And so it was that, after inserting Doctor Bothy’s Peerupitscope through the mast’s seal-and hastily plugging, with thirty-nine pairs of socks, the resulting leak caused by the scope’s inexact fit-Commodore Brigg was able to navigate a silent course away from the minotaur galley. Once out of sight of the pirates, the gnomes, and one kender, surfaced and ventilated the ship. The commodore agreed that an unscheduled stop was needed in order to permanently install Doctor Bothy’s Peerupitscope and Navigator Snork’s torch chimney, which Conundrum named the Snorkel after its inventor.

According to Snork’s charts, the nearest port was a small village called Jachim. Actually, the nearest port was a place called Unger, but Jachim was known for its wools, and so promised a ready supply of desperately needed socks. Unger was known more for its pirates than its footwear. Furthermore, Jachim offered better facilities for shipboard modification and repairs, what with its deep harbor and nearby forest providing a plentiful source of lumber. In addition, Razmous’s copy of A Wandering Render’s Almanac and Pocket Guide to Krynn identified Jachim as the place to go for first-class haggis, which none of the crew had ever tasted, or even heard of, but whose fame was noted in the kender guide. Razmous was desperate to try the famous haggis, and by the time they reached Jachim, he had convinced most of the crew that they needed to try it as well. Doctor Bothy wondered if it might not prove to be a cure for hiccoughs. As it turned out, haggis was a cure for something, if not hiccoughs.

“A cure for hunger,” the doctor was heard to declare after his first mouthful of the mealy, grease-laden dish of offal. “One taste of this and you’ll never want to eat again.” Nevertheless, he didn’t let his go to waste.

They sat round the tables of the Wet Weskit, Jachim’s best inn and source of its famous haggis. Everyone except the kender was turning green but trying very hard to be polite; the innkeeper was a kindly host.

“This is the best haggis I’ve ever had,” Razmous declared to the innkeeper. His cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk’s with half-chewed haggis, for he was unwilling to swallow, considering the taste.

“It’s too bad Ensign Gob isn’t here,” Conundrum lamented earnestly when the innkeeper had gone. “Just when you need a gully dwarf begging at the table, there isn’t one handy. I think I actually miss the little guy.”

In the end, it was decided that, for the sake of diplomacy, everyone would stuff their haggis into their pants-and especially Razmous’s pockets-for later disposal.

Because he had convinced everyone of the marvels of haggis, and because he was chief of supply, it was given to Razmous Pinchpocket the duty of hauling their combined dinners out into the woods and burying them at the first opportunity. They dared not dump the haggis into the harbor, for fear of attracting sharks, nor of transporting it out to sea for disposal, lest it breed some plague. And nobody wants plague, not even gully dwarves.

A warm northern night covered Jachim, the stars glimmering in a sea of velvet blackness. Many of the citizens of this village lay atop their sheets, trying without much success to fall asleep to the whining of the mosquitoes and the sway and splash of the Northern Courrain Ocean lapping gently against the shore. The village’s many inns and taverns burned like jewels in the night, yellow torchlight streaming out of doors and windows to illuminate squares and rectangles of the nighttime streets. Sometimes a dark silhouette appeared, a fan or doffed straw hat waving, bedewed tankard in hand, to gaze at the stars and wonder at the sultriness of the night. The sounds of muted lutes hung like sweet fog in the air. People moved beds out of doors into alleys or yards or atop roofs, anywhere they could find a breeze, however warmed the wind was by the northern current.

Down by the waterfront, various small craft belonging to local fishermen lay pulled up along the beach. Their moonshadows darkened the silver sand, here and there sheltering some fisherman snoring with his head couched in the crook of his arm, a jug of sweet brown liquor lying empty beside him.

Through these shadows, “twixt fishing vessels leaning together with step masts crossed in X’s against the star-dappled sky, stole four darkly-clad figures. The tallest led the way, his topknot bouncing with each tip-toeing step. Across his back was slung a large lumpy sack, from which exuded an appalling odor that kept his three shorter companions at a distance of ten paces behind him. They made their way across the beach and up the main street of the village, keeping well within the shadows and avoiding the more well-lighted taverns.

Once beyond the last house, the street tapered off into a well-worn footpath, which entered a thick forest whose blossom-laden bows were stirred by the warm wind off the sea. The four conspirators crept beneath the dark eaves of the forest and paused, looking back along the way they had come to see if anyone was following.

“I don’t think anyone saw us,” the stoop-shouldered kender whispered as he unslung his pack and set it on the leaf-strewn ground. He straightened to his full four-foot height with a sigh, digging his knuckles into the small of his back.

“Ooooh,” Doctor Bothy groaned, clutching at his belly. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much haggis.” He had been ordered on this mission because he had asked for seconds at the inn.

“Let’s bury it here and get back to the ship,” Sir Grumdish muttered. He glared around the woods leaning over them with their dark, spreading branches. As chief security officer, it was his unfortunate duty to accompany the others on this nocturnal excursion. “I don’t like the feel of this forest. What do they call it?”

“The Black Fairy Wood,” Conundrum answered.

“I don’t know. I think they meant the Blackberry Wood,” Razmous said. “I think I smell some blackberries.”

“How can you smell anything except haggis?” Sir Grumdish snapped as he clapped a hand over his own nose and mouth.

“Oh, please don’t say haggis,” Doctor Bothy groaned.

“Let’s go a little deeper into the woods, at least,” the kender said with a wry grin and a sparkle in his periwinkle eyes. “So the villagers don’t see us. We wouldn’t want to offend them.” Picking up his sack and slinging it with a sickening squish over his shoulder, he crept deeper into the woods, leaving the light and noise of the sleepy village behind. His companions followed reluctantly.

When they had gone about a bowshot further into the woods, Sir Grumdish called them once more to a halt. “This is far enough,” he said as he pulled a shovel out of his pack and tossed it to the kender. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the canopy overhead, illuminating a small patch of leafy soil at their feet. A number of curious mushrooms or toadstools poked their speckled caps up through the mold.

“Let’s dig!” Sir Grumdish almost shouted as he produced a second shovel and jabbed it into the ground. He began flinging scoopfuls of dirt over his shoulder like some sort of demented badger burrowing into the hillside.

Dropping the sack full of haggis to the ground, Razmous then stood to the side, gripping the shovel in his nimble brown hands. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Maybe haggis is what they call an acquired taste and we should give it another try.”

“Give me that,” Doctor Bothy muttered angrily as he took the kender’s shovel. “I’ll dig. Maybe it will get my mind off my poor belly. When I get back to the ship, I’m going to invent milk of amnesia. That’s a taste I would dearly love to acquire right now.”