greedy longings. The Knight absently stroked his thick black beard as he pored over some calculation and made notations into a dog-eared book resting on his lap. Beside him stood a studious young Knight, dressed in long gray robes and holding a tablet to his chest A few others lounged about the tent, warily eyeing the approaching kender but continuing their conversations, which seemed mostly concerned with weight ratios, torsion strength, terminal velocities, and conic sections of a plane.

The area beneath the tent was strewn with straw and smelled strongly of horses, oiled leather, and stale sweat. By the crumpled blankets lying in the corners it appeared the Knights had been here many days. Large canvas rolls, secured with straps to the underside of the canopy’s eaves, probably served as walls that could be let down at night to keep out the wind and elements.

“This is half command post, half bedroom, and half barn,” Navigator Snork muttered distastefully as they entered.

“Be quiet,” the commodore whispered. They stopped before Sir Wolhelm, and Commodore Brigg bowed low, sweeping the floor at his feet with one hand.

“Sir Wolhelm, my companions and-”

The Knight silenced him with an impatient wave, then continued scribbling in his book, the commodore’s lips set into a hard frown, but he said nothing. Navigator Snork sucked his teeth and listened to his belly growl; it was well past lunchtime. After scanning the contents of the tabletop and finding nothing but schematics, Razmous’s periwinkle eyes wandered around the interior of the tent, a bored expression settling into the delicate lines and wrinkles of his face. He absently chewed the brown tip of his topknot and fiddled with the things in his pouches. His gaze finally came to rest on one of the horses. The great black beast stamped and snorted nervously, its one visible red-rimmed eye glaring at the kender in alarm.

Without warning, a third gnome scurried into the tent, crossed to the table, and irritably shoved its contents onto the floor. From under his arm, he drew a soggy ream of drawings and schematics and flopped them onto the cleared space. Like Commodore Brigg and Navigator Snork, this gnome was short. He could have passed without ducking beneath the belly of any one of the Knights” warhorses, and he had a large, bulbous brown head scantily covered by a few thin wisps of downy white hair. From his jaws sprouted a thick tangle of curly white beard. What distinguished him most was his mode of dress. He wore a tan coverall buttoned up the back like a child’s pajamas, which was dark with seawater all the way up to his armpits. Over the right breast pocket was sewn the rock-and-pick symbol of the Geological Sciences Guild, but the blue background of the patch indicated that he was a marine geology specialist-a rare specialization for a mountain-dwelling race. Behind one large, sunburned ear protruded a pencil, another peeked from the curls of his beard, and a third was clamped firmly between his strong white teeth, giving him something of a snarling appearance. He looked round the table for a moment, then turned to the kender and held out one stubby-fingered hand, palm upward.

“You haven’t got a pencil, have you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Razmous answered with delight. “Let me see!” He flopped to the ground and upended his pouches.

Sir Wolhelm rose in alarm. “See here now, Professor-” he began.

Commodore Brigg perked up. “Professor? Professor Hap-Troggensbottle?”

“At your service, sir!” the newcomer declared without hesitation, bowing low.

The commodore grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. They embraced, slapping each other on the back like two people trying to put out a fire.

“See here…” the Knight leader said.

“Commodore Brigg of the MNS Indestructible,” the commodore said as they parted. “Navigator Snork, and Chief Acquisitions Officer Razmous Pinchpocket.”