Cloudmaster The day after the robbers' attack was oppressively humid. Tallfox and Pira needed frequent watering, for their heads would sag and their gait falter. They entered a district of orchards and farms, with a good view from the road on all sides. Kitiara and Sturm discarded their mail for shirtsleeves, and by noon Kitiara had pulled her blouse loose and tied the tails together around her waist. Thus cooled, they paused in a fig grove for lunch. "Too bad they're green," said Kitiara, pinching an immature fig between her thumb and forefinger. "I like figs." "I doubt that the orchard's keeper would share your enthusiasm unless you paid for what you ate," said Sturm. He hollowed a large biscuit and filled the hole with chopped, dried fruit and cheese. "Oh, come on. Haven't you ever snitched apples or pears? Stolen a chicken and roasted it over a bark fire, while the farmer hunted for you with a pitchfork?" "No, never." "I have. And few things in life taste as sweet as the food you season with wit." She dropped the fig branch and joined Sturm under the tree. "You never considered what your witty little thefts might do to the farmer, did you, Kit? That he or his family might go hungry for a night because of your filched meal?" She bristled. "A fine one you are to talk, Master Brightblade. Since when did you ever work for the food that went into your belly? It's very easy for a lord's son to speak of justice for the poor, never having been poor himself." Sturm counted silently until his anger subsided. "I worked," he said simply. "When my mother, her handmaid Carin, and I first arrived in Solace twelve years ago, we had some money that we'd brought with us. But soon it ran out, and we were in dire straits. My mother was an intensely proud woman and would not take charity. Mistress Carin and I did odd jobs around Solace to put food on the table. We never told my mother." Kitiara's prickly demeanor softened. "What did you do?" He shrugged. "Because I was able to read and write, I got a job with Derimius the Scribe, copying scrolls and manuscripts. Not only was I able to earn five silver pieces a week, but I got to read all sorts of things." -I never knew that."In fact, I met Tanis at Derimius's shop. He brought in a ledger that he kept for Flint. Tanis had spilled some ink on the last pages and wanted Derimius to replace them with new parchment. Tanis saw a sixteen-year-old boy scribbling away with a gray goose quill and inquired about me. We talked and became friends." This statement was punctuated by a roll of far-off thunder. The sultry air had collected in a mass of blue-black thunderheads piling up in the western sky. They were moving quickly eastward, so Sturm crammed the last of his lunch in his mouth and jumped to his feet. He mumbled something through bread and cheese. "What?" said Kitiara. "- horses. Must secure the horses!" Lightning lanced down from the clouds to the hills where the robbers had been vanquished. Wind blew out of the upper air, swirling dust into Sturm and Kitiara's eyes. They tied Tallfox and Pira to a fig tree, and hastily rigged their blankets as a shelter to keep the rain off. Down the road Kitiara could see a wall of rain advancing toward them. "Here it comes!" she said.
The storm broke over the fig grove with all its fury. Rain hammered the skimpy screen of blankets down on their heads. In seconds, Sturm and Kitiara were completely soaked. Rain collected between the rows of trees and filled the low places. Water climbed over Kitiara's toes. Tallfox couldn't bear it. A nervous beast by nature, he reared and neighed as the storm played around him. His terror infected the usually stolid Pira, and both horses started straining against their tethers. A bolt of lightning hit the tallest tree in the orchard and blasted it into a million burning fragments. The horses, driven beyond terror, tore free and galloped away, Tallfox fleeing east and Pira veering north. "After them!" Sturm cried above the din. He and Kitiara splashed off after their respective mounts. Tallfox was a long-legged sprinter, and he galloped in a straight line. Pira was a hard-cornering dodger. She wove among the leafy fig trees, changing direction a dozen times in twenty places. Kitiara stumbled after her, cursing her favorite's agility. The orchard ended in a gully. Kitiara slid down the muddy bank and into calf-deep water. "Pira!" she called. "Pira, you pea-brained nag, where are you?" All she got for her shouting was a mouth full of water. She scanned both sides of the gully for tracks. In the lightning's glare Kitiara saw a strange thing. An angular black shape, like a warrior's shield, was silhouetted against the clouds, some forty feet overhead. The dazzling glow faded, but not before she saw a long line trailing below the shield to the ground. Kitiara slogged forward, not knowing what she would find. Tallfox easily outran his master, but Sturm was able to follow the chestnut's prints in the mud. A wall of closely growing cedar saplings blocked the end of the orchard. There was only one gap wide enough for a horse to pass through, and sure enough, Sturm found Tallfox's trail there. He plunged into the dense tangle of evergreen. Broken saplings told well which way his horse had gone. The lightning was unusually active overhead. It crackled and pulsed from cloud to cloud. One prolonged stroke illuminated a wonder to Sturm's eyes: an enormous bird fluttered in the storm wind. The bird wobbled from side to side, but never flew off. Another bolt of lightning crackled, and he saw why. Someone had tied cords to the bird's feet. Kitiara climbed a hill of solid mud. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her clothing felt as if it had absorbed a ton of water. At the top of the hill, she could see down into a wide clearing. There was no sign of Pira. There was, however, plenty to see. In the center of the clearing was a thing such as Kitiara had never seen. It was like a huge boat with large leather sails furled along each side. There were no masts, but the prow was long and pointed, like a bird's beak, and there were wheels on the underside of the hull. Above the boat, tied to it by a rope netting, was a big canvas bag. A huge egg-shaped bag squirmed and writhed in the wind like a living thing. A swarm of little men surrounded the boat-thing. Beyond them, a couple of tall poles rose straight up from the ground. From the tops of these four poles, long ropes whipped about, and at the end of the ropes were more of the 'warrior's shields' that Kitiara had seen. At the same time, Sturm emerged from the cedars on the opposite side of the same clearing. He gaped at the thing. Wordlessly, he headed toward it. A little man in a shiny hat and long coat greeted Sturm. "G-greetings and felicit-tationsl" he said cheerily. "Hello," said a bewildered Sturm. "What is going on here?" Even as he spoke, a bolt of lightning struck one of the 'birds' tethered on a pole (the same thing Kitiara had mistaken for a shield). Blue-white fire coursed down the line to the pole. From the pole, it flashed along another line a foot off the ground, until it reached the boat-thing, where it vanished. The boat swayed on its wheels, then settled back. "D-Doing? Well, charging up, as you c-can see," said the little man. When he flipped the wide brim of his hat back, Sturm saw his pale eyes and bushy white brows and realized that he was a gnome. "It really is a w-wonderful storm. We're so l-lucky!" Kitiara wandered around the odd-looking craft, warily keeping her distance. By one especially vivid bolt of lightning, she saw Sturm talking to the little fellow. She cupped her hands around her lips and yelled, "Sturm!" "Kit!" She joined him. "Did you find the horses?" "No, I was hoping they ran to you." She waved her arms in great circles. "I fell in a ditch!" "So I see. What are we going to do?" "Ahem," said the gnome. "D-do I understand that you t-two have lost your m-means of transportation'" "That's right," said Sturm and Kitiara in unison. "Fortuitous f-fate! Perhaps we can help one another." He flipped the brim of his hat down again. A tiny torrent of water spilled down his coat. "Will you c-come with me?" "Where are we going?" asked Sturm. "For n-now, out of the w-weather," said the gnome. "I'm for that!" said Kitiara. – The gnome led them up a ramp into the left side of the boat. The interior was brightly lit, warm, and dry. Their guide removed his hat and coat. He was a mature male of his race, with a fine white beard and bald pink head. He gave Sturm and Kitiara each a towel – which, being sized for gnomes, was no bigger than a hand-towel. Sturm dried his hands and face. Kitiara loosened some of the mud from hers, wrung out the towel, and tied it scarf-fashion around her head. "F-follow me," said the gnome. "My c-colleagues will join us l-later. They're busy now g-gathering the lightning." With this amazing statement, he led them down a long, narrow passage between two banks of machinery of unfathomable purpose. All the rods, cranks, and gears were skillfully wrought in iron or brass and carefully hollowed out. Their guide came to a small ladder, which he ascended. The upper deck they entered was subdivided into small cabins. Hammocks were slung from hooks, and all sorts of boxes, crates, and great glass demijohns were packed on every inch of floor space. Only a narrow track down the center of the passage was clear for walking. They climbed a second ladder and were in a house built in the center of the deck. There were portholes in the walls, and Sturm could see that rain still lashed at them. The deckhouse was split into two large rooms. The forward room, where they entered, was fitted like a ship's wheelhouse. A steering wheel was set at the bow end, which was extensively glazed with many glass panels. All sorts of levers sprouted from the floor and ceiling, and there were mysterious gauges labeled Altitude, Indicated Air Speed, and Density of Raisins in Breakfast Muffins. Kitiara introduced them. The gnome's eyes widened, and he smiled benignly when he learned that Sturm was the son of an ancient Solamnic family. Ever curious, he inquired after Kitiara's antecedents. She turned his query aside and described their journey so far, their goal, and their general frustration at having lost their horses. "P-perhaps I can be of s-service," said the gnome. "My name is He-Who-Stutters-Ap-propriately-in-the-M-midstof-the-Most-Abstruse-Technical-Explanations -" Sturm interrupted, knowing the length of gnomish names. "Please! What do those not of the gnomish race call you?" The gnome sighed, and said very slowly, "I am often c-called 'Stutts', a wholly inadequate approximation of my true n-name." "It has the virtue of brevity," said Sturm. "B-brevity, my dear knight, is no virtue to those who love knowledge for its own s-sake." Stutts folded his stubby fingers across his round belly. "I should like to offer you a p-position, if, under the circumstances, you are iinterested." "What sort of position?" asked Kitiara. "My c-colleagues and I arrived here today from Caergoth." The awkward spectacle of the gnome ship in Caergoth harbor came to the humans' minds. "We c-came to this region of Solamnia because the weather patterns are well known for v-violent thunderstorms." Sturm brushed his drying mustache with his fingers. "You were seeking a storm?"
"P-precisely. The lightning is vital for the operation of oui m-machine." Stutts smiled and patted the arm of his chair "Isn't it a b-beauty? It is called the C-Cloudmaster." "What does it do?" "It f-flies." "Oh, of course it does," Kitiara said with a chuckle. "Very ingenious of you gnomes. What does that have to do with Sturm and me?" Stutts's small face flushed a deeper shade of pink. "Ahem. W-we've had a bit of b-bad luck. You see, in calculating the op-optimal lift-to-weight ratio, someone failed to consider the effect of the Cloudmaster coming to r-rest on soil in an advanced state of hydration." "What did you say!" "We're st-stuck in the mud," said Stutts, turning pink again. "And you want us to dig you out?" asked Kitiara. "For which we will g-gratefully fly you to any point on Krynn that you wish to go. Enstar, B-Balifor, or far Karthay -" "The Plains of Solamnia were where we were headed," said Sturm. "That's as far as we need to go." Kitiara swung an elbow into Sturm's ribs. "You're not taking this little lunatic seriously, are you?" she hissed from the corner of her mouth. "I know gnomes," he replied. "Their inventions work with surprising regularity." "But I don't -" Stutts hopped up. "You'll want to d-discuss it. May I suggest you clean up, have a good m-meal, and then d-decide? We have a cleansing station on board like nothing you've s-seen before." "I'm sure of that," Kitiara muttered. They agreed to bathe and dine with the gnomes. Stutts pulled a light chain that hung from the ceiling by the steering wheel. A deep-throated AH – OO – GAH! echoed through the flying ship. A young gnome in greasy coveralls and with very bushy red eyebrows appeared. "Show our g-guests to the cleansing station," said Stutts. The bushy-browed gnome whistled a string of notes in reply. "No, one at a t-time," Stutts said. Bushy-brows whistled again. "Does he always talk like that?" queried Kitiara. "Yes. My c-colleague -" Here he recited about five minutes of gnome-name. "- has evolved the theory that spoken 1-language was derived from the songs of birds. You may call him -" Stutts paused and looked at the bushy-browed fellow, who tweeted and chirped. Stutts continued, "-Birdcall." Birdcall took Sturm and Kitiara below deck to the stern. There, with whistles and gestures, he indicated two cubicles on either side of the corridor. The doors bore identical signs that read: Rapid and Hygienic Cleansing Station Perfected and Provided to the Flying Ship Cloudmaster By the Guild of Hydrodynamic Masters and Journeymen And the Apprentices of Mt. Nevermind Level Twelve Sancrist Ansalon Krynn Sturm looked from the door to Kitiara. "Do you think it works?" he asked. "Only one way to find out," she replied, pulling the filthy towel from her head and dropping it on the floor. She stepped through the door and it swung shut behind her with a soft click. The tile walls inside the cleansing station were covered with writing. Kitiara squinted at the hand-painted script. Some of it ran sideways, and some of it was upside down. Most of the writing concerned proper and scientific bathing procedure. Some of it was nonsense – she saw a line that declared, "The absolute value of the density of raisins in the perfect muffin is sixteen." And some of the writing was rude: "The inventor of this station has dung for brains." She peeled off her outer clothing and put it in a convenient wicker basket. Kitiara stepped to a raised wooden platform. There was a ghastly, rubbery hissing sound, an water began to spray from a pipe above her head. It caught her by surprise, so she clamped a hand over the spoutin end. No sooner had she stopped one spray than another started from the wall on her left. That one she plugged with a finger. Then the real melee began. With mud and water trickling down her face, Kitiara heard a rattling and squeaking behind her. She twisted around without unstopping the spouts. A square tile on the wall had popped open, revealing a jointed metal rod that was unfolding and reaching out for her. On the end of the rod was a round pad of fleece, rapidly spinning. Wheels and pulleys set along the jointed rod made the sheepskin turn. "What a time to be without a sword!" Kitiara said aloud. The rod wavered and came toward her. It was a moment of decision. She accepted the challenge and released the pipes. Water gushed out, sluicing the mud from her body. Kitiara grappled with the whirling fleece, grabbing it with both hands. The pulleys whined and the cords twanged. Finally she succeeded in snapping the rod off at the first joint. The water stopped. Kitiara stood, panting, as the water drained through slots in the floor. There was a knock on the door. "Kit?" Sturm called. "Are you finished?" Before she could reply, a heavy piece of cloth dropped from the ceiling over her head. She yelled and threw fists at her unseen attacker, but all she hit was air. Kitiara pulled the cloth off her head. It was a towel. She dried off and wrapped herself in it. Sturm was in the corridor, likewise swathed in a dry blanket. "What a place," he said, grinning more widely than Kitiara had ever seen him do. "I'm going to have a few words with Stutts!" she declared. "What's wrong?" "I was attacked in there!" Stutts appeared. "Is there a p-problem?" Kitiara was about to voice her outrage, but Stutts wasn't actually speaking to her. He bustled on by and opened a panel in the wall. Inside, a rather harried-looking gnome lay in a tangle with a three-legged stool. At the gnome's waist level was a hand-crank, labeled Cleansing Station Number 2 – Rotary Washing Device. "Is that what I was fighting?" Kitiara said. "Looks that way," said an amused Sturm. "The poor fellow was just doing his job. The fleece is like a washcloth, only he does the scrubbing for you." "I can do my own scrubbing, thank you," she said sourly. Stutts mopped his face with his sleeve. "This is all v-very distressing. I must ask you, Mistress Kitiara, to not d-damage the machinery. Now I shall have to write a report in qui-quintuplicate to the Aerostatics Guild." "I'll keep an eye on her," Sturm said. "Kit has a tendency to bash things she doesn't understand." Birdcall came down the corridor whistling furiously. Stutts brightened. "Oh, g-good. Time for d-dinner." The gnomes dined in the rear half of the deckhouse. A long, plank table was suspended from the ceiling, as on an ocean-going ship, but the gnomes had 'improved' on the sailors' arrangement by hanging their seats from the ceiling, too. They swung happily from side to side. Thus, Sturm and Kitiara had to squeeze into narrow chain swings just to sit at the table. Dinner proved ordinary enough: beans, ham, cabbage, muffins, and sweet cider. Stutts apologized; they had no scientifically trained cook on board. The warriors were grateful for that. The gnomes ate rapidly and without conversation (because it was more efficient). The sight of ten bowed, balding heads, accompanied only by the sound of spoons scraping on plates, was a little unnerving. Sturm cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves -" "Everyone knows who you are," said Stutts without looking up. "I s-sent out a memorandum while you were b-being cleansed." "Then you can introduce your crew to us," said Kitiara. Stutts's head snapped up. "They're n-not crew. We are c-colleagues." "Pardon me!" Kitiara rolled her eyes. "You are p-pardoned." He spooned the last of his beans swiftly into his mouth. "But if you insist." Stutts slipped from his swinging seat and walked down the row of eating gnomes. He gave a yawningly elaborate profile of each of his colleagues, including the name by which "those not of the gnomish race" could call each one. Sturm distilled all of this into a short mental list: Birdcall, chief mechanic in charge of the engine, Wingover, Stutts's right-hand gnome; in charge of actually flying the machine, Sighter, astronomer and celestial navigator, Roperig, expert with rope, cord, wire, cloth, and so forth, Fitter, Roperig's apprentice, Flash, collector and storer of lightning, Bellcrank, chief metal worker and chemist, Cutwood, in charge of carpentry, woodwork, and all non-metal parts, Rainspot, weather seer and physician by designation. "How did you come to build this, uh, machine?" asked Sturm. "It is part of my Life Quest," said Wingover, a taller-thanaverage gnome with a hawklike nose. "Complete and successful aerial navigation, that's my goal. After years of experimenting with kites, I met our friend Bellcrank, who has discovered a very rarefied air, which, when enclosed in a suitable bag, will float and support other objects of weight." "Preposterous," said Sighter. "This so-called ethereal air is humbug!" "Listen to the stargazer," the tubby Bellcrank said with a sneer. "How do you think we were able to fly to this point from Caergoth, eh? Magic?" "The wings supported us," Sighter replied with heat. "The lift ratios clearly show -" "It was the ethereal air!" retorted Rainspot, who sat by Bellcrank. "Wings!" shouted Sighter's side of the table. "Air!" cried Bellcrank's allies. "Colleagues! C-colleagues!" Stutts said, holding up his hands for quiet. "The p-purpose of our expedition is to establish with scientific accuracy the c-capabilities of the Cloudmaster. Let us not argue needlessly about theories until the d-data is available." The gnomes lapsed into sullen silence. Rain drummed on the skylight over the table. The hostile silence lingered for an embarrassing length of time. Then Rainspot lifted his eyes to the dark panes and said, "The rain is stopping." A few seconds later, the steady thrumming ceased completely. "How did he know that!" asked Kitiara. "Theories differ," said Wingover. "A committee is meeting even now on Sancrist Isle to study our colleague's talent." "How can they study him when he's up here?" Sturm wondered. He was ignored. "It's his nose," Cutwood said. "His nose?" Kitiara asked. "Because of the size and relative angle of Rainspot's nostrils, he can detect changes in relative air pressure and humidity just by breathing." "Hogwash!" Roperig said. "Hogwash," echoed Fitter, the smallest and youngest of the gnomes, from his place by Roperig. "It's his ears," continued Roperig. "He can hear the rain stop falling from the clouds before it reaches the ground." "Unmitigated tommyrot!" That was Sighter again. "Any fool can see it's his hair that does it. He can feel the roots uncurl when the moisture in the air falls -" Bellcrank, sitting opposite Sighter, snatched up a muffin from the table and bounced it off his rival's chin. Flash and Fitter pounced on the fallen muffin and broke it open. "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen," Flash counted. "What's he doing?" Sturm asked. "C-counting raisins," answered Stutts. "That's his current project: to determine the world average density of raisins in muffins." Kitiara dropped her face into her hands and moaned. The dinner debacle over, the gnomes left the flying ship to dismantle their equipment in the meadow. Kitiara and Sturm, now dry, dressed in enough clothing to hike back to their campsite in the fig orchard and pick up their gear. The storm had blown itself out, and stars showed in the ragged holes between the clouds. "Are we doing the right thing?" asked Kitiara. "These gnomes haven't got all their bootlaces tied." Sturm glanced back at the queer machine lying cockeyed in the muddy field. "They are lacking in common sense, but they're tireless and creative. If they can get us to the high Plains of Solamnia in a day, then I, for one, don't mind helping to dig them out of the mud." "I don't believe that thing can fly," she said. "We never saw it fly. For all we know, the storm blew it here." They reached the sodden remains of their camp and packed up their scattered belongings. Kitiara hoisted Pira's saddle on her shoulder. "Blast that horse," she said. "Raised her from a filly, I did, and she never looked back once she got loose. I'll bet she's halfway to Garnet by now." "Tallfox was a bad influence, I fear. Tirien warned me that he was skittish." "It may be that Tallfox had the right idea," Kitiara said. "How so?" said Sturm. She slung the damp bedroll over the saddle. "If the gnomes can do half the things they claim, we may end up wishing we'd run away in the storm, too." Chaptea 6 1,081 Hours, 29 Minutes "Higgher! Higher! Get that balk in place!- Sturm grunted against the massive weight of the gnomes' flying ship. He and Kitiara strained against a rough-hewn lever they'd made over the gnomes' protests. Crude levers! the gnomes protested. Bellcrank claimed that any gnome could invent a device ten times better for lifting heavy objects. Of course, it would take a committee to study the stress analysis of the local wood, as well as to calculate the proper pivot point for raising the ship. "No," Kitiara had insisted. "If you want us to help get your ship out of the mud, then we'll do it our own way." The gnomes had shrugged and rubbed their bare pates. Trust humans to do things the crudest way. The gnomes rolled several large rocks up to the hull. These would be the fulcrums. After Sturm and Kitiara had made the ship level, the gnomes shoved short, thick timber balks into place to brace it upright. It was slow, sweaty labor, but by noon of the day after the storm, the flying ship was finally on an even keel. "A problem," Wingover announced. "Now what?" Kitiara asked. "The landing gear must have a firm surface on which to roll. Therefore, it will be necessary to construct a roadbed. Here; I've made calculations as to how much crushed stone and mortar we'll need -" Kitiara plucked the paper from his hand and tore it in two. "I've gotten wagons out of mud before," she said, "by putting straw or twigs in the ruts." "Might work," Sturm said. "But this thing is very heavy." He spoke to Stutts, who promptly removed the protesting gnomes from their important (though completely useless) 'improvement' work and set them to gathering windfall branches and brushwood. They all turned out except Bellcrank, who was busy with his pots of powders and vials of noxious liquids. "I must attend to my first task, generating the ethereal air, he said, pouring iron filings from a keg. "When the air bag is filled, it will help lighten the ship." "You do that," said Kitiara. She leaned against the hull to watch. She didn't like strenuous work. Work was for dullards and peasants, not warriors. The gnomes returned with a scant armful of brush. "Nine of you, and that's all you have?" Sturm said incredulously. "Roperig and Sighter disagreed on which kind of sticks to bring, so in the spirit of cooperation, we didn't pick up either of their choices," Wingover said. "Wingover," Sturm said pleadingly, "please tell Roperig and Sighter that the kind of wood doesn't matter in the least. We just want something dry for the wheels to run over." The tallish gnome dropped his bundle of sticks and led his fellows back to the woods. Meanwhile, Bellcrank had managed to enlist Kitiara's aid in inflating the Cloudmaster's air bag. On the ground beside the ship he'd set up a big clay tub, five feet wide." He poured powdered iron and other bits of scrap metal in the tub and smoothed the pile out around the edges. "Lower away!" he told Kitiara, and she set a domed wooden lid, like the top half of a beer barrel, on top of the ceramic tub. Bellcrank worked around the outside, poking a long strip of greased leather into the joint. "It must be tight," he explained, "or the ethereal air will seep out and not fill the bag." She hoisted the gnome up and set him on top of the barrel. With a corkscrew, Bellcrank popped a large cork in the top of the barrel. "Hand me the hose," he said. v "This?" asked Kitiara, holding up a limp tube of canvas. "The very thing." She gave it to him, and he tied it over the neck of a wooden turncock. "Now," said Bellcrank, "for the vitriol!" There were three very large demijohns sitting in the tall grass. Kitiara stooped to pick one up. "Oof!" she gasped. "Feels like a keg of ale!" "It's concentrated vitriol. Be careful not to spill it; it can burn you very badly." She set the heavy jug down by the tub. 'You don't expect me to pour that stuff in there, do you?" Bellcrank said, "No indeed! I have a most efficacious invention that will circumvent such tiresome duty. Hand me the Excellent Mouthless Siphon, would you?" Kitiara cast about but saw nothing that resembled an Excellent Mouthless Siphon. Bellcrank pointed with his stubby finger. "That, there; the bellows-looking item. Yes." She gave him the mouthless siphon. Bellcrank put the beak of the bellows into the demijohn and pulled the handles apart. The sinister brown liquid in the jug sank by an inch. "There!" the gnome said triumphantly. "No sucking on tubes. No spillage." He pushed the beak into the hole in the barrel where the cork had been, and emptied the vitriol. "Ha, ha! Gnomish science overcomes ignorance again!" Bellcrank repeated the siphoning four more times before Kitiara noticed vapor escaping from the leather hinges of the Excellent Mouthless Siphon. "Bellcrank," she said hesitantly. "Not now! The process has begun, and it must be kept going at a steady pace!" "But the siphon -" A drop of vitriol seeped through a hole that it had eaten in the hinge of the siphon, and splashed on Bellcrank's shoe. He carelessly flung the siphon away and began hopping around on one foot, trying desperately to pry the shoe off his foot. The vitriol ate the buckle strap in two, and with a mighty kick, Bellcrank flung the shoe away. It missed the returning Fitter's nose by a whisker. "Oh, Reorx!" said Bellcrank sadly. The Excellent Mouthless Siphon was a pile of steaming fragments. "Never mind," Kitiara said. Whe wrapped her arms around the vitriol jug and planted her feet firmly. "Hai-yup!" she grunted, and raised the demijohn to Bellcrank's level. He guided the jug's mouth, and soon a steady stream of the acrid fluid was spilling into the ethereal air generator. The hose from the keg to the air bag swelled. The sagging bag itself began to fill out and grow firmer inside its web of netting. Soon all the rope rigging and tackle was taut. The bag strained against the confining ropes. At Bellcrank's signal, Kitiara lowered the heavy demijohn. Sturm came around the bow with the other gnomes. "The ruts are full of brush," he said. "The bag is full of ethereal air," said Bellcrank. "My back is killing me," said Kitiara. "What next?" "We f-fly," said Stutts. "All colleagues to their flying ststations!" Stutts, Wingover, and the two humans went into the forward end of the deck house. The other gnomes lined the rail. "Release ballast!" cried Wingover. "Release b-ballast!" Stutts called out an open porthole. The gnomes took up long, sausage-shaped bags that lined the rail. The ends opened, and sand poured out. The gnomes flung sand over the side, getting as much in their own eyes as they did out of the ship. This went on until Sturm felt the deck shift under his feet. Kitiara, wide-eyed, grabbed the brass rail that ran around the wheelhouse at the gnomes' shoulder height. "Open front wings!" cried Wingover. "Opening f-front wings!" Stutts replied. He leaned against a lever as tall as he was and shoved it forward. A rattle, a screech, and the leather 'sails' that Kitiara and Sturm had noticed on the hull unfolded into long, graceful batlike wings. The goatskin covering the bony ribs was pale brown and translucent. "F-front wings open," Stutts reported. Wind caught in them, and the ship lifted an inch or two at the bow. "Open rear wings!" "Opening rear w-wings!" A slightly wider and longer pair of leather-clad wings blossomed aft of the deckhouse. "Set tail!" The gnomes on deck ran out a long spar and clamped it to the stern. Roperig and Fitter clambered over the spar, attaching lines to pulleys to hooks. They unfolded a fanshaped set of ribs, also covered in goatskin. By the time they finished, the Cloudmaster was swaying and bucking off the ground. Wingover flipped the cover off a speaking tube. "Hello, Birdcall, are you there? A shrill whistled answered. "Tell Flash to start the engine." There was a sizzle and a loud crack, and the deck quivered beneath their feet. Wingover twirled a brass ring handle and threw another tall lever. The great wings rose slowly in unison. The Cloudmaster lost contact with the ground. Down came the wings, folding inward as they came. The flying ship lurched forward, its wheels sucking free of the mud and bouncing over the scattered brush. The wings beat again, faster. Wingover grasped the steering wheel in both his small hands and pulled. The wheel swung toward him, the bow pitched up, the wings flapped crazily, and the Cloudmaster was borne aloft into the blue afternoon sky. "Hurray! H-Hurray!" Stutts said, jumping up and down. The Cloudmaster climbed steadily. Wingover eased the wheel forward, and the bow dropped. Kitiara yelled and lost her footing. Sturm let go of the handrail to try to catch her, and he fell, too. He rolled against one of the levers, knocking it out of place, and the wings instantly stopped moving. The Cloudmaster wobbled and plunged toward the ground. There were several seconds of stark terror. Sturm disen tangled himself from the lever and hauled back on it. The wings sang as the taut skin bit the air. Stutts and Kitiara, in a knot, rolled to the rear of the room. Shakily, Wingover steadied the ship. "I think passengers ought to leave the wheelhouse," Wingover said. His voice shook with fear. "At least until you get your air legs." "I agree," said Sturm. From his hands and knees he grabbed the handle of the door and crept out on deck. Kitiara and Stutts crawled out behind him. The rushing wind was strong on deck, but by taking firm hold of the rail and leaning into it, Kitiara found it tolerable. The wings flexed up and down in close harmony. Kitiara slowly straightened her legs. She looked over the side. "Great Lord of Battle!" she exclaimed. "We must be miles and miles straight up!" Stutts boosted himself to the rail and hung his head over the side. "N-not as high as all that," he remarked. "You can st-still see our shadow on the ground." It was true. A dark oval sped across the treetops. Sighter appeared with his spyglass, and he promptly announced their altitude as 6,437.5 feet. "Are you certain?" Kitiara asked. "Please," said Sturm, "take his word for it." "Where are we headed, Sighter?" asked Kitiara. "Due east. That's the Lemish forest below. In a few minutes, we should be over the Newsea." "But that's seventy miles from where we were," Sturm said. He was sitting on the deck. "Are we truly flying that fast?" "Indeed we are, and we shall go faster still," Sighter said. He strolled forward, his spyglass stuck to one eye as he surveyed the world below. "It's wonderful!" Kitiara said. She laughed into the wind. "I never believed you could do it; but you did. I love it! Tell the whistler to go as fast as he can!" Stutts was almost as excited, and he agreed. He turned to re-enter the wheelhouse. Sturm called to him, and he paused. "Why are we heading east?" Sturm asked. "Why not north and east – toward the Plains of Solamnia?" Stutts replied, "Rainspot s-says he feels turbulence in that direction. He f-felt it wouldn't be prudent to fly through it." He disappeared into the wheelhouse. "Sturm, look at that!" Kitiara said. "It's a village! You can see the housetops and chimney smoke – and cattle! I wonder, can the people down there see us? Wouldn't that be funny, to swoop down on their heads and blow a trumpet – ta-ta! Scare them out of ten years' growth!" Sturm was still sitting on the deck. "I'm not ready to stand up yet," he said sheepishly. "I was never afraid of heights, you know. Trees, towers, mountaintops never disturbed me. But this…" "It's wonderful, Sturm. Hold the rail and look down." I must stand up, thought Sturm. The Measure demanded that a knight face danger with honor and courage. The Knights of Solamnia had never considered aerial travel in their code of conduct. I must show Kit that I am not afraid. Sturm grasped the rail. My father, Lord Angriff Brightblade, would not be afraid, he told himself as he faced the low wall and rose to his haunches. Blood pounded in Sturm's ears. The power of the sword, the discipline of battle, were of little help here. This was a stronger test. This was the unknown. Sturm stood. The world spun beneath him like a ribbon unspooling. Already the blue waters of the Newsea glittered on the horizon. Kitiara was raving about the boats she could see. Sturm took a deep breath and let the fear fall from him like a soiled garment. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed again. "I tell you, Sturm, I take back all the things I said about the gnomes. This flying ship is tremendous! We can go anywhere in the world with this. Anywhere! And think of what a general could do with his army in a fleet of these devices. No wall would be high . enough. No arrows could reach you up here. There's no spot in the whole of Krynn that could be defended against a fleet of flying ships." "It would be the end of the world," Sturm said. "Cities looted and burned, farms ravaged, people slaughtered – it would be as bad as the Cataclysm." "Trust you to see the dark side of everything," she said. "It happened before, you know. Twice the dragons of Krynn tried to subjugate the world from the sky, until the great Huma used the Dragonlance and defeated them." Kitiara said, "That was long ago. And men are different from dragons." Sturm was not so sure. Cutwood and Rainspot climbed a ladder to the roof of the wheelhouse. From there they launched a large kite". It fluttered back in the wind from the wings, whipping about on its string like a new-caught trout. "What are you two doing now?" Kitiara called out. "Testing for lightning," Cutwood responded. "He smells it in the clouds." "Isn't that dangerous?" Sturm said. "Eh?" Cutwood put a hand to his ear. "I said, isn't that -" The brilliant white-forked bolt hit the kite before Sturm could finish. Though the sun was shining and the air clear, lightning leaped from a nearby cloud and blasted the kite to ashes. The bolt continued down the string and leaped to the brass ladder. The Cloudmaster staggered; the wings skipped a beat, then settled back into their regular rhythm once more. They carried the scorched Rainspot into the dining room. His face and hands were black with soot. His shoes had been knocked right off his feet, and his stockings had gone with his shoes. All the buttons on his vest were melted as well. Cutwood lowered his ear to Rainspot's chest. "Still beating," he reported. The ship's alarm went AH – OO – GAH! and the speaking tube blared, "All colleagues and passengers come to the engine room at once." Stutts and the other gnomes filed toward the door, with the humans trailing behind. Stutts paused. "What ab-bout him?" He indicated the unconscious Rainspot. "We could carry him," Sighter said. "We can make a stretcher," said Cutwood, checking his pockets for paper and pencil to draw a stretcher design. "I'll do it," Sturm said, just to end the discussion. He scooped the little man up in his arms. Down in the engine room, the ship's entire company collected. Sturm was alarmed to see Wingover there. "Who steering the ship?" he asked. "I tied the wheel." "Colleagues and passengers," Flash said, "I beg to report, fault in the engine." "You needn't beg," said Roperig. "We'll let you report." "Shut up," said Kitiara. "How bad is it?" "I can't shut it off. The lightning strike has fused the switches in the 'on' position." "That's not so bad," Sighter said. Birdcall warbled in agreement. "But we can't fly around forever!" Kitiara said. "No indeed," said Flash. "I estimate we have power to fly for, oh, six and a half weeks." "Six weeks!" cried Sturm and Kitiara in unison. "One thousand, eighty-one hours, twenty-nine minutes. I can work out the exact seconds in a moment." "Hold my arms, Sturm; I'm going to throttle him!" "Hush, Kit." "Could we unfasten the wings? That would bring us down," said Roperig. "Yes, and make a nice big hole when we hit," Bellcrank observed tartly. "Hmm, I wonder how big a hole it would be." Cutwood flipped open a random slip of parchment and started figuring on it. The other gnomes crowded around, offering corrections to his arithmetic. "Stop this at once!" Sturm said. Kitiara's face was scarlet from ill-concealed rage. When the gnomes paid him not the least heed, he snatched the calculations from Cutwood. The gnomes broke off in midbabble. "How can such clever fellows be so impractical? Not one of you has asked the right question. Flash, can you fix the engine?" A gleam of challenge grew in Flash's eyes. "I can! I will!" He pulled a hammer from one pocket and a spanner from another. "C'mon, Birdcall, let's get at it!" The chief mechanic chirped happily and followed on Flash's heels. "Wingover, where will we go if we keep flying as we are now?" Sturm asked. "The wings are set on 'climb', which means we'll keep going higher and higher," Wingover replied. The gnome wrinkled his beaky nose. "It will get cold. The air will thin out; that's why vultures and eagles can only fly so high. Their wings are too small. The Cloudmaster shouldn't have problems with that." "Everyone will have to dress warmly," said Sturm. "We have our furs," Kitiara said, having mastered her anger at the situation. "I don't know what the gnomes can wear." "Oh! Oh!" Roperig waved a hand to be recognized. "I can make Personal Heating Apparatuses out of materials I have in the rope locker." "Fine, you do that." Roperig and his apprentice hurried away with their heads together. Fitter listened so intently that he walked under an engine part and into the door frame. Rainspot moaned. Forgetting his burden in the excitement, Sturm had tucked him under one arm like a loaf of bread. The gnome coughed and groaned. Sturm set him on the deck. The first thing Rainspot did was to ask for his kite. Cutwood explained how it was lost, and tears welled up in Rainspot's eyes. As they trickled down his cheeks, they scored clean tracks in the soot. "One thing more, Wingover," Kitiara said. "You said the air would get thin. Do you mean as it does on very high mountaintops?" "Exactly like that." She planted her hands on her hips and said, "I once led a troop of cavalry over the high Khalkist Mountains. It was cold, all right, and worse, our ears bled. We fainted at the slightest exertion and had the worst headaches. A shaman named Ning made a potion for us to drink; it eased our way." "What a primitive shaman can do with m-magic, a gnome can do with t-technology," said Stutts. Sturm looked out the engine room porthole at the darkening sky. A rime of frost was already forming on the outside of the glass. "I certainly hope so, my friend. Our lives may depend on it."