"Danus!"

"Yes, Laya?"

"What did you just do?"

"Huh?"

"What—did—you—just—DO?"

"Erm.  Let me think.  I breathed.  Thought about chicken.  I mighta done some blinking.  Um..."

"OK, forget that.  Tell me this—is your nose itchy?"

"Uh, let's see.  No, not really.  Not anymore."

"And why do you think that might be?"

"Um.  Er.  Ooh, ooh, I know—it's 'cause I just scratched it."

"You scratched it?"

"Yep."

"With your hand?"

"Yep."

"Specifically, your hand that is for some reason no longer chained to the wall?"

"I think so.  I probably couldn't reach with the one that's still chained to the wall."

"Danus, please pay very close attention to the question I'm about to ask.  Are you paying attention?"

"I always pay attention to you, Laya."

"Good, I'm pleased to hear it.  Now, the question I'm going to ask is this—WHY THE HELL ISN'T YOUR HAND CHAINED TO THE WALL ANYMORE?"

"It's cause I had an itchy nose, Laya.  Don't you remember?  I couldna scratched it, if my hand was still chained to the wall."

"OK, yes, good, fine—I get that.  What I want to know is, how did you get it unchained?"

"While you were having a doze, I broke a spiky bit off one of them torture things, with my foot, and then I picked it up in my toes and passed it to my hand.  I can do that kind of stuff, 'cause I'm real bendy.  Momma says I'm flexabubble.  Anyway, then I used the spiky thing to pick the lock.  I did it real quiet, so I wouldn't wake you up.  You seemed real tired."

"You can pick locks?"

"Oh, yeah.  My brother showed me.  He taught me all kinds of stuff, before them guards came and took him away.  He was real smart."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd be interested.  I mean, he's clever and all that, but his head looks a bit like the wrong end of a potato."

"Not about your brother!  Also, I don't think potatoes really have ends.  But why didn't you tell me that you could pick locks?"

"You didn't ask."

"But...but...didn't you think it might have been relevant?"

"Oh, yeah.  Soon as I got that itchy nose, it was real relevant."

"Not about your bloody nose!  I mean relevant to getting the hell out of here!"

"Oh, that?  Nah.  I had a good look at the lock on the door, when they dragged us in here.  I can't pick that sort."

"But you can pick the ones chaining us to the wall?"

"Oh, yeah.  I just didn't think there was much point.  Not 'til I got an itchy nose, anyway."

"Danus?"

"Hmm?"

"Pick the lock on your other hand, and then get over here and pick the ones on mine as well."

"Okay—if you say so, Laya.  But what are we gonna do then?"

"Well, first I'm going to punch you as hard as I can.  And then we're going to find a way out of here."

"Oh.  Okay.  But can we leave out the punching part?"

"No."

"Oh.  OK, then."

Standing on the barren mountainside, Kowolski took in the vista of rolling countryside laid out far below him, and breathed deeply of the cool, fresh air, hoping it might help to clear some of the fatigue and drug-induced haze from his head.  A little further up the slope, a large and ominously dark opening marred the otherwise relatively featureless terrain.

After a moment, figuring he was about as refreshed as he was going to get, he pulled out his phone and dialed the Director.

"Okay, Kowolski, what have you got for me?"

"Well, the crash-site appears to be lacking a crash, sir."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"There's no trace of the bird, sir.  Or of any people.  Not so much as a feather.  There's a cave, though."

"A cave?"

"Well, more of a cavity, sir.  There's a big opening in the side of the mountain, but it only goes in for about fifty metres or so, before ending in a rock wall."

"Anything in there?"

"Runes, sir."

"Runes!"

"Yes, sir.  Or at least some sort of arcane symbols.  We had a bit of training on them, at the academy.  I don't recognise these particular ones, but they sure as hell look like runes to me.  Painted all over the back wall."

"You're killing me, Kowolski.  You know that, don't you?  I'm looking for answers, not more bloody questions.  Runes!"

"Sorry, sir.  But I suggest we get a specialist team up here, ASAP."

"Fine.  I'll see what I can rustle up.  Sit tight."

Kowolski sighed, as visions of hot baths and comfortable beds swam through his tired mind.  His chest throbbed.  "Will do, sir."

Standing beside the trunk, dressed in simple but comfortable Volandan clothing, George tightened his belt, in order to prevent the slightly too big trousers from falling down around his ankles.

"Much better, boy," approved Grandpa, sitting on a nearby rock.  "You look seriously unimpressive."

George pulled a face.  "Wow, thanks.  Hey, what's that noise?"

A curious combination of metallic clanking and organic rustling could be heard from the forest to one side of the clearing.  Moments later, a bizarre contraption emerged from the trees and shuddered to a halt, gleaming red in the bright morning light.  It resembled nothing so much as a miniature train-carriage, provided said train-carriage had decided to buck tradition and motor around on six mechanical legs, rather than the more conventional, but frankly overdone, arrangement of wheels.  Two small figures emerged and made their way over to the humans.

Lob beamed at them.  "There you go, lads.  Whaddya reckon about that?  Ain't she a beauty?"

Grandpa sniffed.  "Is that the best you could do?  Well, beats walking, I guess—just."  He wandered over to the vehicle, kicked one of the legs, and began half-heartedly poking and prodding at the carriage .

With an effort, George turned his attention to the gnomes.  "Lob, I don't know what the hell that is, but it looks awesome.  Who's your friend?"

Lob snorted.  "Friend?  Hah!  This is my little brother, Wuck.  Say hello to George, Wuck."

"Hello, Geo—"

"Righto, righto," interrupted Lob, elbowing Wuck hard in the ribs.  "That'll do.  No point boring the lad with your pointless drivel.  Get over there and make sure that old geezer doesn't touch anything important."

"Okay, Lo—"

"Don't you ever shut up?  Less talking, more walking, sunshine.  Off you go."  He turned back to George.  "Sorry about that.  You know how it is with family.  Can't live with 'em, can't turn 'em into fertiliser.  Or so they say." He gave an elaborate wink.  "But anyway, say what you like about the Wuckster.  He may be mostly a useless tosser, but he's got a talent for finding stuff.  Comes in handy, occasionally."

George raised an eyebrow.  "Finding stuff?"

"Oh, yeah—finding, liberating, relocating.  All that kind of thing.  Anyway, can't stand here nattering all day.  Are we off to Noho, or what?  It's a grand place, lad.  That bar-finder of yours will be going off.  Taverns from here to breakfast."

George took a deep breath, and as was becoming his habit whenever he felt a little nervous, placed his hand on the hilt of the Blade.  "OK, let's go."  Taking great care to ensure that the sword was hanging out of the way of his legs, he set off towards the carriage.