The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  “Noted,” Archie said. “Comrade,” he added.

  Kurt grinned. “That’s more like it.” He put his hands behind his head and yawned. “Anyway,” he said. “Welcome to here, wherever the hell here is. Damn shame we can’t go home again, but there it is.”

  Archie thought for a moment. “You’re sure about that.”

  “What? Oh, going home. Yes, it does rather look like we’re stuck here, I’m afraid. I asked, and magic doesn’t work here. That’s why they have movies, apparently. And if there’s no magic, we can’t cast the spell to take us home, even if we could do magic and the spell was a genuine one rather than a phoney we were suckered into using by the arsehole who wanted to bring us here for reasons that as yet remain obscure. Savvy?”

  “Mphm.”

  “So in the meantime,” Kurt went on, “all we can do is hang around–you pretending to be a goblin, me pretending to be a human, I don’t know which is more ridiculous–until we finally find out what the arsehole wants, at which point we may or may not do it for him, he may or may not send us home when it’s done, and we may or may not get to pull his liver out and eat it in front of his dying eyes. Everything’s a bit up in the air, in fact, which isn’t what we’re used to but apparently it’s how things are done here. People just drifting through their lives doing the best they can. Strikes me as a silly way to run a universe, but like I said, we’re guests here, we do like they do. Any questions?”

  Archie thought about it. “Nope.”

  “Good lad. Well, I’m going to go to sleep now, before I have to go out there and do more prancing about. You’d better leave, in case anybody wants you for anything.”

  “Sure,” Archie said, getting up. “Oh, one thing. How many of us are there? Here, I mean.”

  “In New Zealand? I think about a thousand. Here on this film set, maybe three dozen.”

  “Got you. How do I know who’s us and who’s them?”

  “Ah.” Kurt nodded. “Sorry, should’ve said earlier. If you’re one of us, you want to get yourself one of these little doodads, like this.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a doughnut. “Only, the locals like to copy stuff, God only knows why but they do, so there’s loads of them running around with those things on their arms, which is why you need to know the password.”

  “Password?”

  “Yup. If someone comes up to you and says, ‘Half a dwarf is better than no breakfast,’ you say, ‘I’d rather eat rats,’ and then he says, ‘Ah, but you can’t always get ’em.’ Then you know it’s one of us. And the other way round, of course.”

  “Fine,” Archie said. “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem. Oh, and if you need money for anything, just give me a shout. You can’t imagine how much of the stuff they give me, and what the hell for? I don’t know. This is a very strange place, till you get used to it.”

  Archie nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll let you get on.”

  “Cheers. One last thing.”

  Archie’s hand was on the doorknob. “What?”

  “I think the Elf fancies you. So long.”

  The wheel hummed.

  The little man, whose left foot was sore from working the treadle, glanced down and saw to his relief that there was only a handful of straw left. He reached down for it and piled it on to the bobbin. The firelight gleamed off a six-foot-high wall of gold bales.

  The things I do for other people, he thought.

  Still. He ignored the pain in his foot, ankle and knee and worked the treadle a little faster, until finally the bobbin was empty and the last few strands of gold thread were curled around the spindle. The wheel came to a halt. He listened. Dead silence, apart from the hooting of a distant owl. Not to worry, he told himself. They’ll come. They always do.

  To occupy the time, he looped the gold thread into a skein, bundled it up and stuffed it into the last bale, which he tied firmly with twine and manhandled with terrible effort up on to the wall. Then he counted, and grinned. Something was moving about in the bushes. It could have been a deer or a warthog, but he doubted it. Deer and warthogs pay rather more attention to where they put their feet.

  He whistled a tune. It was one he’d loved since he was a boy, though the locals around here probably wouldn’t realise it was supposed to be music. In the bushes, a twig snapped.

  Showtime.

  His back hurt from crouching over the wheel; he was used to sitting all day, but in rather more ergonomically designed chairs. He winced and straightened up. Then, rather self-consciously, he began to dance.

  He started with a half-hearted hop and skip, then made a brave effort at what is usually called “capering”, though he wasn’t sure he knew the rules. Hoppity-hoppity-hop, like someone who’s trodden on a pin. Right, he thought after a dozen steps, that’s quite enough of that. He cleared his throat and sang:

  Merrily the feast I’ll make,

  Today I’ll brew, tomorrow bake;

  Merrily I’ll dance and sing,

  For next day will a stranger bring.

  Little does my lady dream

  That Rumpelstiltskin is my name.

  As he sang the last line, he heard a terrific trumpeting noise in the bushes, which might have been an elephant but was more likely the sound of someone with serious pollen issues sneezing violently. He sighed. No way in hell could anyone have made out a complicated four-syllable name over that racket. So he repeated, “Yes, Rumpelstiltskin is my name” at the top of his voice. “With at between the l and the s,” he added. Probably at this point he was supposed to do fiendish cackling, but he really wasn’t in the mood. He limped back to his stool, both hands pressed to the small of his back, and sat down carefully. Far away a fox barked.

  Ten minutes or so later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a large man with big feet trying to creep stealthily through dense undergrowth. He smiled, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the magic silver flask by his feet. It was cold. Perhaps the magic wasn’t working too well, or maybe some fool had dropped it.

  “Well?”

  Efluviel looked at him. She saw a smallish goblin with huge rose-red eyes and an almost human nose, moth-wing ears with little tufts of auburn hair growing out of them and tusks that were slightly splintered at the end, probably from crunching stale bones. His hands were on the small side too, for a goblin, and someone had made a valiant effort to manicure his claws. It was an odd feeling, finally meeting someone she’d written so much about. Her strongest impression was that he looked more comical than evil. “Pleased to meet you too,” he said. “Do sit down. Oh come on,” he added, as she hesitated. “I’m not going to eat you.”

  She frowned. “Goblin humour?”

  “A light-hearted quip puts the nervous guest at her ease,” Mordak replied. “It says so in my book.” He held out the spine so she could see the title: 1,001 Ways To Be Liked If You’re Horrible. “It was free in a goody-bag I got given at an awards bash, so I can’t ask for my money back.”

  Then she realised what the ghastly statuette thing on his desk was. She squinted, and read the inscription, gouged into the metal in the spiky alphabet of the Dark Script. “Most people keep them in their toilets,” she said.

  “Yes, well. I never won anything before. Besides, an insouciant show of disdain for something you’ve fought tooth and nail for is more your Elvish way of doing things. Goblins are—”

  “Vulgar?”

  “More straightforward. Which can seem a bit like vulgarity at times, I grant you, but who gives a shit? Sit down, for crying out loud, before I get a crick in my neck gazing up at you.”

  Deciding that she’d lost that round, Efluviel sat down. “You sent for me.”

  “Got a job for you.”

  “Ah yes. I had a job once. Only some bastard took it away from me.”

  Mordak grinned. “So I did. And if you’re really good and do what I want, I’ll give it back to you. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently. Though I’m not sure
I want to work for you, even if it means getting back on the Face.”

  He shrugged. “Understandable,” he said. “Elves and goblins have been bitter enemies since the Seas were sundered. Nobody now remembers why, though my own theory is that it’s because all Elves are arseholes. You’re reluctant to work for a goblin. I have severe reservations about employing an Elf. However, with the entire future stability of the Realms at stake, I guess we’ll have to sink our differences and work together. That’s unless you want the humans taking over.”

  She repressed a shudder. “Hardly likely.”

  “A bloody sight likelier than you think. Listen.” And he told her about the money, and the cancelled armour order. “So,” he added. “What’s your headline for that story?”

  “Goblins thwarted in arms race bid?”

  “Factually accurate,” Mordak replied. “And that thing whizzing a mile over your head is the real point at issue. Make that, Humans take lead in arms race and think for a moment.” He folded his arms and smiled at her. “Taking an overview of the last ten thousand years, what’s the most significant trend in goblin military history?”

  “You guys always lose?”

  “Correct.” His smile broadened. “Our record so far is something like, played 26,091, lost 26,091, won 0. This,” he went on, “in spite of the fact that we have the largest army and highest military budget per capita in the Realms. It’s just the way things are, and that’s fine.”

  “Unless you’re the king,” Efluviel pointed out tactfully.

  “Unless, as you say, you’re the king. But what the heck, that’s the way the shin-bone crumbles. The point is, goblins taking a lead in the arms race is nothing for anyone to worry about. We’ve always led in the arms race, and it doesn’t matter because sooner or later the race is to see who can get back down the tunnels first before the cavalry gets them. Agreed?”

  Efluviel shrugged. “I’ve always wondered about that,” she said. “Why are you people so mad keen on fighting when you’re so bad at it?”

  Mordak beamed at her. “Humans with superior military technology, on the other claw,” he said, “is a whole different kettle of brains. Humans with superior military technology aren’t going to stop with beating the crap out of us goblins. This may come as a shock to you, but humans don’t really like you people very much. Can’t imagine why, but there it is. They don’t mind the dwarves so much, but the dwarves have got all those mines chock-full of yummy gold and iron and coal and stuff, and I’ve noticed how small nations with rich mineral resources have a bad habit of doing things that large well-armed nations who’ve used up all their minerals can never possibly forgive, such as saying good morning. Whichever way you dice it, it’s not pretty.”

  Efluviel had a nasty feeling he was right; so, instinctively, she disagreed. “Rubbish,” she said. “That’s just goblin scare-mongering. The humans have been around for a long time, but they never achieve anything. They fall apart and start bickering among themselves.”

  Mordak gave her an Oh-come-on look she found hard to meet. “Humans never do anything because they never have any money,” he said, “because of the cockamamie way they run their economies. Suddenly, it appears, a load of tinpot little human princes have got gold to burn—”

  “You can’t burn gold, it’s a metal.”

  “Gold to melt, and I want to know where it’s coming from. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to find out the truth.” He shrugged. “I know, you’re a journalist, but the basic core skills are the same. Get out there, ask questions, poke your exquisitely-pointed needle nose into other people’s business, it’s what you’re good at. Annoy them so much they tell you what you want just so you’ll go away.”

  “I can do that, certainly,” Efluviel said. “All right, but you’ve got to promise me, I’ll get my job back on the Face.”

  Mordak looked at her for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said. “If you do this for me and you succeed, I’ll make you the editor.”

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe. “You can do that?”

  “Oh yes.” Mordak took a clawful of sugar-coated fingernails and popped them in his mouth. “Easy as anything. Bit of an incentive for you, I thought. I believe in motivating people.”

  “That’s not how goblins usually go about it.”

  “True. But I’ve always taken the view that you can get more with a kind word and shameless bribery than with any number of fire-hardened pointed sticks. I guess that’s why they call me unconventional. To my face, at any rate.”

  Her heart rate was gradually getting back to normal. “And of course it won’t exactly be a disaster having an editor of the Face who owes you unthinking obedience and undying loyalty.”

  “There’s that too, I guess.”

  She stood up. “And to think,” she said, “I once called you a cunning, treacherous, manipulative, double-dealing control-freak.”

  Mordak grinned. “Why do you think I’m hiring you?” he said. “I love flattery.”

  Once upon a time, goes the old, old Elvish fairy-tale, there was a commodities broker who lived in a great city called Chicago. He was very rich and he had a great big house and many wonderful magical toys, but in spite of all that he was unhappy. One day—

  At this point, the Elf-child interrupts. What’s a commodities broker, Mummy?

  Mummy replies that she doesn’t actually know, because it’s all make-believe and really there’s no such thing as commodities brokers, but for the purposes of the story it’s some kind of human merchant. Ah, says the Elf-child, and curls her little lip accordingly.

  Anyway, Mummy goes on, one day the commodities broker, whose name was Albert (that’s a funny name, Mummy. Yes, isn’t it?) was sitting in his room at the top of his high tower when a strange little old man called to see him. What do you want, strange little old man? Albert said, or words to that effect. The little old man smiled. I gather you’ve taken a tumble on medium-term wheat futures, he said, and you stand to lose a packet. Albert pulled a sad face, because what the old man said was true. That’s right, he said, and now I’m stuck with a billion tons of wheat I bought at 136, and if I’m really lucky I might be able to get rid of it on some dummy for 132. Life sucks, said Albert.

  So it does, said the little man, and he made a sad face too, and what (says Mummy) are you sniggering about?

  Albert said a rude word, says the Elf-child.

  Yes he did, says Mummy, and that’s because he was a stupid ignorant human who didn’t know any better. Meanwhile, the little man said, As well as all that wheat, I bet you’re stuck with a whole lot of straw.

  Straw? said Albert.

  Straw, said the old man. It’s kind of like a stalk thing that the wheat grows on. I never knew that, said Albert. Well, you wouldn’t, said the old man, you’re born and raised in the city. But I expect you’ll find, if you ask, that along with the wheat you bought a whole lot of straw. Great, said Albert, is that supposed to make me feel better?

  And the little man grinned at him, and said, Actually, yes, because if you’d like me to, I can turn all that straw into gold for you, using my handy-dandy magic spinning-wheel, and did you happen to notice the gold price lately, it’s so high they can read it quite clearly on Mars.

  And Albert looked at him and said, Get out of here, and the old man stood up and Albert explained that it was just an old commodity traders’ expression. Can you really do that? Albert asked, and the little man nodded and said, Yes, I can. I can spin all your useless straw into pure gold, and all you have to give me is your first-born child.

  And Albert looked at him again and said, hey, I haven’t got any kids. And the little man shrugged and said, So what, you deal in futures, don’t you? And Albert said, Fair enough, since you put it like that. And the old man reached in his pocket and said, it just so happens I have a watertight duly notarised contract right here, and all you have to do is sign and leave the rest to me.

  So Albert signed, and the little old man thanked hi
m and went away, and Albert called through to the front office and told them, on pain of death, not to let any more crazy people in to see him, because he had better things to do. And he forgot all about the little old man until a week later, when the little old man sent him an email, no, I don’t know what an email is, probably some sort of trained pigeon, telling him he now owned a million metric tonnes of gold, copy inventory and duly notarised bill of lading herewith, and how was he getting on, had he met any nice girls lately?

  So Albert made enquiries, and sure enough, the million tonnes of gold was real enough and sitting in a warehouse in a place called Zurich waiting for him to come and take it away. So Albert sold the gold for a great deal of money, and for about a quarter of an hour he was very happy indeed.

  But then he remembered the contract he’d signed, promising to give the little old man his first-born child, and that made him very unhappy indeed, because he’d recently found out a really foolproof way of avoiding tax by putting money in your kids’ names. And while he was sitting there fretting about it, who should turn up but the little old man?

  Hi, said the little old man.

  Hi, said Albert. You do realise, no court in the world is going to honour that contract.

  But the little old man smiled and said, You really ought to read things carefully before you sign them. Because if you had, you’d have noticed that there’s a clause stating that the contract takes effect under Fairyland law, and in Fairyland that sort of thing is entirely legal. And you may think you can hire lawyers to get you out of this, but while you have a lot of money, I have a magic spinning-wheel, so think on, fool.

  Then Albert got very frightened and begged the old man to change his mind. But the old man said, You have only two options. One, you’ve got to guess my name. Or two, you can buy me off with ten times what you got for the gold I spun you.