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"Jar fittings" Tas repeated dully. "What's that?"
"LiggandIweretalkingaboutwaystoimprovethe-
exhibits, somethingtomakethemmoreinteresting." He
was speaking very quickly, avoiding Tasslehoff's eyes.
"We thought perhaps putting more of the specimens in
interesting-looking jars might help." Bozdil's voice
trailed off, and he continued to fidget.
"Uh oh," Winnie mumbled in the shadows. The sound
reached only Woodrow's ears. "This is just an excuse to
get him out of here without suspecting anything. No one
ever returns from a fitting."
Woodrow looked up through bleary eyes and gulped.
"Oh." Woodrow's foggy brain began to slowly clear, and
he was frozen with helpless indecision.
"Come with me, Burrfoot," instructed Bozdil. Seeing
the kender reach for his hoopak he said, "Leave your
forked weapon here. You won't need it where you're go-
ing. You can retrieve it later."
"Where's Ligg?" Tas asked the smaller of the two
gnomes, peering past him into the silent hall.
"He's preparing some things," Bozdil said vaguely, "but
he'll be along shortly."
Tasslehoff set his chin firmly, said good-bye to Winnie
and Woodrow, who seemed to be a bit muddled still,
then followed Bozdil into the torch-lit hall. The kender
walked without his usual bounce, his arm held firmly by
Bozdil's small but strong hand, a torch sputtering in the
gnome's other hand.
"So, how are you going to do 'it'?" the kender asked.
"Bonk me over the head, poison my food, hold a pillow
over my face?" He'd been thinking about "it" very clini-
cally in the last hours
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