The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  “Keeps the rodents down,” David muttered, “and some believe they drive evil spirits away.”

  “Now let’s see,” said Toby, “Kolbyt said it’s the largest house at the end of the lane that runs along the shoreline. Here we go.…”

  Max thought it a rather conspicuous address for a smuggler. The house was by far the largest and most luxurious residence they’d seen, a pale yellow Victorian with three stories, a dozen gables, and a half-dozen chimneys poking from its slate roof.

  Situated on a sloping, pastured outcropping, the estate boasted its own herds and a private dock that Max could glimpse through occasional gaps in the hedge. A white fence bordered the property, and Toby drove the mules within its broad gate and down the gravel driveway to the main residence.

  “I thought we’d be knocking on a door in some alley,” said Max. “What’s Petra’s legitimate business supposed to be?”

  “Furs mostly,” replied Toby. “And land. You can’t build anything on Piter’s Folly without going through her, and she wrings out every last copper. Speaking of which, I’ll need more money—at least fifty silvers’ worth. Gold is better if you have some.”

  Max counted out the money and handed a small pouch to the smee, who weighed it lovingly before reining the mules to a halt on the circular drive. The front door opened and a young girl in a green smock slipped outside, twirling a paintbrush between her slender fingers. Leaning out over the porch, she gazed down at them disdainfully.

  “What do you want?” she said, speaking English and sounding bored.

  Whipping off his hat, Toby stood and bowed. “Greetings,” he croaked in Kolbyt’s hoarse voice. “We beg an audience with Madam Petra.”

  “You’re supposed to go round back, you know,” sniffed the girl. “The service entrance.”

  “Very sorry,” said Toby, reaching for the reins.

  “Don’t bother,” she scoffed. “Madam Petra’s busy and cannot possibly see you. Try again in a week.”

  Toby seemed to anticipate this. The ensuing negotiations were swift and exceedingly expensive. When the girl had weighed Max’s purse in her hand and counted every last coin, she turned on her heel and walked back to the front door.

  “Mother!” she bellowed. “There are three goblins here to see you!”

  “Don’t shout, dear,” came a silky voice from an upstairs window. “Take them around back and Dmitri will meet them in the rose garden. Offer them something to drink.”

  The girl fixed them with an acid stare. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Wine if you have it,” said Toby cheerfully. “Water if you don’t.”

  Rolling her eyes, the girl shooed them impatiently toward a garlanded gate that led around the house. Once Skeedle started the mules in that direction, she stormed back inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

  “She’s pleasant,” muttered David, ducking a low-hanging branch.

  “This isn’t quite what I expected,” whispered Max, gazing through the house’s windows as they wound around toward the back. Inside, he saw maidservants dusting and cleaning rooms whose rich appointments evoked a tranquil estate rather than some secret smuggler’s den. Passing by one broad window, Max spied the easel and canvas where the girl had been working on a still life in the style of the Dutch masters. He saw no evidence that Madam Petra’s household was in a state of alarm or intended to flee before Yuga or Aamon’s armies.

  The lane ended in an impeccably manicured lawn that sloped deeply down to the lake and a small boathouse. Several groundskeepers were already at work, picking up broken branches and twigs and retying oilcloth covers that protected the rosebushes. They glanced up at the visitors with only mild interest. Apparently goblin caravans were nothing new.

  It was almost a minute before Max observed the heads.

  There were seven of them in total, each spitted on tall poles placed throughout the gardens. They were in various states of decomposition, some little more than skulls while others were jarringly fresh. Four of the heads had belonged to goblins, two were human, and the last possessed the feral, wolfish face of a vye. When Toby finally noticed them, he nearly fainted.

  “Here’s your wine,” said a voice behind them.

  The three turned to see the girl bearing a silver tray with three goblets of red wine. Setting it on a small table near the roses, she whispered something to the nearest gardener before turning to stare at them.

  “My mother’s secretary will be out shortly,” she announced. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  And with a strange little smile, she hurried back to the house, skipping over the shallow steps of the back patio to slip inside the door.

  “Something isn’t right,” hissed Toby. “They know something. We should go!”

  “Try to relax,” whispered David. “Let’s drink the wine and wait for our hosts.”

  “D-didn’t you see the heads?” stammered the smee.

  “Of course I did,” replied David evenly. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be perfect. You know what to say?”

  Nodding weakly, Toby climbed down from the wagon. Taking seats around the table, the trio sipped the strong red wine while the wind blew wisps of cool mist off the lake. They sat in silence, each watching the house and trying to ignore the seven grisly shadows on the lawn.

  Almost an hour had passed when the back door opened. A young man emerged, fine-featured with a slight build and black hair that was combed back from a widow’s peak. He wore an embroidered waistcoat over a black shirt and plum-colored pants that were tucked into Hessian boots. His smile was prim, his manner formal as he came to a halt before them.

  “I am Dmitri,” he said. “Madam Petra’s secretary. And who are you?”

  Toby stood and bowed. “Kolbyt of the Broadbrim clan,” he announced. “I have traded with Madam Petra before.”

  “Yes,” mused the man, plucking at his goatee. “I seem to recall your face … and who are the others? We do not like strangers unless they bring us very pretty things.”

  “My kinsman Skeedle and our servant, Hrunta,” replied the smee, gesturing at each in turn. “We have brought oil and iron, coffee and sugar to please the Great Piter Lady and beg an audience to discuss a proposal.”

  “What is your proposal?” inquired the secretary pointedly. “You may tell it to me and I will relay it to Madam Petra. She is very busy.”

  “I am sorry,” said Toby, shrugging. “But my news is for Madam Petra’s ears alone—the great Plümpka would have my skin if we should tell anyone else.”

  This did not please the secretary. His eyes grew hard. “Plümpka might take your skin, but Madam Petra will have your head should you waste her time. Look about you, goblin. Better that you tell me your proposal and let me decide whether it is worth intruding upon my lady.”

  “Kolbyt must humbly refuse,” said Toby, bowing low and offering the man a handful of silver.

  “How crude,” the secretary muttered, pocketing the coins nonetheless. “And why did Plümpka not come? If the proposal is so valuable, surely the chief of the Broadbrims would make the journey himself.”

  “He is unwell,” explained the smee, bowing another apology. “And the Ravenswood Spur has grown very dangerous. A mighty battle was fought not two days’ journey from here.”

  “Yes,” mused Dmitri, frowning. “Lord Kargen’s lands. He shall host no more parties, I hear. A pity, but so be it. You may see many more battles ere long. King Aamon’s armies are swift.” The man squinted past them at the broad lake where the sun was peeking through the haze. “Very well, you and I will continue our conversation inside. Your companions must wait here. I make no promises, but if you are who you say you are, I may be able to secure a brief audience.” Gesturing for Toby to follow, the secretary flicked a parting glance at Max and David. “If we do not return within the hour, your friend will not be coming.”

  The smee’s shoulders drooped as though he were marching to his own funeral. Clearing his thro
at, he ordered his companions to wait for him before following the secretary up to Madam Petra’s house.

  Max squirmed as he watched them go. There was something profoundly unsettling about this immaculate house with its pristine grounds and quiet, watchful servants. It set him on edge more than any of the black markets and seedy dens he’d visited in Zenuvia. Plodding behind the secretary, Toby looked so alone and helpless. Max prayed that he remembered everything Kolbyt had told him; he also prayed the brutish goblin had not played them false.

  As Toby disappeared into the house, the groundskeepers set down their tools. They walked single file up the garden path, a silent procession that slipped inside after the secretary. When the last had entered, the door was closed and locked.

  As the minutes ticked past, Max and David sat outside while the smee tried to bluff their way in to see the smuggler. The waiting was intolerable. Every so often, Max shifted uneasily in his chair and searched the many windows for any signs of activity within the huge yellow house. There were none—only the mocking reflections of the gray lake and the sun rising behind them.

  “How long has he been in there?” Max muttered to David, mindful that they were undoubtedly being watched. It seemed ages since Toby had gone inside.

  “Thirty minutes,” David whispered, sipping his wine. “Try to relax—Toby’s a professional.”

  “In ten minutes, I’m going in.”

  “You’ll spoil all our plans.”

  “I’m not going to sit by while—”

  Max broke off as the back door opened and several gardeners filed out. He craned his neck for a glimpse of Toby and exhaled as the smee emerged, a noticeable bounce to his step as he walked to the wagon with Dmitri and a pair of workers. After instructing them on which cargo to unload, Toby called out to his companions.

  “Skeedle. Hrunta. Come. The Great Piter Lady has agreed to hear us.”

  Although the secretary was smiling, the man’s eyes were spiteful. Max guessed that he either opposed his lady’s decision or had hoped to wring further bribes before their interview. He did not return their hasty bows as they stepped across the threshold and entered the smuggler’s house.

  They followed the man through several exquisite rooms. Nightingales chirped from within gilded cages and flowers abounded: purple orchids, stargazer lilies, brilliant red tulips, and others so exotic and lush that they suggested an underlying magic or technology at work. After weeks of travel in the gray and wintry wild, the house’s color and warmth were almost disorienting.

  They found the daughter back at work on her still life, loading her brush with paint as she studied the arrangement.

  Dmitri cleared his throat. “Katarina, your mother would like you to sit in on the meeting.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “She insists,” said Dmitri, beckoning.

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  A vein throbbed in the man’s temple. “Your mother no doubt intends that you should someday replace me,” he said with a tight smile. “For the young lady to do so, she must learn the family business.”

  “Very well,” the girl sighed, wiping her brush on a rag and plunking it into a jar of turpentine. Glaring at the goblins, she swept past them and ran up a grand staircase.

  “My lady indulges her daughter,” remarked the secretary stiffly, leading them up the stairs where they passed yet more paintings and sculpture and palms in copper planters. As they climbed to the third floor, Max heard music playing, a tinny warbling like an old jazz recording. Reaching the third-floor landing, Dmitri led them down a long hallway that terminated at a conspicuously stout door. It was barely ajar, just enough to let the music and Katarina’s voice escape into the hall.

  “Have their heads and be done!” the girl hissed. “I want to finish my painting.”

  “I’ll not ask again,” replied a woman’s voice, gentle but unyielding.

  A stamp of a foot and then silence.

  Dmitri knocked delicately. “The goblins are here, Madam Petra,” he announced. “May I show them in?”

  “Do.”

  Max and David trailed after Toby into a paneled office whose far wall was lined with enormous windows that provided a panoramic view of the misty lake. Huge artworks dominated the other walls, abstract spatters of luminescent paint on black or red canvases. To the left was a long conference table, to the right a comfortable sitting area where Katarina was pouting by a colossal fireplace. Straight ahead was a small desk. Behind it stood the smuggler.

  Madam Petra was the most striking woman Max had ever seen. She was younger than he’d imagined—midthirties, with porcelain-white skin and long auburn hair that fell in a braid to her waist. Her understated dress was in marked contrast to her ostentatious house: a simple black jacket, gray tweed pants, and black riding boots. She wore only one piece of jewelry, a diamond choker whose central stone must have been worth half of Piter’s Folly. Offering a polite smile, she gestured to three chairs across her desk before returning her attention to several documents. When Max and the others were seated, Dmitri pulled up a fourth.

  “We will not be needing you, Dmitri,” said Madam Petra offhandedly, jotting something on the top paper. “Katarina will sit in for today.”

  “My lady,” said the secretary, holding up his hands. “It is merely goblins—no doubt it would be better for Katarina to sit in with the Baron of Marrovia. That would be more educat—”

  The smuggler glanced sharply up from her papers with eyes that flashed like emeralds. The man fell silent at once. When Madam Petra spoke, her voice was dangerously soft.

  “As you say, we have several Broadbrims with us this morning. I value their clan greatly and am anxious to hear their proposal. And we must disagree; I think Katarina has much to learn from this meeting. For example, she has already seen you break a cardinal rule of our profession and compromise another client’s identity. Did you intend to impart such a clumsy lesson, Dmitri?”

  The man turned ashen. It was clear that he craved Madam Petra’s approval on many levels.

  “I—I apologize,” he stammered. “With your permission, I’ll take my leave.”

  “Very good,” said Petra coolly. “Please tell the chefs that I’d like supper to be ready by eight—and no more fatty meats in pastries or boiling everything to shoe leather. Delicacy. Elegance. Subtlety. I know they object to Nestor, but ask him to lend a hand. I think he trained as a saucier.…”

  Once the chastened secretary closed the door, Madam Petra turned to her daughter. “Katarina, come and sit by me.”

  “I’m fine over here. Goblins stink.”

  “I imagine they say the same of you. Come over here—I want your help.”

  At this, Katarina dragged herself up from the chaise and came to sit on her mother’s lap. She was too old for such things—eleven or twelve—but the girl seemed an unusual combination of old and young, absent and present.

  “How am I supposed to help?” she asked, blankly surrendering her cheek for a kiss.

  “Well,” said Madam Petra, “we have a problem. And I know you like to solve problems.”

  The girl nodded. Max glanced uneasily at David and Toby, but the two kept their attention on their hostess.

  “Here’s our dilemma,” continued Madam Petra. “The kingdom is at war and Aamon’s armies are rampaging across the land. And here comes an unguarded, solitary goblin wagon braving the Ravenswood Spur with a pittance of goods and asking for a private audience. Mind you, the Broadbrims haven’t even sent anyone senior to conduct the business—just a junior trader and two others I’ve never met before. Now, they must have known I’d have their heads for such appalling insolence and yet … here they are. Why haven’t I taken their heads, sweet daughter?”

  The girl frowned and stared at the three visitors. “They’re either crazy or something’s off,” she murmured. “Maybe they’re acting without their leader’s approval. Perhaps they’ve secretly brought something that we would find valuable—something they d
idn’t want Dmitri to know about. Of course, they might not be goblins at all; perhaps they’re imposters.”

  “Hmm,” said Petra, considering her daughter’s analysis. “Each suggestion seems plausible. Be a dear and flip the record for us while we talk. While you’re at it, you might retrieve that marvelous little thing I showed you the other day.”

  “I don’t want to touch that. It frightens me.”

  “Do we always get to do what we want?”

  “No, Mother.”

  Easing her daughter off her lap, the smuggler turned her eyes on Toby as the smee cleared his throat.

  “We hoped to speak alone, my lady,” he said, glancing at the girl. “Our proposal is sensitive. It would not do for this information to go beyond this room and, as you know, children are prone to talk.”

  “Your proposal is safe with us,” replied Madam Petra, sounding bored. “Let’s have it, then.”

  Toby edged forward in his seat and spoke as Katarina flipped the record and placed the needle at its edge. Music issued from the antique, pouring into the room from a polished horn that resembled an enormous silver flower. The recording evoked a powerful flood of memories; Scott McDaniels had often listened to this very album whenever he sat at the dining room table to do his taxes. Max blinked; it was such a strange image and triggered such a jarring, incongruous jumble of emotions. No wonder tyrants often outlawed music; it was a shortcut to the soul. Max wondered how Madam Petra managed to have such forgotten luxuries and realized it must have been a gift from the Workshop. The smee’s words snapped him from these thoughts.

  “We have found gold down deep beneath our burial halls,” Toby explained. “Ullmach says it is a rich lode, the richest we have found for many generations. But we cannot reach it without disturbing our ancestors, a blasphemy Plümpka will not permit. He suggested that the Great Piter Lady might have friends with tools—machines—that could mine gold more carefully than picks and shovels and fire-rock.”

  “And what would I get for introducing you to these friends?”

  “Twenty percent of the gold.”