Pocketses

  No one advertises pocketses. They are spoken of in whispers, passed through tailor shops in secret codes: “four-deep waistcoat,” “mirror-flap breeches,” “pockets like petals.” They cost a fair bit, but not a gnome alive would go without a handful close to hand. Pickpockets hate them with a passion, for rummaging through a gnome’s garments is like wandering a house full of doors that all lead back to the same hallway.   Other folk try their luck, of course. Rabbitfolk beekeepers have their smocks fitted with tiny wax-lined slots for honey vials. Travelling scribes ask for cloak pockets wide enough to swallow a folio whole, safe from rain and misfortune. But there is something in the gnomes’ nature that makes the craft come alive for them. In the middle of a conversation, one will pause, his waistcoat giving a small squeak, and out will pop the very tool he wanted, as though the pocket itself had been listening.   And in hushed corners of the Workshop, tales are told of the oldest pocketses of all: folds that open not into fabric, but into a secret place beyond sight. Some call them Pocketses of Holding, where a gnome might keep a blacksmith’s anvil or a whole pot of stew without a bulge to show for it. Whether these wonders are tricks of the needle or true magic, none can say. The old masters just smile, pat their waistcoats, and change the subject.