The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  “It’s for keeping the rain off your head.”

  “Oh.” Mordak walked all round it, and prodded the fabric. “Like a very small tent on a stick.”

  “You carry it with you wherever you go. It does work, honestly.”

  Mordak shook his head. “It must be very strange where you come from.”

  “Yes,” the little man said. “It is.”

  “Here, we have hats. They work more or less the same but you don’t need a stick.”

  Where the hell have you been? I’ve been so worried. And I’m wet.”

  Elves and goblins agree on so very little that any confluence of minds between the species is something to be celebrated. “Yes,” Mordak said, “you are. But it’s all right. There’s a big shed over there. Oh, and I found him.”

  “Who?”

  “Come on.”

  Efluviel getting to her feet was a symphony in applied hydraulics. Water cascaded from every niche and hollow of her sodden clothes, a lot of it finding its way down her neck and sleeves and the tops of her boots. “I’ve been here for hours and hours and hours,” she said. “What were you doing all that time?”

  “Sheltering from the rain.”

  He didn’t look round but he could hear her; a three-stage squelch with every step. “Who did you find?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Is there a fire?”

  “No. It’s a straw barn.”

  “Straw burns. It burns really well.”

  “No.” Mordak did a little hop, to avoid a puddle. “Anyway, he’s got something better. It’s called Scotch. Keep up, will you? You’re dawdling again.”

  “I’m sick of all this. I want to go home.”

  “Don’t be so feeble,” Mordak replied cheerfully. “A few raindrops never killed anybody. And Elves have their faults, God knows, but I never heard they were soluble in water.”

  “What’s that stick-with-a-flag thing you’re carrying?”

  “Some sort of hat, apparently. Though where your head’s meant to go—”

  There was a dull thud, and Mordak abruptly fell silent. Efluviel, who’d fallen some way behind on account of her boots being small portable reservoirs, stopped dead and peered into the driving rain. “Mordak?”

  A shape loomed out of the darkness at her. It proved to be a young human, well over six feet tall, with pale blue eyes and long blond hair plastered to his head and shoulders. “It’s all right, miss,” he said breathlessly. “You’re safe now. I’ve got him.”

  Efluviel took a step back. “Who the hell are you?”

  The young man smiled. “Prince Florizel at your service,” he said. “Now, it’s perfectly all right.” He had a substantial chunk of tree-branch in his right hand. “I bashed him real good, he’ll be out of it for hours. There aren’t any more of them, are there?”

  “More of what?”

  The prince frowned. “Well, goblins, of course.”

  It was dark, which probably explained why the prince didn’t seem to have noticed the look on Efluviel’s face. Or it could just be that Florizel was the sort of young man who notices young women’s faces but not the look on them. “Have you just knocked out King Mordak?”

  “Is that who it—? My God.” Florizel grinned hugely. “Now isn’t that the most amazing bit of luck?”

  “Ought I to take that as a yes?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. Yup, I bashed him good and hard. Broke my stick, look.”

  “If you’ve killed him—”

  “Oh, no chance of that,” Florizel said breezily. “Skulls like concrete, Johnny Goblin. You’re right, of course, he’ll be far more use to us alive than dead. You wouldn’t happen to have any rope, would you? There’s probably some in the barn if you ow!” Florizel doubled up, bringing his chin down conveniently to knee height. “For Od’s sake, ot you ooing?”

  Efluviel rubbed her knee and scowled at him. His jaw had proved to be harder than she’d anticipated. “You clown,” she said.

  Florizel scrambled to his feet and backed away, massaging the side of his face. “Have you gone mad? You hit me.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I rescued you, you silly girl. From the goblins.”

  “Goblin, singular. And he happens to be my boss.”

  “But that’s crazy. You’re an—”

  “And,” Efluviel heard herself say, “my friend. And if you’ve hurt him, I’ll pull your head off and make you eat it.”

  “He’s a goblin,” Florizel yelled. “Goblins? You know? Implacably cruel servants of Evil? You can’t be friends with a goblin. It’s—”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, do I? It just is.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not much good with words, more your practical sort. But I read this thing in the paper once, it said, evil must be opposed, if we ever stop opposing it, we risk embracing the darkness, or something like that. Damn good stuff, actually. Wish I could remember—”

  “About five years ago?”

  “About then, yes. Why, did you see it too?”

  Efluviel was suddenly very still. “I wrote it.”

  “What?”

  “I wrote that. For the Face. Five years ago.”

  “Oh my God.” Florizel’s eyes lit up. “You’re Efluviel,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is amazing. I’m your biggest fan. I loved that thing you wrote. And the other stuff. You wrote a lot of stuff, it was dead good. I cut them out and stuck them in a book.”

  “Um.”

  “Really amazing. All about how evil is all-pervasive and insidious, and sometimes it doesn’t even look like evil, but it still is really, and how it’s our duty as free citizens of the Realms not to rest until the last goblin—”

  “You, um, liked my stuff, then?”

  “Loved it. Crazy about it. I only learned to read so I could follow your column in the paper. This is so great, they’re not going to believe it back home when I tell them, I actually met Efluviel. You don’t mind if I call you Efluviel, do you? Or Flu, for short. Listen, Flu, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you. Where do you get your ideas from?”

  “Oh, you know,” Efluviel said helplessly. “Gosh, it’s been ages since anyone said—” She hesitated. “I mean, you write the stuff, you churn it out, but you never really know if anyone actually likes it.”

  “Are you kidding? I used to know whole chunks of it by heart. Like that thing you did, The Goblin Menace. You know, the one where you said that the Realms will never know peace so long as one single goblin—”

  “Um. Look, about that.”

  “Or there was that other one, Goblins: Us or Them. You remember, where you said that we were locked in a desperate tooth-and-nail battle for survival, and only by wiping goblins off the face of the—”

  “I may have overstated things just a tad.”

  “Rubbish, you were bang on, absolutely right, every word of it. Completely opened my eyes, you did. You made it all so clear and simple. And then there was that editorial, No Alternative. About how, unless we get rid of goblins once and for all—”

  “Oh, that. That was when Mordak was about to take over the Face. I may have got a bit carried away.”

  “I built my entire philosophy of life round that article,” Florizel said. “When I’d read it I took this solemn oath, that I’d never rest so long as one single goblin—”

  “Yes. Well.”

  “And when I read it out at the Princes’ Assembly, it was amazing, they stood up and cheered, I thought the roof was going to fall in.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  Florizel stared at her. “You what?”

  “I was pissed off,” Efluviel said. “Because Mordak was about to buy the Face, and I knew, if that happened, I’d never get to be editor. So I was pretty anti-goblin at that time. Except now, he’s promised me he’ll make me the editor, so really—”

  “You didn’t mean it?”

  “Well, no. I mean, I’d hardly ever met a
ny goblins back then. And besides, it was just journalism.”

  “How could you write something like that and not really mean it? I don’t understand.”

  “Like I said, it was journalism.” Efluviel breathed in deeply through her nose, then out again. “It’s not like anybody really believes what they read in the papers.”

  “I did.”

  “Yes, well. Anyway, Mordak’s my boss.”

  “And your friend.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Was that journalism too?”

  “And you’re not to go hitting him any more,” Efluviel said firmly. “Got that?”

  Florizel sighed. “I guess. Yes, you’re right. It’s like you said in that thing you did about ethical treatment of prisoners.”

  “He’s not a prisoner.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “No he isn’t. You leave him alone, all right?”

  Florizel nodded slowly. “Oh I see,” he said. “He’s changed sides, then. Come over to us. Defected.”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s got to be a prisoner, surely. He’s the enemy, for heaven’s sake. He’s evil.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “So he has defected, then. Only you said—”

  “Oh shut up,” Efluviel shouted. “And stop keeping on about stupid good and evil. Like it matters.”

  “What did you just—?”

  “That’s all just journalism too,” Efluviel said. “And if you don’t put that stick down right now, I’m going to take your temperature with it. Now go away, before I lose my temper.”

  Florizel laid the stick carefully down on the ground and backed away from it. “And anyway,” he said, “you shouldn’t be doing all this rough stuff. I rescued you. You’re a girl. You shouldn’t be threatening me, I’m good.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Efluviel said. “Now, I’m going to count up to seven. One.”

  Florizel started to back away. “Are you really going to be editing the Face?”

  “Providing you haven’t killed Mordak, yes. Two.”

  “Can I have your autograph? It’s not for me, it’s—”

  “Three.”

  There was a crackle of crushed brambles, and Efluviel was alone once more. She found Mordak lying at the base of an oak tree, with a beautifully calm expression on his face. She kicked him in the ribs. “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No. Some bloody fool just kicked me.”

  “Get up,” Efluviel said. “I just saved your life.”

  Mordak hauled himself to his feet. “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Mordak shook his head. “You’re sure you’re not exaggerating? Just a bit?”

  “There was a human. He bashed you on the head. He was going to kill you.”

  “I don’t remember any human.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t, would you? He ambushed you. You never saw him coming.”

  Mordak pursed his lips. “Right. So where is he now, then?”

  “He just left.”

  “He just left. I see. Ah well, that’s all right, then.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Mordak shrugged. “Well,” he said, “it’s a bit implausible, don’t you think? A single human, on his own, manages to creep up on the most fearsome goblin warrior of his generation and bash him over the head. Not that I’m saying it didn’t happen, mind you,” he added quickly. “And I wouldn’t know, because I was asleep the whole time. But isn’t it a bit more likely that I tripped over a tree-root or something, hit my head on the tree.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’m just saying. It makes a good story, that’s all. Mordak Saved By Elf In Forest Drama. Nothing wrong with that,” he added kindly. “It’s what I’ll be paying you for, assuming we get out of all this in one piece. It’s just, there’s a time and a place, all right?” He straightened up and looked round. “Oh good,” he said. “It’s stopped raining. Well, don’t just stand there. You’ll catch your death. Besides, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  “There’s nothing for it,” the Curator said sadly. “We’re going to have to kill you.”

  One of the problems with goodness, as any saint will tell you, is that if you’re not careful, you stick like it. “Oh well,” Archie said. “If it’ll help, I suppose that’s all right.”

  They’d hung him by the arms from two hooks in the ceiling. It hurt quite a lot but he didn’t like to complain. After all, they were busy people doing important work, and he respected that. They had enough on their plates, and he didn’t want to bother them.

  A siren wailed and a red light started flashing. “Stop it,” the Curator snapped. “Oh God, he’s doing it again. Make him stop.”

  “Sorry,” Archie mumbled. “I’m being a nuisance, aren’t I?”

  A harassed-looking young man in a white coat handed the Curator a clipboard. He glanced at it and moaned. “Scrub that,” he said, “we can’t kill him. If we do, that’s martyrdom. It’d be off the scale. Probably melt an ice-cap.” He looked hopefully at the young man, who shrugged. “There’s got to be something we can do,” the Curator said. “Ideas, people.”

  Suddenly, all the young men and women in the laboratory were busy with other things. The Curator lolled back in his chair and moaned. “Bloody goblins,” he said. “Why couldn’t we have stuck to trolls? Then we wouldn’t have been in this mess.”

  Archie cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, “there’s a lot of good in trolls. They’re loyal, hard-working and very fond of their families. Quite sensitive and artistic, some of them. The trouble is, they’re misunderstood.”

  Ten yards or so away, a monitor blew out in someone’s face. A medical team took him away on a stretcher. “Make him shut up,” the Curator yelled, “before he gets us all killed. Stick a bit of rag in his face or something.”

  Archie obligingly opened his mouth, but a young woman in glasses and a lab-coat said, “If we do that, he’ll suffer in silence. They’d have to redraw all the maps.”

  The Curator leaned forward and scowled furiously. Archie smiled back. “What I want to know is,” the Curator said, “how the hell did he wake up in the first place? You were supposed to have zonked him right out.”

  “We did,” said a young man with different coloured pens in his top pocket. “And then the cryo effect should’ve kept his brain in neutral indefinitely. And it’s not a goblin thing, because all the other goblins are still bye-byes. It’s him. He’s weird.”

  “We need to make him do something nasty,” the young woman said.

  Another young man, dark-haired, with a turkey neck and razor rash, took over the blast victim’s station. “Shouldn’t be too hard, surely,” he said. “After all, it’s their nature, isn’t it?”

  “For God’s sake.” The Curator spun round and scowled horribly at him. “Keep your voice down, can’t you? If he hears you talking like that he’ll forgive you, and then—” His voice was drowned out by a loud explosion, somewhere directly overhead. Plaster dust drifted down like finely sifted snow and settled on the top of the Curator’s head. “Too late,” he said. “I think that was probably the subsidiary reactor coil.”

  “Confirmed,” someone said. “We’re now running on backups of backups. Just thought you’d like to know that.”

  The young woman was staring fixedly at Archie, who beamed at her. “Know what I think?” she said. “I think he’s perfectly well aware that the nicer and gooder he is, the more damage he’s doing. Therefore, every virtuous deed and meek thought he perpetrates is actually an act of pure sublimated evil. Well? What d’you reckon?”

  The Curator sighed. “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” he said. “Pity the machine doesn’t see it that way. Come on,
children, ideas. Talk to me.”

  Awkward silence. Then the dark-haired man said, “Kidnap another goblin?”

  “Make that two,” the young woman said. “At least.”

  The Curator clicked his tongue. “A temporary fix at best,” he said. “And has it occurred to any of you to consider what might happen if we bring over another one, and it ends up going wrong like this one has? Not pretty, boys and girls, not pretty at all.”

  “All right,” the young woman said. “How’d it be if we just let him go?”

  Dead silence, for about ninety seconds. Then Archie cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.”

  The Curator glowered at him. “Well?”

  “How would it be,” Archie said, “if you took me back to where you got me from? Just a thought,” he added quickly, “and if it’s at all inconvenient, just forget I spoke, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, after you’ve all been so kind and nice.”

  “Ha!” The dark-haired man banged the bench with his fist. “That’s not true. We haven’t been kind and nice, we abducted him against his will and we’ve got him chained to the ceiling. Therefore he’s lying, lying is evil.” He folded his arms and smirked triumphantly.

  The young woman leaned forward to examine her monitor. She shook her head. “No change. The discrepancy readings are still off the chart.”

  “He’s turning the other cheek again,” the Curator groaned. “I hate it when he does that.”

  “Well?” the young woman demanded. “What about it? Why don’t we just send him back?”

  “Um,” Archie said meekly. “So you can do that, then.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” the dark-haired man said. “In the next twenty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds. Otherwise, it’s adios, cosmos.”

  “All right,” the young woman said, “how about this? By continuing to be good, even though he knows perfectly well that only badness can save the world, he’s deliberately trying to bring about universal armageddon, which is so Dark Lord it’s not true. Therefore he’s not just evil, he’s the epitome of evil, and that bloody dial should now be reading 0.76.” She looked down. “Which it isn’t. Damn.”

  The Curator sighed. “You’re not helping,” he said. “Listen, people, I think the most we can hope for at this stage is some limited degree of damage control. I say we shoot the bugger.”