The hall filled up with hundreds of nomes, cramming shoulder to shoulder in their eagerness to see the visitors, and the teamsters were unable to tell which of them lived in this particular hill and which were uninvited guests, entering someone else’s home without a thought for what the rightful occupants might think of it. Thomas suddenly remembered Jerry telling him that Pastoran nomes have much less of a sense of personal property than other races, including the eastern race of nomes of which Jerry himself was a member. They happily shared everything they had and ‘borrowed’ whatever they needed from one another, often without bothering to tell their former owners about it. He was nonetheless surprised to find that this was as true of their homes as it was their smaller possessions, though, and indeed he later found out that the nomes who’d dragged them here lived in an entirely different ridge and had thought nothing of borrowing this particular one for no other reason than because it was the largest and therefore had the biggest communal hall.

     Nomes pressed close all around him, and he concentrated all his attention on his pockets and pouches, wanting to be instantly aware of any pudgy little hands creeping stealthily into his clothing. They were deluged with questions, the nomes demanding to know everything that was happening in the world around them, except that 'the world around them' only seemed to extend as far as Pastora, New Mala and the Lonely Isles. They seemed to have no knowledge, and cared less, about the lands further away. Teasel was the only one who was really able to answer them, therefore, as she was the only one who knew the area, and even her knowledge was several years out of date.

     She told them mostly about her family, therefore, most of whom lived in the Pastoran town of Ruldarin which, the other teamsters learned, wasn't much different from a human town as far as the architecture was concerned, most of the buildings being wooden or brick with sloping, thatched roofs. The ridge dwellings used by the nomes of Noklin Valley and a few similar mountain valley communities were used only because they had no easy source of either wood or brick. The valley's soil, which washed off the sides of the mountains around them, was so full of rocks and boulders that it was virtually useless for agriculture until it had been screened and sifted, a process that had taken generations, and it had left vast piles of rocks which they'd used to build their homes from. They'd covered their stone houses with hard mud to keep out the draughts, and over the years grass had grown over them until they looked like natural parts of the landscape. It also formed a perfect insulation, ensuring that their homes were snug and warm even in the middle of the bitterest winter.

     Teasel spent hours regaling the nomes with stories of her relatives, and the nomes listened avidly, hanging onto her every word as she told them what they did for a living and related anecdotes of their lives. While Teasel was speaking to the crowd at large, though, the others found themselves in conversation with individual nomes, or with groups of two or three, while they nibbled on cakes and biscuits that were offered them. They hadn't heard that there was another Shadowwar going on in the north, and Thomas saw no reason to burden them with bad news, so he told the trio of sunburned, calloused farmers who'd gathered around him about life in Ilandia and what it was like being the son of a cobbler.

     That shifted the conversation around to footwear in general, and there followed a point by point comparison of human and nomish boots, with feet being lifted up, not always by their owners, so that a particular style of stitching or cut of leather could be pointed out. The inhabitants of Noklin Valley didn't have a cobbler of their own, so they were unable to produce an expert on the subject to match Thomas. Instead, there was a travelling cobbler, and several other itinerant tradesmen, who travelled around the several isolated nomish communities with a couple of well armed relatives to keep the goblins at bay, appearing twice a year or so to trade their wares before returning to Pastora to renew their stock.

     As the afternoon drew on, the cakes, pies and drinks being passed around began to increase in number and frequency, and meats and sauces also began to appear until, without any announcement being made, they came to realise that the evening meal had begun. The food was, again, presumably being looted from the families living in this ridge without their consultation, but since no howls of outrage broke out Thomas concluded that this also was considered perfectly acceptable behaviour in nomish society. The provender forced upon them was sweet, light and flaky, a dream after a week of trail rations and six weeks of the muck passed off as food in Redhill, and so the seven teamsters wolfed it down, justifying their gluttony with the thought that it wouldn’t be polite to turn it down. And indeed every mouthful they took brought fresh cries and squeals of delight from the tiny humanoids all around them. They’re loving it even more than we are, Thomas realised as he demolished his third apple pie sprinkled with sugar and topped with fresh whipped cream. These are people for whom it really is better to give than to receive.

     The rate of consumption of food reached a peak after an hour or so and then began to diminish, and nomes bustled around cleaning away plates and cutlery while others began entertaining small groups of their fellows with stories, songs and conjuring tricks. Thomas noticed that some of the nomes he'd been talking with earlier were now nowhere to be seen, having been replaced by new nomes who'd come in late. He wondered whether they had some kind of rota system worked out whereby everyone in the valley got a chance to meet the travelers. It meant that Teasel had to tell her tales all over again, but she seemed delighted by the opportunity and seemed content to repeat herself as many times as was necessary.

     As nomes came and went from the large room, Thomas got the impression that the partying was going on outside as well. Maybe the whole valley's celebrating! he thought, although he suspected that they were just being used as an excuse. If we hadn't turned up, he thought, they'd probably have greeted the travelling cobbler just as enthusiastically. They probably still would.

     “A song!” cried one of the nomes, a juvenile of about thirty whose eyes were shining with excitement. “Give us a song about far off lands and strange peoples! Give us a song of adventure and deeds of heroism!”

     “Yes! Yes!” cried out others. “Give us a song! A song!” and soon the whole room was clamouring with the demand so that the wizard could almost imagine the vibrations shaking all the soil off the hall’s roof.

     “Looks like this is where we earn our supper,” said Thomas to Shaun, leaning over to be heard above the din. “Know any good songs?”

     “You’re the one who claims to have a memory for words,” replied Shaun with a grin. “That’s what you told the soldiers anyway.”

     “But I can’t sing!”

     That cut no ice with the nomes, though, and the wizard found himself pulled relentlessly to his feet by dozens of plump, calloused hands and led over to a table, onto which he was stood by the combined strength of six nomes, the low ceiling forcing him to stoop over uncomfortably. “Look, I can’t sing like this!” he protested as the others collapsed in howling laughter, even Arroc, the strange question of his ancestry forgotten for the moment. “I’ll sing for you if you let me stand on the floor. All right?”

     “Just so long as you sing for us,” agreed a nome who seemed to hold a position of some authority if the gold chain around his neck was any indication. Even standing on the floor, though, the wizard was uncomfortably aware of the ceiling, only inches above his head, stirring up uneasy feelings of claustrophobia. “Now sing!” the nomes demanded impatiently. “Sing!”

     Thomas launched into some of the war poems he’d heard during his brief stay in Fort Battleaxe. Epic stories of heroes and Kings from the previous Shadowwars and legendary characters from centuries and millennia past. Silence fell in the hall as the nomes listened raptly, holding onto the wizard’s every word, gasping and crying out at the low points of the stories and cheering at the high points when the heroes won and the forces of darkness were vanquished. The fact that Thomas had the worst singing voice in the history of the world, constantly having to jump up and down octaves as he reached the limits of his vocal range, didn’t seem to matter to them, and when he finally had to stop, fearing that his sore throat might affect his spellcasting voice, he received such an ovation that it might almost have been Tarna Mingo himself, the legendary Bard of Goodrich, who’d been performing for them. Thomas felt a warm feeling of pride and gratitude flowing through him, and he bowed low to his audience before returning to his seat.

     “More! More!” demanded the nomes. “Someone else sing!”

     The others made excuses, though, wanting to hide the fact that they didn’t have the memory for songs that Thomas had and didn’t know any more than those he’d already sung. “I know one or two songs,” said Diana, however, rising to her feet. “They’re songs of faith, about the works of Caroli and her followers, so I don’t know if they’re to your taste...”

     She was dragged to the centre of the hall before she had a chance to complete the sentence, and the nomes gathered round expectantly, waiting for her to begin. “All right then,” said the cleric with a smile. “Here goes.” She cleared her throat, paused for a moment while she brought the words back to mind, then began to sing.

     "Oh Thou to whom the sick and lame have looked to make them whole,

     you came to me one wondrous day and claimed me as your own.

     My life was dark and lacked for hope. I knew not what I missed.

     You filled my soul with love and joy and your undying peace.

     The bane of Agglemon you cure, you conquer ill and pain.

     They come to you, the blind and dumb, the palsied and the lame.

     Our healer, you bring strength and life, bring health and speech and sight.

     Our fears you calm, our passions soothe, sweet Lady of the light.

     The walking dead who find no peace, the creatures of the night,

     they flee Thy grace, Thy spirit pure, Thy firm and gentle might.

     Oh Caroli I praise Your name, I thank you for your peace,

     I dedicate my life to you. Your message I will preach."

     Thomas had never heard her singing before, except for the occasional humming tune under her breath when she was washing or helping Shaun with the cooking, so he was stunned by the sweetness and crystal clarity of her voice, a voice that might have been born to sing. She closed her eyes as she sang, and clasped her hands together in front of her as if holding an invisible microphone, and indeed her voice did seem to be magnified so as to reach every corner of the large room. Is she using some kind of magic to enhance her voice? wondered Thomas in wonder, or is her voice really like that? Either way it was apparent that the young cleric still had plenty of surprises up her sleeves, despite the length of time they’d known each other now.

     If Thomas was stunned by the cleric’s singing, though, the nomes were entranced by it, and when she reached the end of her small repertoire of songs the nomes just sat in silence, some of them with tears in their eyes, before launching into thunderous applause. Well, that’s the end of tonight’s entertainment, thought the wizard as the cleric returned to her seat, grinning all over her face as the nomes reached out to touch her hands and garments as she passed. No-one’s going to want to follow that.

     He was wrong, though. Encouraged by the reception Thomas and Diana’s singing had enjoyed, Arroc stood and treated the nomes to a collection of songs praising the glories of gold, silver and diamonds, followed by a long poem recounting the battle of Elaf Jaram in which the trogs of Ba-Lora had turned back a massive invasion of shologs and goblins a hundred years before. He seemed to be coming out of the black depression he’d fallen into following their visit to the Emerald Oracle and was visibly enjoying himself as he sang in his deep, throaty voice, much to the relief of the others. Having to travel in the company of a gloomy sulk was no fun.

     That finally seemed to satisfy the nomes, who began chatting again and forcing as much food down the throats of the teamsters as possible. Diana left to have a look at a few nomes bearing old scars from farming and household accidents, and Naomi made polite excuses and left to get a breath of fresh air. Thomas found himself in conversation with the nome with the golden chain, the Mayor of Noklin valley it turned out, who turned out to be as cheerful and lighthearted as the rest. The other nomes treated him as just another of the guys and the Mayor responded by laughing and joking with them as naturally and casually as any of the others. If he hadn’t been wearing the chain, it would have been impossible to tell that he had any position of authority among them.

     “Apart from the cobbler, who also trades in leather and silken goods," the Mayor was saying, "there are three or four other tradesmen who visit us once or twice a year. The woodmonger, the grocer. The bard, of course. The teller of tales." He laughed. "We'll have some tales to tell him, this year! Apart from that, though, we have little contact with the rest of the world, and that's just the way we like it. We want no part of the wars being fought between you other races. We love to have the occasional visitors, though. Just small groups of people who can bring us news of the outside world and bring us new songs without being any threat to our way of life.”