Brent Kohane, 4

It is essentially impossible for a group of significant size, or one moving at any speed to approach a nomad's camp without being detected. The small party of dwaves were readily surrounded, but figuring out what to do with them proved more difficult. The Tribe of the Wind isn't exceptionally defensive of their lands; other goblins may cross them without permission. If they did encounter a Mhaerni camp, most strangers would be welcome. But for all of history the species have been in conflict. Many goblins tribes trace their lineage to a time when they were slaves of the dwarves. The majority of those tribes migrated to the south, but the Mhaerni are among the few who did not. The nomadic way of life has no room for the pleasures and wealth of a highly developed, settled society. This only added to the resentment they felt toward dwarves. For most goblins, standard procedure was to kill intruding dwarves on the principle that they might be dangerous, and were probably criminal in any case.

  It was late autumn. The nomads had just reached their winter quarters on the great river. Their only permanent dwellings were here; sod-covered long houses built into the sides of several hills, above the river's flood line. The dwarves were separated from their ponies and baggage, and taken inside. The group was apparently lead by two men. To goblin's eyes, they were identical: short, extremely fat, heavily bearded fellows. They wore heavy coats, but no armor. Both carried small knives, and one had a hatchet. Although there were weapons in their gear, it was plain they weren't seeking battle. What they carried mystified the goblins. Each had a long staff with a pendulum hanging from it's head. The staves had different heads, though. One was like a mace, although strangely light. The other was an odd device consisting of a bronze tube, glass, a compass enclosed in bronze rings. Yurra and Kohane were called in to interrogate the intruders. They were held inside the longhouse, where guests would be received. Not out of courtesy, but because no other building would accommodate so large a group. 

 “Hope they don't recognize me,” Brent said, as they went in. 
“They won't,” Yurra comforted, “they'd have brought swords.”
“Dragon's blood! They've got slave! Tell these buggards we're not pickin fights, would ya?”
This wasn't exactly the reception Kohane expected. The speaker was a middle-young dwarf, meaning he was probably in his fourth decade. He was dressed like an aristocrat on mountain holiday, not like a wilderness explorer. Even wore a tie.
 Yurra knew more than enough of the language to understand him. “He's not a slave, he's an ah...” 
“I'm an anthropologist.” Kohane finished. He'd rather be the liaison. Let the Mhaerni see he's interrogating outsiders, not palling around with them. 

If they were educated, and they looked very much well-to-do, he wouldn't need to explain further. 
 “Free man. You do know what these people do to stray dwarves?”
“Invite them in for tea, I hope.” A second dwarf spoke up. The wisecracker was about two decades younger, probably an apprentice to the older. He wore a beard, although it was scraggly, which suggested he was a journeyman.
 Brent treated them to a dry chuckle. “Did you miss the spears?”
The joker answered again, “They missed us. Good enough!” 

 One of the dwarves' entourage laughed, but the sound betrayed his nerves. He, at least, knew the odds of leaving their captor's custody. The older dwarf stood up, clumsily because his hands were bound, and addressed Brent directly. “Do you speak for the goblins?”
 “The Mhaerni speak for themselves. I speak for myself. I could put in a good word for you. What are you doing here? Who are you?”
 “I'm not in the habit of introducing myself.” The apprentice started to speak, but the master laid a hand on his shoulder and continued. “But I appreciate the circumstances. I am Smith Hobart Rulldrige, of Newrange. My assistant, Orth, and the men.” He bowed a little, and waited for Kohane to introduce himself. Among dwarves, the title of Smith could be earned by a respected artisan in any field. A Smith was practically royalty. Well, practically a knight, at least. Top of the heap for commoners.

“And what are you doing here, Smith Rulldrige?”  
Rulldrige guffed. If this man were a scientist, he'd have better manners. 
Kohane could read minds well enough to interpret the snort. “You forget the spears, Smith. Here, you have no rank.  
 “Do you know what the Mhaerni left you alive? Why they didn't slaughter you on the spot? Out of courtesy, I think, to me. Just in case one of you happened to be my relative, and I'd have to go through blood rights on them. It'd be an annoyance for them to kill a two-years guest over some gypsies. 
 “But you're not gypsies, are you. I can see those 'strange spears,' my friends collected. You're surveyors. Something, in fact, far more dangerous.”
 
Yurra followed most of what Brent said. They conversed in northern (that is, goblin) most of the time, but they could have written a translator's dictionary over the last two years. If they'd the paper to write it on. One word escaped him. “Brent, what is 'surveyors?'” 

 He'd asked in goblin, but Rulldrige was clever or knowledgable enough to understand and intercept the question. “We're land-walkers,” he said, choosing a goblin term for explorer (it also suggests something like an Aboriginal Australian's walkabout). “And scientists. We measure the land. Record it. Write about it.”

 He'd left the best part out, of course. Kohane knew none of those things would upset the Mhaerni. They might even decide the surveyors were harmless. For a moment, Kohane considered making the decision he always made. Let the swindler slide, he could hitch a ride back to civilization, and have the good word of a Smith (of Newrange, with a name he didn't know, but a Smith anyway) next time he was in trouble. If he were thinking on the margin, he'd have taken that deal. This time, he didn't. He like these goblins. These people of the wind. Better than any dwarf he'd know, although, with birds of a feather, that didn't say much. They would sorely miss the river wintering ground when civilization sprung up here. He said, “That's not all a surveyor does. Tell him the best part.”

 Rulldrige found his tongue just a little reluctant. Kohane decided to push his weight around a little. Admittedly, his weight had once been rather more significant than it currently was. Brent had enjoyed getting fat on good years. By that measure, his last several years had not be particularly good. Even before the steppe, the general chaos of the heartland territories encouraged the vigilante solution to a man of dishonest living. He still had some height on Rulldrige, and it proved enough to tip the intimidation. That, or the anxious attention of a couple dozen Mhaerni spear men. 
 “We, uh. Mark the land also. So people can find their claim.”
 Yucca realized where this was going, but he let Brent continue. 
 “What people, honored Smith?”
 “Um. The settlers?
 The word hung in the sooty longhouse. It wasn't very welcome.
 “Why would there be settlers coming here, Rulldrige?”
 “Because they, um, bought plots? Along the river, I mean. Not necessarily here, exactly.”
 “and who sold the plots, Rulldrige? Did the chief? Did my attentive friend (he meant Yucca, but it would be inappropriate to say Yucca's name in front of an enemy) sell this land?”
 “uh, no. Probably not. The, uh, Wuthali sold it to me.”
 “And you sold it to a bunch of poor settlers. At a tidy profit I would speculate, along with, no doubt, the tools and the transport to drop them in the 'untouched wilderness?' Am I on the road?”

 Rulldrige shifted uneasily. The imaginary bookies had stopped taking bets on him, the odds were so bad. “You never told me your name.”

The possible answers, and repercussions, flew through Kohane's mind. Just an old habit – who knew me in the fall lands (Newrange is a town near the magnificent waterfall, which probably has a great name I haven't made up)? Then he remembered he'd been honest lately. Slips you memory, a thing like that, when you're used to the other. 

 “I am Brent Kohane. And I am an anthropologist. Commissioned and dispatched by the Jherdmont Royal Academy of the Sciences and Philosophy (now there's a name with connotations!).”