by Tom Holt
There were those among the Elves who said that they shouldn’t have surrendered even then. True, by this point Mordak had also managed to get hold of the Superior group, Sneer and the Forest Dwellers’ Gazette, so there was nowhere left for the Displaced to go. The diehards took to the streets and built a barricade of review copies across the entrance to Mallorien Square, but Mordak simply ignored them. Not-being-a-journalist before dishonour was a fine battle-cry, but a million Elves had mortgages and school fees to pay, and if that wasn’t enough, the thought of goblins behind the hallowed newsdesks of Elvenhome was more than anyone could bear. It was, people said, the most wicked, evil thing the goblins had ever done, but they simply had no choice. The strike was called off, the review copies were dismantled and put back on TreeBay, and Loviel, after a decent interval, was quietly reinstated as the editor of what was henceforth to be called the Horrible Yellow Face. Thousands of journalists arrived at the office to find their personal possessions waiting for them in biscuit-boxes at the front desk. One of them was Efluviel.
It was three months since she’d been fired from the Face, and during that time the only work she’d been able to find was freelance proofreading. Every morning, an hour before dawn, she joined the long line of hollow-eyed, desperate Elves that formed outside the gates of Gloriel Books. You had to be there early, or you had no chance of getting anything. Some time around about noon, the gates would open and an editorial assistant would wander out with a pitifully short stack of manuscripts; twenty, fifteen, sometimes only five or six. Sometimes it was first come, first served; other days, the assistant would stroll down the line of shabbily dressed hopefuls, the holes in their boots padded out with discarded copyright pages, taking some sort of ghoulish pleasure in the dead faces around her before distributing her meagre bounty, as often as not completely at random. Efluviel hadn’t quite sunk to the depths of those who sat all day at the gates holding placards that read Will Copy-Edit For Food, but she wasn’t far off it. Two Elves she’d been at school with had emigrated to the human cities of the South, while Safariel, who’d once won the Glorfangel Prize for Literary Arrogance, had dropped out of sight completely and had last been heard of working for the Post Office.
Today the queue stretched halfway down the avenue. She took her place at the back of it, pulling her ragged shawl tight around her bony shoulders; as she did so, she noticed two Elves, a man and a woman, sitting at a leaf-strewn table outside the Mallorn Tree café. They were staring at her. She scowled and looked away. It was possible that they recognised her from her brief moment of celebrity, but she doubted it. The moment had been so very brief, after all. She shivered. It was bitter cold and her ear-tips were beginning to throb.
A few minutes later, the two strangers finished their miruvor lattes, got up and strolled towards her. She looked away, avoiding eye contact. The woman came closer, deliberately intruding into her space. “Efluviel?” she said.
She looked round. “Do I know you?”
The woman grinned. “I’m Miss Gold and this is Mr Silver. We’re your new best friends.”
“Go away.”
Miss Gold shrugged. “Be like that,” she said. “We were only going to buy you a coffee.”
“Plenty more where she came from,” Mr Silver said. “Come on, we’re wasting our time. Probably she doesn’t even need the money.”
“Hold on,” Efluviel said quickly.
“The magic M word,” said Mr Silver. “No, sorry, we don’t like your attitude. Our apologies for having troubled you.”
“Hold on,” Efluviel repeated. “How do you know my name?”
Miss Gold laughed. “Come and have a coffee and we’ll tell you.”
Efluviel glanced at the queue. It was very long. “I’ll lose my place.”
“Oh, there aren’t any manuscripts today,” said Miss Gold. “In a couple of hours the girl will come out and tell you all to come back tomorrow.” She was grinning again. “What have you got to lose?”
Efluviel wanted to hit her, very hard. “Who are you?”
“Coffee,” Miss Gold said. “Yes or no. You have three seconds.”
It was at least six weeks since Efluviel had tasted real coffee; the genuine article, made with freshly ground acorns. An unbearable longing swept over her, like the sea at high tide. “Coffee and an almond slice.”
“Sure,” said Mr Silver, with a mocking grin. “This way.”
A few moments later they were sitting at the table and a waiter was scowling at them over his notepad. There was a menu, handwritten on a little card. “I’ve changed my mind,” Efluviel said, in a voice weak with desire. “I want baklava.”
“Three miruvor lattes and a slice of baklava,” Mr Silver said. The waiter shrugged and wandered away. “Now then,” Mr Silver continued. “To business.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” drawled Miss Gold. “Let the poor child have her drink and her cake before you make her storm off in a huff.”
Mr Silver shrugged. “You’re quite right, of course. We can just sit here and watch the poor people for a while.”
“Tell me now,” Efluviel said. “What is all this? Who are you?”
“Suit yourself,” Miss Gold said. “First things first, though. You’re Efluviel, right?”
Efluviel hesitated, then nodded.
“The Efluviel who got fired from the Face for writing nasty things about King Mordak.”
“Me and about a thousand others, yes.”
Mr Silver leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “I bet you’re wondering,” he said, “why Mordak bought the Face in the first place.”
“Because he’s evil,” Efluviel answered immediately. “Because he’s evil and he wanted to strike a deadly blow at the very heart of Elvenhome, and destroy Elvish civilisation as we know it.”
Miss Gold nodded. “Partly,” she said. “But that’s not the whole story.”
“It isn’t?”
Miss Gold shook her head. Her nose, Efluviel noted with envy, was almost as sharply pointed as her ear-tips. “Rather more to it than that,” she said. “You see, the thing about Mordak is, he’s really quite bright, for a goblin.”
“I’d gathered that,” Efluviel said bitterly.
Mr Silver leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “The main reason he bought the Face,” he said, “and all the other papers he could lay his grubby claws on, was so as to get Elves.”
Efluviel blinked. “What?”
“Elves,” Mr Silver repeated.
Efluviel’s stomach turned. “What, to eat?”
Miss Gold sniggered. “Bless the child,” she said. “No, not to eat. Mordak’s—” Her lip curled. “Enlightened. He’s even got this sign hanging on the wall opposite his desk. Elves; they’re not just for breakfast any more.”
“Mordak’s been thinking long and hard about a new direction for Evil,” Mr Silver said, and she noticed that his voice had got harder, less flippant. “He wants a leaner, more flexible, more responsive kind of Evil, one that’s not stuck in the old going-nowhere rut of the past. He wants to make Evil relevant to now, to the now generation. He reckons it’s time to jettison all the worn-out attitudes, all the stuff that really puts people off. He believes it’s time to redesign Evil from the ground up, to face the challenges and opportunities of a diverse, rapidly changing society.”
“He’s thinking of calling it,” said Miss Gold, “New Evil.”
Efluviel frowned. “Good name,” she conceded.
“Quite,” said Mr Silver. “And you’ve got to hand it to him, he’s nothing if not a blue-sky thinker. In fact, and don’t mention this to a soul, he hasn’t completely ruled out the possibility of a coalition with Good.”
“A morality of ethical unity, in fact,” Miss Gold said. “The best of good and the worst of evil, working together hand in hand for a better tomorrow. Well,” she amended, “a tomorrow. Anyway, that’s all just background. The thing is, Mordak wants Elves because he realises that we’r
e so much better at running things. You know, admin, efficiency, all that.”
“Mordak has the mental clarity to recognise that when it comes to running a bureaucracy, Elves can achieve a degree of blinkered ruthlessness that makes goblins look like teddy-bears.” Mr Silver’s eyes had started to shine. “Which is why he wants Elves–selected Elves, naturally–working for him, on his team. Which is why,” he went on, “he bought the Face.”
Efluviel blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Really? Oh. Well, it’s quite simple.” Miss Gold sipped her latte, and went on, “You know how it is. Any Elf with even a vestige of ability naturally goes straight into journalism.”
“Well, of course.”
“Indeed. Only the dead-beats and no-hopers end up in the civil service, it goes without saying. But Mordak wants Elven bureaucrats. So, he buys up the papers and fires most of the staff.” Miss Gold grinned again. “Like I said,” she added, “quite smart, for a goblin.”
Efluviel’s head was starting to hurt. “Is that true?” she said.
“Little Miss Cynical,” sighed Mr Silver. “Perfectly true, yes. Which is where Goldie and I come in.”
“Please don’t call me that,” said Miss Gold.
“And you too, if you’ve got half a brain,” Mr Silver continued.“Our job is to headhunt–sorry, unfortunate choice of words–aggressively recruit the top one per cent, the brightest and the best.” He pointed to the queue opposite. “Out of that.”
Efluviel stared at him. “Me.”
“Quite,” said Miss Gold. “But apparently, Mordak himself has noticed you.” From the sleeve of her gown she took a faded newspaper clipping and spread it out on the table.
“Oh.”
“Eat your baklava before it gets cold,” Mr Silver said, not unkindly. “You remember writing it, I suppose.”
The headline read: Behold the Beast; Mordak buys Face. “He read that, did he?”
“Oh yes.” Mr Silver nodded. “And was impressed by what he saw.”
Efluviel’s throat was dry, in spite of the latte. “When you say impressed—”
“What caught his attention,” Miss Gold said, “was that instead of just spouting rage and fury like everybody else, you’d bothered to dig around and actually come up with a few facts. True facts,” she added, with a sort of respectful distaste. “Which told him, you aren’t like other journalists.”
“I didn’t know they were true,” Efluviel blurted out. “Sorry, what?”
“He liked that they were true,” Mr Silver said gently. “Well, remember, he’s a goblin, they’re not like us. They don’t give a damn for the purity of classic journalism. They read newspapers to get the news.” He shrugged. “What impressed Mordak was the way you’d come up with things that he didn’t think anybody would ever find out about. Like the bits about the way Mordakorp doesn’t actually pay any tax in Elvenhome. That was supposed to be a secret. But you found out about it.”
“And he’s pleased?”
Miss Gold licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. “That’s what’s different about Mordak,” she said. “He recognises talent, even when it’s pointed at him with the safety off. And when he sees it, he wants it, to use against others.”
“That’s what New Evil’s all about, really,” Mr Silver said. “Steal good ideas from the enemy and pass them off as your own. Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. Mordak would like you to come and work for him.” He paused, allowing Efluviel a moment to choke back the reply that came instinctively to her lips. “It’s a secure job, with prospects. He pays well. The alternative—” He nodded toward the queue opposite. “Entirely up to you,” he said. “Your choice.”
Miss Gold yawned. “She hasn’t touched her baklava,” she said. “It’ll be stone cold.”
“Maybe she’s got the sense to realise that the right decision could mean all the baklava she can eat,” Mr Silver said. “Or maybe not. Maybe she’s just stupid, like all the others.”
Maybe it was pure coincidence that, at that exact moment, the girl came out and told the queue there was no work today. Efluviel watched the line break up and start to drift away. “What would I have to do?” she said quietly.
Mr Silver allowed himself a brief smirk of victory. Then his face straightened. “Oh, nothing yucky or horrible,” he said. “Just research, really.”
“Imagine you’re on to a really good story,” Miss Gold said. “Real sharp-edge investigative journalism.”
“Only without the journalism,” said Mr Silver. “He wants you to find things out for him. That’s all.”
“I see,” Efluviel said. “Like a spy.”
“Absolutely not.” Mr Silver shook his head. “Mordak doesn’t do espionage. As far as he’s concerned, a spy is what you get if you cross a fly with a spider. Besides, why would anybody bother spying on the Elves? All he’d need to do is buy a newspaper.”
“Like Mordak,” Efluviel said sourly. “Several newspapers.”
Mr Silver sighed. “Hostility,” he said. “How gauche. Listen, you have my unequivocal undertaking. Mordak will not ask you to spy on your fellow Elves.” He leaned back again and steepled his fingers. “He’s just not interested enough in us to bother. But he thinks we’re useful, for a rigidly limited number of adminstrative functions. Including the gathering of information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Ah.” Mr Silver didn’t look uncomfortable, exactly–he’d probably have needed major surgery before he’d have been capable of it–but a sort of shutter closed behind his eyes. “That’s not really any of our business. It’s between you and Mordak, if you take the job, which you’re entirely free not to do, if you enjoy hunger. Or,” he added sweetly, “there’s always openings in the Post Office. Like I said before, up to you entirely. Now, perhaps you’d care to make up your mind. Obviously you’ve got nothing better to do, but we have.”
Efluviel looked away and, in doing so, found herself staring straight at the slice of baklava. It spoke to something deep inside her, and she knew what she was going to say. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”
“Ooh,” murmured Miss Gold. “Feisty.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good girl.”
“On one condition,” Efluviel said, and her heart was beating pit-a-pat. “I’ll do this not-quite-spying thing for one year, and then I want my old job back.”
Mr Silver narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“On the Face,” Efluviel said. “As a reporter. I promise I won’t write anything nasty about Mordak,” she added quickly, “I’ll be as good as gold and not make any trouble. But I want to be a journalist again, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. And if this is what it takes, well—” She shrugged. “How about it?”
Miss Gold and Mr Silver looked at each other, and Efluviel couldn’t quite follow the unspoken debate in their eyes. Then Mr Silver smiled at her and said, “Fine. A job on the Face.”
“Planning appeals,” Miss Gold put in. “Arts festivals. Maybe filling in on the sports section.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Efluviel replied, repressing a shudder. “That’s my price.”
Miss Gold sighed contentedly. “Everyone’s got one,” she said. “Selling out makes the world go round. Welcome to Team Mordak.”
Efluviel waited. The world didn’t come to an end. “Do I have to sign anything?”
Mr Silver shook his head. “Best not to have too much down on paper,” he said. “Besides, the goblins have a different attitude to contracts and agreements generally. They almost never sue.”
“Ah.”
“No, they fry instead. The way Mordak sees it, play it straight with him and everything will be fine. Mess him around and he’ll have you for breakfast.” He paused. “Construe that last remark as you wish. Only please, do be careful to bear in mind that Mordak’s a goblin. Enlightened, yes, but a goblin. He likes his employees loyal or lightly steamed on a bed of bruised rocket. No middle ground.
He’s not a middle ground kind of guy.”
Efluviel noticed a strange taste in her mouth, and it wasn’t miruvor latte. Every instinct she possessed told her to back out now, while she had the chance. But, she decided, she probably didn’t have the chance, not any more; not with someone who didn’t believe in written agreements or set terms of employment. She had a nasty feeling that she’d effectively signed on the dotted line already, the moment she’d said yes, and any attempt to get out of it would land her in hot water, probably with onions and a stock cube. And anyway, she told herself, I wouldn’t change my mind even if I could. A job on the Face, for crying out loud. She was going to be a journalist again. For that, was she prepared to do anything, anything at all?
Silly question. “Great,” she said. “That’s all perfectly fine. So, when do I start?”
“Norman,” said Clive. “There’s a goblin on the workbench.”
Which, when he said it, was entirely true. But not for very long. The goblin looked round at the shock-frozen humans surrounding him, made a sort of vague whimpering noise, and changed.
All the members of the South Cudworth and District Particle Physics Club were watching at the time, so what happened wasn’t inexplicable for want of professional scientific scrutiny. Of course, as Maurice protested later (volubly, at length, in the saloon bar of the Three Pigeons) it all happened so fast that the human eye wasn’t able to take it in. First, the goblin seemed to stretch, then widen, then thicken, then sort of—(At that point, Maurice used unscientific language and howled for more whisky, which the nice lady behind the bar reluctantly provided.)
A fraction of a second later, there was no goblin. His place on the bench had apparently been taken by a short, dumpy, rather gormless-looking young man, with wispy butter-coloured hair getting a bit thin on top, wearing a frock coat, pyjama bottoms and flip-flops. He was still holding the shield and the machete, but now the machete was in his left hand and the shield was in his right.