by Kevin Hearne
The hobgoblin glared for a moment, then his eyes dropped and he scooted back in the chair and sighed, sadness almost visibly exhaling from him like motor exhaust in winter. “What am I gonnay do, MacVarnish?”
[That’s not how my name is pronounced. But you’ll go home, I expect.]
“I can’t. They’ll kill me.”
[Who are they, again?]
“The bean sídhe! They’re up tae their screechy necks in bats and cats, and they don’t want me tellin’ anyone about it, see? I’m livin’ proof that Clíodhna is selling out the Fae tae some kind o’ horrible trafficking shite, so they’d rather I wasnae living anymore. Why is that so hard for ye tae understand? I am fucked on the altar of any religion ye care tae name, that’s how unforgivable I am just by continuing tae exist! And I don’t have anywhere tae go on earth. All I know is where tae steal whisky an’ sausage in Glasgow an’ Edinburgh.”
[One could argue that’s enough.]
“It’s not, awright? I can get smashed on stolen hooch an’ shudder with the meat sweats, but I cannae sleep sound anywhere ever again. Neeps and tatties, man, if I don’t find a safe place tae hide, I’ll wind up like that roast, in the mouth of another barghest!” His eyes rolled about and then focused with laser intensity on the decanter. “I need some more.”
[Easy now,] I said, as he downed his last swallow and slid off the chair to pour another shot, already unsteady in his movements. [Let’s calm down and think.]
“Oh, calm down, eh? Easy fer ye tae say when it’s not your bollocks in the barghest’s jaws.” He grappled with the neck of the decanter and it wobbled in his grip. Realizing he might have already drunk more than his wee body weight could process, he let it go and set down his glass, his pink shoulders slumping as his hairy caterpillar eyebrows knit together in consternation. “I am a fool and a failure.”
[Naw, you’re a hobgoblin on a Wednesday.]
Buck looked up at me, unable to tell if that was absolution or condemnation. I gestured that he should wait and typed, because I knew the sort of immature shite that would cheer him up: [You’re no better or worse than an old man with a mustache. A mustache that’s soft and plush and parted in the middle, like yer maw.]
Buck’s expression changed to delight. “Haw! That was a good one, ol’ man.”
[Sit back down and let’s think about it. My office is warded against the entrance of barghests I didn’t contract myself. Spectral Abeyance all around. You have nothing to worry about here.]
“Awright.” Buck climbed back into the chair and lay down on his side, curled up. “Think away.”
[Who were you supposed to be serving?]
“I dunno. It was a master tae be named later, and I didnae care, because it was my legal ticket out of Tír na nÓg. And it’s no matter now, is it? Obviously, it was a load of shite.”
[But did you even read the contract?]
“I read the parts that said how I’d be paid and lodged, what freedom of movement I would have, an’ how I could be released from the contract.”
[Aye, and what did those parts say?]
“Let’s say they were barely satisfactory but that I’d be free tae move about as long as ma work was done.”
[The trick there would be to make sure you never finished your work.]
“I know, but I made sure ma service was limited tae a single master in a single house and all tasks he assigned had tae be capable of being accomplished in a single day. There was a bit where they couldnae loan me out tae anyone else. I reckoned one house would be manageable and I’d be free for a good portion of the day.”
[Maybe so. And if you managed to secure this freedom to move about, what would you do with it?]
“I’d see a fucking sight or ten, wouldn’t I? Revel in the fact that I’m not going tae be constantly watched by some Fae or other. Relax among the stupid humans, maybe tell an Arsenal fan that I’ve seen gumdrops longer than his cock an’ then run tae have a laugh. Steal something besides whisky and sausage! Maybe a fruit or a vegetable, just tae go wild and stave off the ravages of scurvy. Get tae know the city better.”
[And how could you be released from the contract?]
“The primary exit was death, I believe.”
[That’s not a good contract, Buck. I would never sign such a thing.]
“I didnae know a single thing about what might be normal or no. All I knew was that sigil agents oversaw such matters, and if yer name was on it, then it must be proper and fine.”
[Clearly, I need to impress on the Fae Court the necessity of educating the Fae about these things. Not knowing leaves you vulnerable to exploitation.]
“I certainly feel vulnerable now,” the hobgoblin said in a tiny voice, all curled up on my office chair.
[Would you still be open to the idea of domestic service on earth if it was a proper contract?]
“Aye, that would be great, for the two hours or so before the barghests came.”
[I’m offering it to you now, Buck. The real thing.]
The hobgoblin slowly rose to a sitting position on the chair. “What are ye sayin’ now? Real domestic employment?”
[Aye. Be my hob, Buck. I can draw up the legitimate permits, seal them with the proper sigils. But it does mean real service, you understand? And working for me is going to be more dangerous than working for some stuffy swell.]
“Dangerous how?”
[I will send you on errands for me. These errands may require you to track or even confront Fae, or other beings, who come to earth illegally. And, of course, there is the danger of iron anywhere you go in this world. We should get you a coat and gloves. Maybe a scarf.]
“Aye, that’s fine. I mean, let’s not be sendin’ me tae subdue a troll all by ma self or back tae Tír na nÓg for any reason, but if it’s a mission I can expect tae survive, that’s a good idea. At least I won’t be bored. But can I make Buck Foi ma real name now? Because then they cannae use ma old one against me. I need protection, MacVarnish.”
“MacBharrais!” I said aloud, then typed furiously. [I know that you know how to spell it and say it, or you wouldn’t have found my office. Since you’re so concerned with names, you will say my name correctly if you’re to work for me.]
“Aw. Can I no take the piss out o’ ye a bit? That’s part of the deal when ye employ a hob.”
[I understand that, and I heartily approve of the practice in general terms. But you must find some other way to take the piss than purposely mangling my name. I expect high-quality, creative, and nondestructive pisstaking. I am a quality employer and require the best hobgoblin in all of Tír na nÓg. If that’s not you, then let’s move on.]
Buck’s eyes narrowed. “I see this is not yer first negotiation with the Fae.”
I shook my head. [It’s what I do for a living.]
“Are ye gonnay tell me why ye’re using that rectangle thing tae talk, then?”
I told him about the curse and that he’d be required to carry a phone to receive messages from me. And then the negotiations began in earnest. And it was a good-faith negotiation: Thanks to my late wife, who’d been a labor representative before her accident, I tried not to be the sort of exploitative employer she spent her working hours fighting against. Happy employees, I’ve found, are loyal and productive and do quality work. Even Nadia, who rarely smiled except when she got to hit someone in a mosh pit or right before she used her straight razor on someone harassing her, insisted to me that she was very happy, in my weekly meetings with her wherein I asked over a dram what I could do to help. Most of those meetings consisted of her claiming to be happy and me not believing her. Maybe it was because she snarled at me as she said it.
“I’m fucking happy as fuck, Al,” she’d say. “Really. This is ma happy face.”
Her happy face looked like she wished my immediate death.
[So everythin
g is fine?] I’d ask.
“Absolutely fine. If it wasnae fine, I’d say so. I promise. And I’d say it when I thought it. I wouldnae save it up for the weekly dram. Ye know this already.”
But I asked her and every employee each week anyway if I could do anything better. Because if I stopped asking, they’d think I’d stopped caring. And sometimes there genuinely was something I could do, in spite of Nadia taking care of most everything before it got to me.
I warned Buck in the strongest terms possible not to mess with Nadia or the running of the shop in any way or she might summarily slay him. In return, I’d ask Nadia not to treat him like an employee but as a guest of mine.
[Can we agree in principle, then, the text to be reviewed before signing a contract?]
“Aye, MacBharrais, it’s agreed in principle, pending review,” Buck said, finally saying my name correctly. We spat in our hands and shook on it.
[Good.] I checked the time on my phone: 19:29. Thirty-one minutes to the rendezvous. [Now, let’s go to Renfrew Ferry and meet the lovely people who wanted to buy you, shall we?]
“Wot?”
Before I could answer Buck, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was a texted Signal from Saxon Codpiece.
Gordie’s phone just chimed. Message badge said, “Confirm Renfrew at 8.” Mean anything?
Yes, I Signaled back. Whoever it is thinks he’s still alive. Thanks. You didn’t get into the phone, did you?
Not yet. But come by tomorrow.
Will do.
I rose and gestured that Buck should follow. I wasn’t sure whether they meant the actual ferry or the restaurant of the same name a few miles away, but I was gambling that they wouldn’t want to do this in a restaurant. The ferry site was fairly isolated and saw very little traffic anymore, since most people used bridges now to cross the River Clyde. But it was still a fair chunk of land set aside since the days when there were no bridges and the only way across was by ferry—big wide ones that didn’t operate anymore. Nowadays there were just wee aluminum boats that could carry ten or so people for a pound or two.
We hailed a taxi and sat in silence for a couple of minutes as the driver guided us west down Dumbarton Road. But soon enough, Buck had questions.
“So this is a taxi, eh?”
[Aye.]
“Why is there glass between us and the driver?”
[Because arseholes are a thing that exist in the world, and drivers don’t want to be swallowed up by one.]
“Are ye sayin’ there are man-eating arseholes on earth? Like, just arseholes, unconnected tae anything, roaming around and eating people?”
[It does seem that way sometimes, but I was speaking metaphorically.]
“Oh. Wot’s that weird building there? With the segments?”
[That’s the Hydro. People call it different things. It’s a place for concerts and other special events.]
On it went until we took a left off Dumbarton onto York Street, which shortly curved around to the right toward the ferry as we passed a cluster of tenements. The entrance to the ferry was ringed by a steel-barred gate painted blue, with the gate thrown open to reveal a sloping ramp toward the River Clyde, paved with old stone bricks. The taxi driver parked outside the gate and didn’t want to wait. He took my cash and put the car in gear, rolling down his window to give us a warning.
“Careful goin’ in there, now. All kinds o’ stuff ye could step on. Get yerself a case of tetanus.”
I scanned the ground in the dim yellow light of streetlamps as the cab rumbled away, and his warning appeared to be a case of friendly hyperbole. It was not a site littered with proverbial rusty nails. It was littered with just about everything else, however. Fast-food wrappers and napkins blown by the wind up against the fence. Plastic bottles. A disturbing number of used prophylactics. Bizarre clumps of hair. And here and there across the docking ramp, broken glass from bottles. No doubt many diseases could be contracted here—variations on a theme of hepatitis, for example—but tetanus was unlikely so long as one’s parents had been sane enough to get their spawn vaccinated and one kept up with the periodic boosters required.
I checked the time on my phone. A few spare minutes before eight o’clock. I pulled out a sticky note and a Montblanc pen filled with the Ink of Trollskin. I quickly drew a Ward of Kinetic Denial on the note and stuck it to my coat, then resumed typing on my phone.
[Have a good look around. This could be dangerous. Have you ever seen a gun?]
“Aye.”
[If they point one at you, get out of the way.]
“I know that! I’ve seen how it works on the telly. This is basic Starsky and Hutch stuff ye’re talkin’ about.”
[That is a really old show, Buck.]
“Yer a really ol’ man. And I’m older than I look.”
I cast a skeptical eye at the gate leading to the ramp. [Can you do something to make sure this gate stays open and no one can close it behind us?] Hobgoblin magic could be powerful, but they rarely did the practical thing with their power unless someone gave them a hint. They tended to err on the side of flashy.
Buck squinted at the gate. “Naw. Too much iron.” He peered through the dark at the area surrounding the ramp. “Is this iron fence all around the ferry dock?”
[Looks like it.] There were several tenements bordering the perimeter of the ferry area—newer ones too—but the builders had wisely ensured that few windows looked out upon the dock, since it was an eyesore. The windows faced the river or else the street they were on. They were also a good thirty or forty yards away from the perimeter. If anybody screamed, no one would hear it. Or if they did, they would assume it was a drunk. No one would come to investigate, because that would be asking for trouble and maybe even a bespoke bacterial infection.
The thrum of a motor warned us first, and then a light speared the gloom, signaling the approach of the ferry. The distant mumble of voices could be heard reflecting off the water.
[Stay close to me,] I typed, [because we’re supposed to be giving you away. But the moment it looks dodgy, pound the shite out of them.]
“Looks dodgy now,” Buck replied.
[Not yet. Let’s have a talk first.]
“How much talk, exactly? Because whatever shite they’re carrying, the moral thing tae do here is tae pound it out of them right away. The sooner the better.”
[I will say the phrase Now would be good.]
“Awright, then. I hope ye say it soon. They’re buyin’ Fae for some reason, and it’s a crime that deserves punishment. What’s in it for them, I wonder? It’s no sex, I hope? You humans have a thing for pink parts and so maybe they thought, well, Buck’s nothing but pink parts, let’s have a go at him?”
[I’m trying to figure it out. It’s why we need to talk. Stow your pink parts and focus. Follow my lead.]
“Right. Right ye are.”
When the ferry pulled up at the bottom of the docking ramp and extended its wee courtesy bridge to let passengers off, three hooded figures of varying sizes stepped off. None looked like casual Glaswegian commuters. They looked like escaped characters from an assassin video game, their features shadowed and their muscles, in at least one case, bulging ridiculously.
One of them, walking on my left, wasn’t much taller than Buck, and I wondered if that might not be another hobgoblin. The middle figure looked closest to a normal human, perhaps an inch shorter than me if anything, and I’m only five ten. On the right was a towering slab of muscle with skin on his fists that either looked grey in the wan light of the docks or might actually be grey. The wee man on the left looked white, judging by his fists, but the middle figure was wearing gloves and I couldn’t see anything else, except that he was somewhat unsteady on his feet, weaving on wobbly knees. They stopped a few yards away from Buck and me, the ferry behind them still idling and waiting, and the middle one spoke.
“Naw, I’m his master. Who are you?”
“His mashter?” The voice was clearly drunken and unwilling to answer my question. “You’re the agent guy? The MacVarnish guy?”
Buck sniggered and I sighed. “MacBharrais. Yes. Who are you?”
“You know.” The figure raised a hand and waggled his fingers at us in a strange manner. Had he just cast a spell? Was he waving at us? Or was he making sure his fingers still worked? “Bashtille sent us. Now, hand over the hobgob—urrp!—goblin.”
“Does Bastille know you’re drunk?”
“Of coursh! Coursh he doesh. Hee hee! ’M alwaysh…drunk. ’Swhat a clurichaun does, after all.”
“A clurichaun?” They were besotted faeries with rather impressive martial capabilities because they moved unpredictably and were often too drunk to feel pain. “What are ye daein’ here?”
“Here for the hobgob. Lin.”
“I want to talk to Bastille.”
“An’ I wanna ’nother drink. Gobhob now, ol’ man. I gotta pish.”
“We’re not doing this until I talk to Bastille.”
“Ha! It don’ work like that. Lash chancesht. Gimme the gob or we take him.” The wee man and the giant shifted a little. It didn’t look like the drunkard was going to be helpful.
“Awright.” I reached into my topcoat for prepared Sigils of Agile Grace and Muscular Brawn and said, “Buck?”
“Aye?”
“Now would be a good time.” I popped open the sigils and felt my accumulated stiffness of sixty years slough away, my body temporarily invigorated with Olympic athleticism. As I did so, Buck launched himself vertically at the speaker and laid him out with a cross to the jaw in that shadowed face.
As soon as Buck landed, the small figure shouted “Oi!” and tackled him, tiny fists flailing as Buck wrestled to throw him off but succeeded only in removing the hood from a freckled face.