Free All That Glitters by Auston Habershaw

once. Instead it was always like this: left minding the gnolls (or the gnolls minding him) for hours and hours and hours while Tyvian did gods-­knew-­what.
    There was a knock at the door—­three times, then four times. It was Tyvian. When the smuggler came in, he was whistling to himself. “Ah, Artus—­you’re awake. Excellent.”
    Artus stood up. “I’ve been up all night! Where did you get off to?”
    Tyvian lit a few more candles and a lantern hanging from the crossbeam. “My, my, Artus, if I’d known you were so worried about me, I might have had my companions walk me upstairs and offer their apologies.”
    â€œWhat companions?”
    Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Gods, Artus—­you’re like a jealous fishwife. Look, the business I had to attend to involved a lot of time and needed to be done after dark. Did you smuggle Hool and Brana in here all right?”
    â€œNobody saw us,” Hool announced, standing up to stretch. Her body and arms were so long they temporarily blotted out most of the candlelight. “Most of the humans in this place were sick with poison. Brana and I could have stolen their shoes and they would not notice.”
    Brana, stretching to mirror his mother, yipped. “Shoes! Ha!”
    Tyvian nodded. “Excellent—­good work everybody. Now, for the reason we’re here.” The smuggler pulled a small box from under his cape and upended it on one of the beds. Out fell a pair of belts—­wide leather things with simple brass studs, but etched all over with an intricate array of minute, blocky runes. “Courtesy of Dame Margess’s favorite enchanter.”
    â€œThose things are magic,” Hool said, her ears going back.
    â€œIt won’t hurt, Hool—­I promise.” Tyvian held one out to Hool. “Here, try this on.”
    â€œNo.” Hool folded her arms.
    â€œDon’t be a baby—­just try it on.”
    â€œWhat if it sticks like your magic ring?” Hool was eyeing the belt in Tyvian’s hand like it was a snake.
    â€œThen we’ll cut it off. Belts are easier to cut off than rings.”
    Brana was already fishing his belt off the bed. “I try!”
    Hool slapped the belt out of Brana’s hand and pushed him on the floor. “No! Me first!”
    Brana stayed on his back and whined twice, to which Hool responded with a single guttural “Huruff.” Artus was fairly certain it meant “for your safety,” but he had an imperfect ear for the gnoll language, as Hool was fond of telling him.
    Tyvian sighed. “Go on, Hool. I just spent about five hundred marks and the better part of all day getting this damned thing for you, the least you can do is try it on.”
    Artus’s mouth popped open. “Five hundred? Where the hell did you get—­”
    â€œNot now, Artus,” Tyvian snapped, his eyes fixed on Hool as he held the belt out to her.
    Hool ran her nose along its length, sniffing rapidly. She concluded the investigation with a snort and then snatched the belt from Tyvian’s hand. She wrapped it around her waist, clipped the buckle . . .
    . . . and disappeared. Standing in her place was a tall, svelte woman wearing a finely made bodice of green silk with black embroidery and a voluminous dark green skirt that ballooned out to a full four feet across. Her sun-­streaked, auburn hair was piled atop her head with a series of golden pins and barrettes; her face powdered to be pale in contrast with her red, red lips. Only Hool’s copper eyes were still there, except of a more human shape and size—­the effect made her a singular, heart-­stopping beauty. Artus was struck dumb. “What . . . what . . .”
    The woman spoke, but it was Hool’s voice. “What are you looking at? Why do the two of you look crazy?”
    Tyvian laughed. “Hann’s boots, I