The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  Very tentatively he reached out, and his fingertip encountered something sharp, facing downwards. “Is that your ear?”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  “What’s it doing—? Yes, all right, hang on.” The hell with it, he thought, we’ve made enough noise to tell anyone who’s interested exactly where we are, so why not? From his pocket he took a tinderbox and a stub of troll-tallow candle. “Won’t be a jiffy. Oh.”

  Oh indeed. Efluviel was hanging by her ankle from the cavern roof. The mumbled responses were accounted for by the fact that her sensible woolly scarf had got tangled round her face, and she couldn’t do anything about it because she was neatly contained in a stoutly woven net.

  Mordak kept his face straight for as long as he could. It was a titanic effort, but he managed it. Worth it, he told himself; worth all the pain and exhaustion and privation, the cold and the fear. It was, he realised, the moment he’d been born for.

  “Told you so,” he said.

  “Mmm.”

  “Apology accepted,” Mordak said happily. “Right, hold still, we’ll have you out of that in a couple of—Oh,” he added, as he cut through the rope and she landed on her head. “Sorry,” he said, and almost made it sound like he meant it.

  Efluviel groaned, then started clawing savagely at the net. “Keep still,” Mordak said, “you’re only tangling it more. “There,” he said, as she finally emerged. “There you are, and no harm done.”

  She glared balefully at him. “You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?”

  He shook his head. “I promise you,” he said. “I’ll never mention it ever again.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. I’ll remember it with sublime pleasure several times a day, every day until I die, but I’ll never ever mention it.”

  She dragged the scarf off and threw it into the darkness. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded at the remains of the net. “Trap,” he said.

  “I’d sort of gathered that.”

  “Been in it long?”

  “Most of my life, I’d say.”

  “But nobody’s come along to collect you.” Mordak nodded. “That’s good.”

  “Is it?”

  “I’d say so. It suggests the trap is a line of defence rather than a means of obtaining food. Or,” he added, “they’re not particularly hungry. You’re sure we’ve come to the right place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mphm. All right, then. On we go.”

  She stared at him. “Are you mad?”

  It just got better and better. “Not mad,” he said, “just brave. You coming or what?”

  Efluviel got up slowly and brushed dust off her knees. “Brave as two short planks. All right. You can go first this time.”

  There didn’t seem to be much point in going quietly. The stop, and various other things, seemed to have lifted Mordak’s spirits and put a spring in his step. It was pleasantly warm, and great to be back in a tunnel again. All in all, it was turning out to be rather a good day.

  And then the ground wasn’t there any more, and he was falling. And then the ground came back.

  “Mordak.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up. About a hundred feet above him, he could see the faint glow of the candle-stub. “Ouch,” he said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. “

  “You fell down a hole.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Another trap.”

  “Ah,” Mordak said. “That explains that, then.”

  Silence. Then she said, “I haven’t got any rope.”

  “I have,” Mordak said. “Loads of it, about a hundred and fifty feet’s worth. Of course, it’s down here with me, instead of up there with you. Pity.”

  “You could try throwing it up to me.”

  “Now there’s an idea. Ow,” he added, as the coil of rope fell back down again and hit him on the head. “All right, tried that.”

  “Try again.”

  “No thanks. Look,” he added. “About earlier.”

  “What about it?”

  Mordak took a deep breath. “When you got caught in the other trap and I was a bit, well, smug about it.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was fun,” Mordak said. “Now will you please stop fartarsing about and get me out of here?”

  Pause. “I don’t think I can.”

  Mordak thought for a moment. “I don’t think you can either,” he said.

  “The way I see it,” Efluviel continued, “we have three options.”

  “That many? Goodness.”

  “I think so, yes,” Efluviel said. “I can turn back, and freeze or starve to death on the mountainside. Or I can keep going, and get killed by the next trap or whoever’s setting them. Or I can stay here till I starve to death. Which one would you advise?”

  Mordak considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “Which one would you go for?”

  “It’s hard to say. There’s not all that much to choose between them, really. It’s a nuisance you’ve got all the food.”

  “And the rope, yes.”

  “Maybe if I’d agreed to carry more of the stuff—”

  “Ah well,” Mordak said generously. “You’ve got your own things to carry, all those books, and your extra blankets, and your special pillow. It’s all right,” he added. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “You mean you’ll think of something. My mind’s a total blank.”

  There was a long silence after that, during which Mordak ate some biscuits. Then: “Mordak.”

  “Yes?”

  Pause. “Look, I know this may sound heartless, but would you do something for me?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  Longer pause. “Would you make me the editor of the Face? Only, you did say you would, if I did this job for you, and obviously that’s not going to happen now, but that’s hardly my fault. And I did try.”

  “You did. You tried a lot, including my patience.”

  “Please? Then when I get back I can tell them that you said, with your dying breath.”

  “Steady on.”

  “One of your dying breaths. Please?”

  “Fine,” Mordak said. “But somehow I don’t think that’s going to cut much ice with anybody. I mean, they won’t believe you and you won’t be able to prove it, because even if I put it in writing, you can’t reach me, so that’s no good. Also bear in mind that there’s a deadly enemy out there who seems to want to kill us both and I’ve got all the food down here. I don’t think you’re going home, Efluviel. Sorry.”

  He waited. It was a while before she replied. “I know,” she said. “But that’s not the point. All my life I wanted that job, it’s all I ever dreamed of. And if I’ve got to die, I want to die an editor. Please? And you’re not fat. You’ve just got big bones.”

  Mordak thought for a moment. Then he said, “Efluviel, I hereby appoint you editor-in-chief of the Horrible Yellow Face.”

  “Beautiful Golden Face.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Thank you. Do you really mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really and truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not just saying it? You really, really do mean it?”

  “Oh for crying out loud. I really, really, really mean it, all right?” He sighed. “If there’s one thing I can’t be doing with, it’s people who won’t take yes for an answer.”

  “Right,” Efluviel said. “In that case, there’s someone coming. And he’s got a ladder and a coil of rope.”

  “What’s so good about it?” Archie asked.

  “Ah.” The bald man smiled. Actually, he wasn’t entirely bald. He had a tuft of springy white hair dead centre of the top of his head, like the grass that grows up in the middle of a country road. His cheeks were broad, flat and pink, like newly opened tins of Spam, and his eyes were small, blue and very bright. “Another good question. Tel
l you what. Promise me you won’t do anything silly or violent, and I’ll let these boys and girls get back to work and we can have a private chat and I’ll tell you. How about it?”

  The boys and girls, especially the boys with the Kalashnikovs, didn’t look too happy about that, but the bald man didn’t seem interested in what they thought. “All right,” Archie said.

  “Promise?”

  “Word of honour.”

  “Thank you.” The bald man turned his head slightly.

  “Right then, children, thank you very much. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  A moment or so later, they were alone. The bald man leaned forward in his chair and said, “That’s better. Now, then—”

  He got no further because Archie sprang off the bed, grabbed his throat and started to squeeze. It was a long time since he’d throttled anything, and all his bottled-up goblin instincts were just starting to express themselves in good, healthy violence when he found himself flying through the air. Not for terribly long, because there was a wall in the way. He slid down it like a raindrop on a windowpane and ended up slumped on the floor in a small, untidy heap.

  “Now then.” The bald man ran a finger round the inside of his collar. “Where were we?”

  Archie opened his eyes. The room was going round and round. “You said,” he mumbled, “it was a good question.”

  “And so it was,” the bald man said. “An excellent question, very perceptive and going straight to the heart of the matter. How’s your head, by the way?”

  “Not wonderful.”

  The bald man nodded sympathetically. “Human skulls,” he said. “Much thinner than the goblin sort, though they hold half a pint more beer. If you’re going to do much more fighting during your stay here, you’d do well to acquaint yourself with the shortcomings of the hardware.”

  During your stay here. It was a pity his head was spinning, because it made it hard to think. With regret, Archie decided to postpone detailed analysis of that one until the world stopped thinking it was a centrifuge. “Sorry,” he said.

  The bald man shrugged. “Perfectly natural behaviour for a goblin, and you can’t blame a fellow for trying. I could have warned you, I suppose, but you wouldn’t have believed me. But now you know, and we don’t have to go through all that again. Can you get up?”

  “I think so,” Archie said. “No,” he amended. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Give it five minutes and try again,” the bald man said, “I don’t think anything’s broken. Relax, take deep breaths, you’ll be fine.”

  Archie took his advice. It didn’t help much. “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “Throw you across the room? Oh, that was quite easy.” The bald man smiled. “Just a gadget, that’s all. To be precise, it’s a miniaturised solid-state personal electromagnetic force-field projector; quite advanced stuff, though I do say so myself. Here.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a little grey box. There were winking red and green lights. He pressed a button and the lights went out. “Might as well save the batteries,” he said, putting the box on the floor at his feet. “They cost five million dollars each and they only run for twenty minutes.”

  “Is it turned off?”

  “Yes. Why do you—?”

  Archie hurled himself across the room, arms outstretched, fingers clawed ready to grip. He almost made it. Then he was still airborne but going the other way. He hit a different bit of wall this time, but the effect was much the same.

  “It doesn’t work, of course,” the bald man said.

  Archie spat out a tooth. “Hmm?”

  “The box,” the bald man said. “The solid-state personal electromagnetic force-field projector. It’s really just a plastic box with some bits of wire in it, for show. I seem to remember it’s a bit off an old broken washing machine.”

  Archie looked at him through his one remaining good eye. “You can do magic.”

  The bald man frowned. “Don’t be silly, of course I can’t. Magic doesn’t work here, everybody knows that.” Then his frown slipped a bit sideways, and he grinned. “Mind you,” he said, “anybody who knows the first thing about science could tell you that a force-field projector small enough to fit in Asia, let alone a little grey box, is every bit as impossible as magic, and probably more so. But that’s the locals for you. They’re perfectly all right believing one set of impossible things, but not another. Oh, and by the way.”

  “Mmm?”

  In the course of eavesdropping on the film crew, Archie had been introduced to the concept of frequent flyer benefits. He’d liked the sound of that, but it was proving to be illusory, like so many other things in life. All he got out of his third flight in so many minutes was another nasty bump on the head and a painfully jarred elbow.

  “Hey,” he groaned, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “No.” The bald man smiled. “That was by way of answering your excellent question. Who am I?” The smile broadened. “I’m the bad guy.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting lunch,” said the hermit.

  Efluviel stared at him. From far below in the pit came the echo of a voice saying, “Yes, please.”

  “Fine,” the hermit said sadly. “Here.” He uncoiled the rope from his shoulder and dropped it on the ground. “You do it. Don’t see why I should have to.”

  There were several things Efluviel wanted to say at that moment, but instead she went with, “All right, yes, thank you.” Then she looked round for something to tie the rope to. By the time she’d done that, and Mordak had hauled himself up it out of the pit, the hermit wasn’t there any more.

  “You’re fired,” Mordak said.

  “You what?”

  “You’re fired,” Mordak repeated, carefully winding up the rope around his forearm. “Come on, we don’t want to lose him. You didn’t happen to notice which way he went, did you?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes I can.”

  “But why?” Efluviel wailed. “What did I do? I rescued you.”

  “No,” Mordak said gently, “he did. You tied a bit of rope to a rock. For which,” he added, “I’m very grateful. Thank you.”

  “You bastard!”

  “This way, I think,” Mordak said, sniffing the air. “On account of, it’s the only one. Come on.”

  For a moment Efluviel was too shocked to move. Then she scampered after him. “Why? Why are you firing me?”

  “Simple.” Mordak stopped for another sniff. “Baked beans,” he said. “I quite like baked beans.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” Mordak said. “I’m firing you because all you’ve ever wanted your entire life is to be the editor of the Face, right? And so, until you achieve that ambition, you’ll probably keep on helping me. So, you’re fired. Soon as the mission’s successfully accomplished, I’ll reinstate you. All right?”

  “That’s so mean,” Efluviel said. “That’s just plain nasty. That’s—”

  “Personnel management,” Mordak said. “Oops, tautology. Hurry up or he’ll get away. And don’t pull faces, you’ll stick like it.”

  The scent of baked beans was getting stronger; Efluviel could smell it now, and it shows how hungry she was that she quickened her pace until she was practically treading on Mordak’s heels. “That must be him,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You know, him. The hermit.”

  Mordak held back and fell in step. “You know,” he said, “just then you sounded almost like–no, it’s not possible.”

  “Huh?”

  “Respectful,” he said. “Which is so not you.”

  “Of course I respect the hermit,” Efluviel said. “He’s the wisest man in the world. Why else do you think we’ve come here? To the Elves, he’s practically a god.”

  “Right. A god who sets traps for visitors.”

  “So?”

  “And who really likes baked beans. Ah, this looks promising.”

  In front of the
m they saw a rusty steel door, half ajar; by the state of the hinges, Mordak noted as they passed through, it hadn’t been capable of opening and closing for many years. Beyond the door, the corridor was dimly lit with tallow candles bearded with drips, whose light revealed a large number of empty brown earthenware jars lying on the ground, their labels peeling in the damp.

  “Baked beans,” Efluviel said.

  “So? He likes baked beans. Shows what a wise man he is.”

  They turned a corner and found themselves in a high-roofed vaulted cavern. A hole in the roof let in daylight, revealing small hills of empty bean jars piled against the walls. A clothes-line spanned the cavern from torch-sconce to torch-sconce; from it dangled three pairs of frayed socks. In the far corner was a pile of cushions facing a small three-legged table, on which rested a perfect sphere of milk-white crystal, about the size of a man’s head. On the cushions lay the hermit, a thin man with straggly grey hair in a ponytail, wearing a brown robe. He had a bean jar in one hand and a fork in the other. He was staring at the crystal, and didn’t look round as they approached.

  “There’s beans,” he said. “In the corner, by the stove. I suppose you’d better help yourselves.”

  The stove was a small, spindly-legged charcoal brazier; on it was a battered copper pan, and next to it a pyramid of unopened bean jars. “Thank you,” Efluviel said. She lifted the pan and peered into it. “Maybe later,” she said. “But first, we have travelled far to ask you—”

  “Quiet,” said the hermit.

  Efluviel led Mordak off to one side. “That ball thing,” she said, in an awed voice, “I know what that is, they’re famous, everybody knows about them back home. It’s a Stone of Seeing. They’re magic, and there’s only six of them in the whole world. If you look into them, you can see what’s going on in distant places and—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Talk to the owners of the other five Stones without–what did you say?”

  “I know. The Fathers of the Wise brought them from Omeranilenarion when they came over the Sundering Seas in the Pink Ships.”

  “You know? That’s impossible. They’re a secret.”

  Mordak smiled. “That’s what I like about you,” he said. “Every so often you can be quite disarmingly naïve. Of course we know about them. We’ve got one.”