by Tom Holt
Then Albert was very sad for a long time, until eventually he was talking to a clever young lady in a bar somewhere, and he told her all about the little old man and the gold, and she said, let me think about it and I’ll get back to you. So she went away, and three days later she came back and said, I think I’ve found a way you can raise the money to buy off the little old man, but I have to warn you, it’s a bit of a grey area ethically and it may make you rather unpopular. I don’t mind that, Albert said, I’m a commodities broker. So the clever woman told him all about a cunning scheme she’d thought up, whereby you bundled up a load of worthless sub-prime mortgages and other toxic assets into bonds and sold them to idiots who didn’t know what they were buying. And Albert said, Yes, I can see that might work, but isn’t there a risk that we could trash the entire economy of the industrialised world and bring about the worst recession since the Fall of Rome, and the clever woman shrugged and said something about omelettes and eggs.
So they did that, and when the little old man came to visit him again, Albert was able to write him a cheque for the full value of the gold, in return for which the little old man handed him the contract, along with two other things and a few words of very good advice. And Albert asked the clever woman to marry him but she just laughed, and everybody lived very miserably for a very long time afterwards.
Mummy stops talking, and the Elf-child looks at her and says, That’s not a true story, is it?
And Mummy says, Don’t be silly, dear. Not even humans could be that stupid.
The days passed, and nothing much seemed to happen. One day he’d be told to dress up as a goblin and stand snarling. The next day, he’d be waving his shield and making grunting noises. The day after that, they’d do the snarling all over again, but from a slightly different angle. From time to time he caught sight of Kurt in the distance, but he didn’t wave or anything like that. The Elf’s name, he found out, was Shawna, but he didn’t see anything of her either. The assistant director kept trying to talk to him, which was a pest, until he happened to be passing a dumpster one day and saw that it was full of what looked like bones. They turned out to be plastic, which was a disappointment, but he appropriated one which looked from a distance exactly like a human tibia. The next time the assistant director headed towards him he pulled it out from under his costume and started gnawing at it with a happy look on his face. That solved that problem.
Then everything was packed away in big wooden crates, as if it had never been, and they all had to crowd on to a bus and sit still for nine hours, until they arrived at a spot that looked to Archie to be identical to the one they’d just left. Everything was unpacked from the crates and set up, and the next day, Archie found himself snarling and waving his shield from yet another angle, but with the mountains to his left instead of his right.
On the fifth day after their arrival at the new location, the assistant director mustered his imitation-goblin troops and told them they wouldn’t be needed for a bit and they could have a day off. Before the echo of his words had died away, the army had scrambled aboard the bus, which lurched dangerously off down the local excuse for a road. Archie asked where they were going. The man he asked just shrugged.
Seven hours later, they arrived. The town didn’t seem to have a name. There were five wooden shacks, with pine-shingle roofs, standing beside the dusty ribbon of the road. One of the shacks was their immediate destination. It had the words HOTEL & BAR over the door in flaking paint, which sort of explained things.
After a brief consultation, a duly delegated officer approached the bar, where a small, round woman was dusting a bowl of peanuts. “Two beers,” he said, “and thirty-seven lemonades.”
The woman looked at him. “Say again.”
“Two beers. Thirty-seven lemonades. Please.”
The woman nodded and went away. Archie thought about the order for a while, then went up to the duly delegated officer. “Who ordered the beers?” he said.
“Those two.” He jerked his head toward the corner without looking round.
“Humans?”
“Mphm. Not locals, though, so that’s all right.”
Archie went and sat down, as far away from the others as he could get. That explains that, then, he thought.
As it happened, he’d tried the this-reality beer once; just a mouthful, so he didn’t have to be rushed to hospital to have his stomach pumped out. Kurt, he recalled, had drunk lemonade in his trailer. The two humans, if he’d understood correctly, weren’t from this universe either, but apparently they could stomach the stuff. Great, he thought. All the extras on this film are Oursiders.
Kurt hadn’t mentioned that, and he wondered if he even knew. He studied the others over the rim of his lemonade glass as closely as he could without being too obvious. It was hard to tell, since mostly he only saw his colleagues when they had the make-up and prosthetics on, but he was fairly sure that he didn’t recognise most of them, so presumably they hadn’t been at the other location, or were new recruits. Thirty-seven of us, he thought. That’s a lot of goblins. Thirty-eight including Kurt. Plus two humans, and not forgetting the Elf.
Now let’s suppose, he thought, trying not to let the fizz go up his nose, that someone’s been to all the trouble of importing goblins and Elves and even humans from back home to this reality. Why would anyone do that? The obvious reason would be to exploit them as cheap labour; he thought about Kurt, the noughts on whose salary cheque resembled nothing so much as the string of bubbles left behind by a diving otter, and decided, no, it probably isn’t that. A lot of them had ended up here in the film business, but he had no reason to suppose that there weren’t pockets of them somewhere else as well, in some other industry where weird people who come and go on a casual basis aren’t noticed particularly much. The word ‘infiltration’ drifted into his mind and stuck there, like a fly in a cobweb.
“What’re you having?”
He looked up. The duly appointed delegate was looking down at him. “Another lemonade, please.”
“Fine. It’s your shout, by the way.”
On the long ride back to the set, he thought, so let’s suppose someone’s infiltrating this reality with goblins. Why would anyone do that? If the idea is to use us as an army (and let’s face it, what else are we good for?) you’d have thought he might have seen fit to mention it, rather than simply turning us loose. Also, now we’re here we aren’t actually goblins any more, physically we’re human, so goblin strength, endurance, redundant systems and big sharp teeth aren’t what he’s after. In which case, what’s so special about us that makes it worth his while going to all this bother, rather than just hiring the local thugs?
Over the next few days he tried sounding out his fellow goblins, in case they knew anything. Either they stared at him as though he were mad, or else they just shrugged and walked away. He found this hard to account for, since goblins are naturally sociable, liking nothing better than to gather in groups of five or six, sharing a beer and a joke before eating the smallest goblin present. But he shrugged it off as a side-effect of the shape-shifting, and noted that he’d been quite happy to spend most of his time on his own since he’d got here. As for the grand conspiracy, he still believed in it, sort of; but since as far as he was aware nothing was actually happening, he couldn’t see any point in worrying himself sick about it. Then, in a eureka moment that smacked him between the eyes like a slingshot as he stood in line for the only chemical toilet on the set, the answer came to him. Yes, there was (or had been) a nefarious plan. Yes, there was or had been a sinister mastermind who’d lured them all here for a purpose. But, before the sinister mastermind could set the nefarious plan in motion, something had happened–he’d been arrested, killed by a passing hero, trampled by stampeding elephants, or maybe he’d just changed his mind, or the backers had pulled out–and the whole venture had been quietly cancelled, and that was that. Tough luck on the purpose-imported goblins, of course, but that’s how it goes. And, since magic didn�
�t work here, there was no way to send them back, even if anyone else knew about them and wanted to, so there they all were, left to fend for themselves in a strange and not particularly hostile environment. A bummer, to be sure; still, when you’re cast ashore on a desert island, you can either starve to death brooding on your sad fate, or you can devote your energies to coming up with 1,001 delicious new ways with coconuts. In the final analysis, it’s a lifestyle choice.
After a very long day doing nothing in full makeup under an unseasonably hot Horrible Yellow Face, he was trudging off the set when he heard someone call out his name. He turned to see Kurt’s Elf hurrying toward him, with a large buff envelope in her hand. She slowed down, caught her breath, smiled and said, “Hi.”
Once upon a time he’d had proper bristles on the back of his neck, not just the soft rabbit-fur fluff that grew there now. Nature had put them there for a very good reason, and at times like this he missed them sorely. His skin twitched, but it wasn’t the same. “Hello,” he said.
Her smile faded. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s nothing nasty. Kurt would like to see you, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, do I? Maybe he wants to buy you a yacht. Or maybe he’s sick of corned beef.”
Only an Elf could’ve said that. A goblin who’s tired of corned beef is tired of life. “You sure he meant me?”
“That gormless idiot Archie, to quote his exact words.”
True, the cap fitted. “Now?”
“Oh for crying out loud. Why are you so suspicious all the damn time?”
“Why would he want to buy me a yacht? All goblins hate water.”
The obvious comment, he noted, went unmade, which was so not like an Elf. “Come on,” she said. “He’s waiting.”
“Yes, but—”
“Now.”
Kurt wasn’t in his trailer; he was sitting outside it in a deck-chair, with white goo all over his face and slices of cucumber on his eyes. “My God, he’s dead.”
“No he isn’t,” the Elf said. “It’s to make him look beautiful.”
With cream cheese and salad? “Thanks, I already ate.”
“You.” Kurt was frowning under the goo. “Go away. No, not you. Her.” He sat up a little. A circle of cucumber slipped, and he pawed it back into place with his knuckles. “Archie?”
“You sent for me.”
“Sit down. They make me do this muck,” he explained sadly, “it’s in my contract.” He lowered his voice. “You remember the Chasm of Pirith Undrod back home?”
Archie shuddered as he nodded. “Where the nameless watcher lurks.”
“And eats the souls of the unwary, yes. Kids’ stuff. Compared to a Hollywood lawyer, the nameless watcher’s a total pussycat. A while back, I think it was just before you got here, they caught me eating a chocolate bar. You can’t do that, they said; watch me, I said, so they flew in a lawyer from LA. Ten minutes I was in there with him, and when I came out I was shaking like a leaf. Haven’t even looked at chocolate since.” He yawned, reached for a glass of lemonade and glugged it down, leaving a white creamy semicircle on the rim. “After this it’s four hours in the gym. I told them, it’s pointless, I’m already so strong I could tow a truck uphill with the tow-rope round my little finger. Yes, they said, but you don’t look strong.” He sighed. “Next Tuesday they pull out all my teeth.”
“My God. What did you do wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s in the contract. They pull them out and put in plastic ones. Shinier.”
Archie felt a cold chill run down his spine. A goblin’s teeth are his soul. “You wanted to see me,” he prompted.
“What? Oh, yes. Listen, I hear you’ve been going round asking a lot of weird questions.”
Two seconds passed before Archie replied. “And if I have?”
“If you get any answers, tell me. But you won’t. I’ve tried, God knows.” He hesitated, just for a moment. “You haven’t got anything, have you?”
“No.”
“Thought not. It’s because there’s nothing to find out. Nobody knows anything. Which is dumb.”
Archie outlined his theory about the cancelled plot. Kurt thought about it for a long time, then shrugged. “You know,” he said, “you may be right. That’d account for it, sure. I’ll give it some thought, let you know what I think. Meanwhile,” he added, with a faint grin, “how are you getting on with the Elf? Any good?”
“You what?”
“Oh come on,” Kurt replied. “She’s crazy about you. Can’t stop talking about you. Well, she’s mentioned you twice. You should get in there quick, before she changes her mind.”
“Excuse me,” Archie said, “maybe we’ve got our wires crossed. Are we talking about non-parthenogenetic reproduction here?”
“Sure. Listen,” Kurt went on, lowering his voice a little. “This isn’t home, right? And we’re not really goblins any more, we’re humans. And humans–well, they dig that stuff. They reckon it makes the world go round.”
“No they don’t. They say it’s the gravitational pull of the Horrible Yellow Face, acting on the—”
“We’re humans,” he repeated firmly, “to all intents and purposes, and you know what that means? They won’t let us fight, we can’t eat anybody, and because of the no-fighting thing we’re probably going to live for years. Think about it. Years and years and years with no fun whatsoever.” He breathed in deeply, then out again. “Not goblin fun, anyhow. So, I thought, why not give human fun a go?”
Archie nearly retched. “Kurt, that’s gross.”
“You say that.” He had the grace to look defensive. “What I say is, these are human bodies, designed to be receptive to human pleasures. They have this saying here, when in Rome—”
“Kurt.” Archie took a long step back. “You’re not trying to tell me you’ve actually done this—”
“Non-parthenogenetic reproduction?” Kurt hesitated. “Well, no. Not yet. Which,” he added, “is giving rise to a great deal of comment around here, let me tell you. Apparently a guy in my position, a big movie star, if he doesn’t, that’s—” He waved his arms vaguely. “They’re saying things about me behind my back, I don’t like it. So—”
He paused, and gave Archie what was clearly meant to be a my-best-friend-in-all-the-world look. “So you want me,” Archie said, slowly and precisely, “to research—”
“Exactly. Got it in one. Find out, you know, what it’s like. What you do. If it hurts.”
“Absolutely not. No way.”
“Archie—”
“We’re goblins,” Archie shouted, and a few heads turned beside the chuck wagon. “We have tanks for that sort of thing. We have goo. I don’t know what’s got in to you since you’ve been here, but—”
“Keep your voice down, for crying out loud,” Kurt thundered. “Look,” he went on, lowering the volume and sweetening it into syrup, “I’m not saying go that far, not at first, anyhow. There’s this whole love rigmarole before you start getting non-parthenogenetic. The humans are nuts about the love thing. Try that, report back to me, we’ll take it from there. Okay?”
Archie gave him a long look. “Have I got to?”
“Yes. Oh come on, cheer up,” Kurt added, with a sudden grin. “You never know, you might even like it.”
To that there could be no reply that wouldn’t end up in bloodshed. Archie swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and nodded once. Then he said quickly, “But not the Elf, all right?”
“Why not?”
“She’s an Elf. The ears. The attitude. Everything.”
“But she likes you. And let’s face it, even in an infinite multiverse—”
“Not the Elf.”
“Her favourite colour,” Kurt said, “is blue. Also, she likes sunsets, the smell of rain on the grass, and something called Leonard Cohen, which I gather is some sort of musical entertainment. You see? I’ve done all the hard work for you.”
A wounded spaniel, looking at Arch
ie at that moment, would’ve thought it was seeing itself in a mirror. “One question,” he said. “Why me?”
“You’re my friend. I like you.”
“Bloody funny way of showing it.”
“I like you,” Kurt repeated, “but not nearly as much as I like the others. So, you’re it. Sorry. Now, quit moaning and get on with it, before I have you fired from the movie and dumped beside the road somewhere two hundred miles from the nearest sandwich.”
Reasoning like that Archie could relate to. “When in Rome, eh?”
“When in Rome, Archie. You’re a good man.”
Archie stood up slowly, leaned forward, picked one of the slices of cucumber off Kurt’s face and ate it. “You owe me.”
“Not yet,” Kurt said. “But I will. Want the other slice?”
“No thanks. I don’t like cucumber.”
He turned and walked away, thinking, what kind of sentient creature actually likes smelly rain? He was all set to find out, apparently. Something occurred to him, and he turned back. Kurt was just settling a new slice over his left eye. “You again.”
“Yes,” said Archie. “You said, when in Rome, right?”
“I did, yes.”
“You don’t happen to know the rest of that one, do you?”
Kurt smiled. “As it happens, I do. It goes, when in Rome, be very careful how you cross the road.” He leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Sage advice, Archie boy. Look after yourself, you hear?”
Meanwhile, in the topmost turret of the highest tower of the appalling castle of Vorgul, the mind of the Dark Lord brooded on strategy.
He had no body, no physical presence. A thousand years ago, the Last League of Elves, dwarves, centaurs, men and talking furry animals had broken his armies, thrown down his battlements and cornered him here, in the very furnace of his power. Terrible, that final battle; ten days and ten nights they strove, the princes of the West united against him alone. Finally, when the issue hung in the balance and the narrow spiral staircase leading to the Black Chamber was strewn with the broken corpses of dead chipmunks, Flinduil the Elven-Prince—