The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  The two hundred and fifteenth landing was illuminated by the same unearthly amber glow he’d seen at the bottom of the stairs. By its light he saw an ancient oak door, with six hinges, twelve massive locks and no doorknob, and a notice which read:

  NO ADMISSION TO ENQUIRIES WITHOUT

  A VALID VISITOR’S PASS.

  VISITOR’S PASS AVAILABLE FROM RECEPTION.

  Well, of course, he said to himself. He turned round and started down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Reception. Where do you think?”

  Efluviel yawned. “Get one for me while you’re down there, will you? I think I’ll just wait here and read my book.”

  She, he couldn’t help noticing, seemed completely fresh and unwearied by the climb. “Sure,” he panted. “You rest there a minute, catch your breath.”

  In Reception, in the far right-hand corner of the room, he found a small rosewood and ivory box. Inside it were two little enamel badges marked Visitor. One he pocketed, the other he pinned to the lapel of his coat. Then, remembering the runes in the snow at Grembold, he went out and groped around until he found the fifth door on the left. It opened easily, and revealed another door, to which was pinned a note reading Out of order, use stairs. He smiled and tipped an imaginary hat, then went back the way he’d come and started to climb.

  This time, when he stood in front of the oak door, there was a doorknob. “Thank you so much,” he said politely, and turned it.

  The room they found themselves in was long and narrow, and lit by a single high window, which was strange, since there were no windows visible from the outside of the tower. Mordak craned his neck and peered through it. He saw a lush green river-valley, with rolling wooded hills far away in the distance, and far away on the left, the mountain that overshadowed the mineshaft where he’d been born, nine hundred miles away on the Southern Continent. “Ah,” he said, “that sort of window.”

  “Mphm.” Efluviel turned down a corner to mark her place and closed her book. “I wouldn’t take any notice if I were you. There’s one that does that in the Central Planning Archive back home. If you look into it for too long, it shows you the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in public.”

  He turned so his back was to it, and saw a doorway.

  Fine, he thought. Through the doorway, more stairs. They climbed a flight, and came to a landing, with a notice that read:

  WE’RE HERE TO HELP YOU.

  Up another flight to another landing. This one had a sign saying:

  PROUDLY SERVING THE

  LOCAL COMMUNITY SINCE 00000001.

  Up a third flight; this time they found themselves facing another door; white, with a brass knob.

  Mordak frowned at it. “Your turn,” he said.

  “Ever the gentleman.” Efluviel turned it and went in. He took a deep breath and followed.

  He saw a desk, and behind it, a man. He was elegantly dressed in a dark scholar’s gown. His silver hair was neatly parted and he had a handsome, distinguished-looking face and immaculate fingernails. He was maybe just a whisker under two feet tall.

  “Hello,” said the man, with a charming smile. “Do sit down.”

  There was, of course, no chair. “Is this Enquiries?” Efluviel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Really and truly.”

  “Good heavens. Um, can we ask you a question?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Mordak shouldered past her. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Ah.” The man smiled, steepled his fingers and leaned back a little in his chair. “I’m glad you asked me that, it’s a very good question. The answer is actually perfectly simple. It’s going round and round.”

  Mordak waited for a moment. Then he said, “Excuse me, I don’t think I quite grasped that. Could you run it by me again?”

  “Certainly.” The man leaned forward a little and said, very loud and clear, “It’s going round and round.” He paused, looked at them both and added, “It’s going round, and stuff goes in, and other stuff comes out. That’s what’s happening right now.”

  Mordak counted to five under his breath, then said, “Who and what stuff, and what’s it got to do with humans being able to afford armour?”

  Immediately the man picked up a sheaf of papers and started looking at them. “Sorry,” he said. “This is Enquiries. What you need is Supplementary Information. Different department,” he explained, glancing up briefly. “So glad to have been able to help. Goodbye.”

  A blood vessel was pounding like a drop-hammer on the left side of Mordak’s forehead. “Where do I go for Supplementary Information?”

  “Sorry, I can’t answer that, it’s not a new enquiry, you need Supp—Put me down.”

  He looked rather comical dangling by one ankle from Mordak’s right hand. Efluviel had taken a nail file from her pocket and was seeing to a slightly jagged forefinger. “Where do I go,” Mordak repeated politely, “for Supplementary Information?”

  “Mountains,” gasped the man, struggling for breath. “Please, put me down, I’m feeling all dizzy.”

  “Mountains?”

  “Mountains. You know. Tall things with snow on top. That’s all I can tell you. Really.”

  “Mountains,” Mordak said wearily. “Thank you so very much.” He lowered the man gently until his hands touched the desktop, then let go. “Are you sure you can’t give me just a tiny hint?”

  The man scrambled onto all fours, scattering papers everywhere, and glowered at him. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know, do I? I’m Enquiries, not Supplementary, it says so on the board downstairs, can’t you read? Now please go. I really don’t feel at all well.”

  Some time later, as Mordak took one last look at the tower before turning his back on it and starting the long trudge to the mountains, he called to mind the incident, thirty years before, when the High Priest of Haslet the crocodile god in far-distant Aphir had dreamed a dream, after a heavy meal of lobster in cheese sauce, in which the god came to him and, standing over his bed suffused in an unearthly green light, had uttered the cryptic words, He who eventually succeeds in penetrating the mysteries of the tower of Snorfang will wish he hadn’t bothered.

  Efluviel, who’d been unusually quiet for some time, cleared her throat. “So,” she said. “Mountains.”

  Mordak sighed. “Which could mean anything.”

  “Mphm.” She uncorked her water bottle, took a sip and replaced the cork without offering him any. “But I’m guessing he means the old hermit who lives in a cave at the summit of the Golden Crag in the very centre of the Taupe Mountains. Stands to reason,” she added. “Very famous hermit. He knows everything, apparently.”

  He turned slowly and looked at her. “The old hermit,” he said.

  “In the Taupe Mountains, that’s right. Actually,” she went on, “if I’d been leading this expedition, I’d have gone straight there and not bothered with all this. But I’m not, so—” She shrugged. “No skin off my nose. And it’s nice to be out in the fresh air.”

  “You knew.”

  She nodded. “I know lots of things.”

  “And you let me—”

  “You were having so much fun,” she said. “Leading. Being heroic. After all, why be right when you can be happy instead?”

  Mordak unslung his pack, dropped it on the ground, sat down and took his boots off. “Tell you what,” he said, “and this is just a suggestion. Why don’t you lead the way from now on?”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’d make much more sense.”

  “Of course it would.”

  “Me being an Elf,” she added, “and you being a goblin.”

  “Quite.”

  “Put your boots back on,” Efluviel said, “we’d better be making a move. We need to be the other side of those dunes by sunset.”

  �
�Of course we do.”

  “You’ve got a hole in your sock.”

  “So I have.”

  Efluviel smiled at him. “I think we’re getting along splendidly together,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “Excuse me,” the little man said to the darkness, “but would you mind taking the bag off now, please?”

  Various grunts, followed by a sudden flood of orange light. The little man blinked and looked round.

  He was in a cave, or a tunnel, or just possibly a mineshaft. The roof, he noted, was low, so that he doubted he’d be able to stand fully upright without banging his head. It was rough-hewn grey rock, like the walls, and shored up at intervals with massive wooden beams. The light, which came from a single lantern hanging from one of the beams, showed him a dozen very short, very hairy men with beards, who were glaring down at him where he lay. Behind them, he could just make out his spinning-wheel.

  “Bastard,” said a short, hairy man.

  The little man smiled weakly. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re Drain.”

  He got a boot in the ribs for that. “King Drain,” snarled the short man. “Son of Drag, son of Driri, King under the Mountains.” The king sneezed, and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. “So show a bit of respect, all right?”

  “You’re dwarves.”

  “So? What about it?”

  The little man would have spread his hands in an appeasing gesture, only they turned out to be tied behind his back. “Nothing. I mean, that’s good. The dwarves are an ancient and honourable people, famous for their industry, craftsmanship and integrity. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

  The dwarves huddled together and whispered, and the little man thought he could make out, “What’s integrity?”, at which the king trod on the enquirer’s foot. “Yeah,” Drain growled. “Says you.”

  “And an audience with the king in person,” the little man went on. “What an opportunity. It’s the sort of chance you’d give your right arm for.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  The little man shuffled forward on his bottom and sat up as best he could. “And you brought my wheel,” he said. “How thoughtful. I’d hate for it to get stolen while I was away.”

  “That thing,” Drain growled angrily. “We’re going to smash it,” he added. “Then we’re going to smash you.”

  “Oh?” The little man looked politely surprised. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because.” The king clenched his massive fists, then unclenched them again. “Because you’re ruining us, that’s why. Putting us out of business. Screwing us over. So we’re going to smash you, see.”

  “Ah.” The little man looked thoughtful, though not unduly concerned. “I believe there may have been a slight misunderstanding.”

  King Drain grinned unpleasantly. “I don’t think so.”

  But the little man shook his head and smiled. “Let me explain,” he said. “For generations, the dwarvish nation have been gold-miners. Yes?”

  “Man and boy,” grunted the king. “Man and boy.”

  “Quite. You’ve worked really hard at it, you’ve hacked miles and miles of these quite splendid mineshafts out of the living rock, you’ve fought off hordes of savage goblins who wanted to take the mines away from you. Gold-mining makes up a substantial proportion of your economy; more than that, it’s part of your cultural identity, it’s made you what you are.” He paused, then went on, “And now, because of me, the gold price is tumbling and you’re staring ruin in the face. Does that more or less cover it?”

  The king had taken a short-handled axe from his belt and was tapping the blade with his fingertips. “More or less.”

  “Mphm. Yes, I can see how this misunderstanding has arisen.”

  “I think we all understand just fine.”

  “Ah.” The little man beamed at him. “All due respect, but I’d venture to disagree. What you’re actually looking at,” he went on, “is the biggest and best opportunity you’ve ever had in the entire history of dwarfkind.”

  There was a deep silence. Then a short, hairy man off to the left said, “Just bash him, all right? He’s making my head hurt.”

  But Drain was frowning thoughtfully. “Shut it,” he said. “You,” he went on. “Explain.”

  “Well.” The little man wriggled a little to make himself slightly more comfortable. “As well as mining gold,” he said, “you also manufacture high-class metalwork. Luxury goods. Tableware. Armour.” He paused. “Weapons.”

  “The best there is,” Drain said; not a boast, a statement of fact. “So?”

  “And,” the little man went on, “ever since the human princes have been awash with gold, you’ve been selling them lots and lots of luxury goods, gold and silver dinner services, armour and especially weapons.”

  “Don’t tell me about it,” Drain groaned. “We just can’t keep up. The lads are working flat out, and still the orders keep coming in. They’re not happy, the lads aren’t. Nothing but work, work, work, all the damn time.”

  “Mphm.” The little man nodded. “Of course, you could try raising your prices.”

  “Oh, we did that. Got to, with the gold price going down the toilet. Doesn’t make any odds. They still keep ordering, the bastards.”

  “Quite,” said the little man. “So on the one hand, there’s all your metalworkers with too much work, and your gold-miners at risk of being out of a job.”

  “Yeah. And it’s all your fault.”

  The little man nodded. “Of course, if your gold-miners were to give up mining and learn to be metalworkers, that might—”

  He got no further, because the short, hairy men all started shouting at once. But the king was frowning again. He held up his hand for silence. “Say what?”

  “Turn your miners into metalworkers. Solves both problems. Actually, I’m sure you’d already thought of that, a highly intelligent man like yourself, King under the Mountains and so forth. You were just waiting till you’d ironed out all the minor details before you made your announcement.”

  There was another long silence. Then all the short, hairy men started yelling again. Half of them yelled that they were miners, not bloody smiths; the other half howled about bloody miners, coming in their workshops, stealing their jobs. The king closed his eyes, counted to three under his breath and shouted, “Quiet!” Then he turned back to the little man and said, “Yeah. That’s just what I was doing. I’m smart, me.”

  “Very smart,” the little man said. “Which means you don’t need me to tell you about how you can use this situation to become very rich indeed.”

  The king’s tiny eyes widened. “You lot,” he said without looking round. “Piss off. You,” he added, “with me.”

  “I rather think my feet are tied. I can’t imagine how it happened and I do apologise for any inconvenience.”

  The king rolled his eyes, looked round for someone to give an order to, realised they’d all gone, sighed, stooped down and cut the ropes with a small knife. “This way,” he grunted.

  The little man stood up, wincing as his pins-and-needles-ridden feet took his weight. “My pleasure,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  The king led him down two miles of tunnel, taking a left here, a right there, until they emerged into a vast cavern, hewn from a vein of sparkling pink quartz. To match the walls, everything in it was pink–the long tables and benches, the sumptuous wall-hangings, the massive carved throne, even the bear-pelts and wolfhides strewn on the polished pink floor. “Nice place you’ve got here,” the little man said.

  “Sit.”

  The little man looked round and noticed a sort of footstool thing at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne. Pink, naturally. He perched on it and waited as the king clambered awkwardly up into the throne, which the little man guessed had originally been built for a human (and then painted pink) “So,” said the little man. “Where were we?”

  “Very rich indeed.”

  “Oh yes, so
we were. Or rather, so you will be. But you know all about that, so I won’t bore you with the details.”

  The king looked at him. “Bore me,” he said. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Delighted,” the little man said.

  “But it won’t do you any good,” the king said, and his tiny eyes flashed with triumph. “Because there’s something wrong with your clever idea, see, and I know what it is.”

  “Goodness,” said the little man. “Tell me, please.”

  “All right.” The king settled himself in the throne. It was far too tall for him and not nearly wide enough. “You figure,” he went on, “that we’ll sell weapons and stuff to the idiot humans and get all their gold, and then we’ll be on top and they’ll be fingernail dirt. Right?”

  “Broadly speaking, yes.”

  “Ah.” The king wagged a carrot-like forefinger. “But you missed something, you prune. Thing is, we don’t do food. We don’t grow stuff or keep animals or any of that crap, we get it all from the idiot humans. So if they got pissed with us, like maybe because we’ve got all their gold, we’ll starve, see? And that’s no bloody good, is it?”

  The little man nodded sagely. “I can see you’re a dwarf of unusual intelligence and perspicacity,” he said. “In a few crisp words, you’ve gone right to the heart of the matter, like a perfectly aimed arrow.”

  The king frowned. “No shit?”

  “No shit. You clearly have an intuitive grasp of supply-side economics. Which means,” he went on, “that you know perfectly well why that isn’t really a problem, and you’re testing me to see if I’m as bright as you. Having a bit of fun with a silly old man. And why not? It’s a poor heart that never rejoices.”