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"Quit complaining, Zap," the kender said testily. 'You
never had it better than this. I'll bet you never expected
to travel."
"No," the disembodied non-voice seemed to mourn,
"just to happen."
"Well, you weren't happening where you were, either.
So what's the difference?"
Wingover glanced at the kender, curious to see what
the little person was doing. It was the first time he had
seen Chestal Thicketsway concentrate on anything for
more than one hour. Yet, Chess had been working on his
sapling for most of the day. With all of its branches gone
and most of its bark peeled away, it was a slim pole of
fresh wood more than twenty feet long.
With the last of the trimming done, the kender laid the
sapling down near the ledge and looked around. "I need
some string," he said.
The man arched a curious brow. "Do you plan to go
fishing?"
"I don't think so," the kender said distractedly. "But I
need... ah, excuse me." He trotted away, heading for
the stacked packs and equipment.
After a time he returned, heading for the ledge. "I
found some thongs," he said. "They're not string, but
they'll do."
Wingover looked after Chess, then called softly,
'What are you making over there?"
"A supply stick," Chess called back. "Gnomes aren't
the only ones who can invent good stuff, you know."
"A supply stick," Wingover muttered, wondering
what it was all about. Then it came to him, and he
grinned. Raisins for Bobbin, of course
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