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“Yes, of course he will.” Twigleg carefully repacked the backpack with Gravelbeard’s things. “He’ll notice when he applies it to the very first scale. So he’ll add more and more brownie spit to the water, hoping to get the scales shiny. Which is just what we want, right?”
Firedrake nodded thoughtfully.
“Let’s hope it still works with so much water added,” said Maia.
Ben shrugged his shoulder. “We have to try.”
“Yes,” said Firedrake. “We must let the dwarf go as soon as the brownies have finished so that he can get right back to his master.”
“No, we don’t want to just let him go,” said Twigleg, shaking his head firmly. “He’d suspect something at once. We’ll allow him to escape, that’s the way.”
“Escape?” asked Sorrel, horrified. She and Burr-Burr-Chan had finished their work.
“One good helping of brownie gob!” laughed the Dubidai, placing the bottle in Twigleg’s thin fingers. The homunculus carefully put it back where it had come from.
“Yes, we’ll allow him to escape,” he said, closing the backpack. “We’ll even show him the entrance to the cave.”
“Little titch here really has gone crazy!” groaned Sorrel. “I knew he would. It was only a question of time.”
“Let him finish, Sorrel,” said Firedrake.
“We have to lure Nettlebrand up here!” said Twigleg. “Or do you want him to escape through the water when he realizes that his armor is dissolving? He won’t bring the ravens with him, they’d be too close to the dragon-fire. But once he’s in this cavern, he can’t escape except down the tunnel, and we can bar his way.”
“You’re right,” muttered Sorrel.
“It still won’t work,” said Maia. “You’ve forgotten the moon. We can’t fly inside the cave.”
“You can’t fly outside it, either!” Twigleg pointed out. “We told you about the ravens. They’ll cover the moon the way they did back then over the sea, and you’d be helpless to do anything but fall into Nettlebrand’s jaws.”
“Twigleg is right,” Firedrake told Maia. “We must lure him in here. And we can fly in the cave. I have a little moon-dew left, enough for the two of us.”
The she-dragon looked at him doubtfully, but finally she nodded. “Very well, we’ll lure him here. But surely he’ll destroy the whole place?” She looked around her.
“Oh, you two won’t let it come to that!” cried Lola. “Now, let the hommlecuss explain properly. I want to know what he’s planning to do with the dwarf.”
Twigleg looked around importantly. “As soon as the moon rises, our prisoner will escape,” he said, “with all the information Nettlebrand wants and that bottle of brownie spit. He’ll tell his master where to find the entrance to the cave and how to open it. He’ll polish Nettlebrand’s armor with brownie spit, and then,” concluded Twigleg, smiling, “he’ll lead him to his doom.”
“How are you going to make sure he doesn’t see through the whole plan?” asked Ben.
“You leave that to me, young master,” replied Twigleg, looking at his finger, which still shone golden from the metal of the molten scale. “This is going to be my revenge for three hundred years of misery and the death of my eleven brothers.”
50. Deceiving the Spy
Gravelbeard had done his best to loosen his bonds. He had thrashed around on the cave floor like a fish on dry land, rubbing his bound wrists against sharp stones and trying to get at the knife in his pocket. It was no use. The rat had tied some very professional knots. So he lay there like a sack of potatoes for hours on the hard, rocky floor, grinding his teeth, while thousands of wonderful stones glittered down at him in the dark and he dreamed of tearing the spidery legs off that treacherous homunculus.
When at long last he heard steps approaching, Gravelbeard expected to see the fat rat or one of those hairy brownies coming back. But much to his surprise, it was Twigleg who emerged from the dark passage along which he himself had been dragged. That traitor Twigleg was still wearing Gravelbeard’s hat.
“What are you doing here?” spat Gravelbeard, wriggling like an eel in his bonds. “Come to question me, have you? Get out! Go back to your friends. But you can give me my hat back first, you revolting spider-legged traitor.”
“Shut up!” hissed Twigleg. He knelt down beside the dwarf and, to Gravelbeard’s terror, took a knife out of his pocket.
“Help!” shrieked the dwarf. “Help, Your Goldness, he’s going to murder me!”
“Nonsense!” Twigleg began sawing at Gravelbeard’s bonds. “Although if you go on squirming like that, I may accidentally cut off one of your fingers. And if you keep shouting Sorrel will have you for breakfast.”
Gravelbeard closed his mouth again. “Brownies don’t eat dwarves!” he growled.
“Oh, they do sometimes,” said Twigleg, cutting through the last knot. “Once I even heard a brownie say that dwarves were nice and crunchy.”
