by Tom Holt
The dark-haired man tore out a handful of his own hair. “Are you crazy?” he yelled. “You said it yourself. Kill him, he’s a martyr. That’d be—”
“Offset,” the Curator said firmly, “by the wickedness of gunning down an innocent, unarmed man in cold blood, which has got to count for something. With any luck, we might be able to salvage Tashkent and a fair-sized chunk of New Mexico. It’d be better than nothing.”
Thoughtful silence. The young woman ran a few numbers through the computer. “He’s right,” she said. “Almost certainly Albuquerque and quite possibly downtown Tucumcari. It’d be enough to ensure the survival of the human race. In some form, anyway.”
The dark-haired man opened a drawer and took out a revolver. “Though I’m not sure that just shooting him would be evil enough,” he said. “To be canonically correct, we ought to tie him to the railway tracks, or do something elaborate with a candle, a length of string and some dynamite.”
The Curator shook his head. “We haven’t got time for that.”
“Oh well,” sighed the young woman, “there goes Mescalero. Never mind.”
The dark-haired man passed the revolver to the Curator, who cocked it and pointed it at Archie’s head. “Where’s the evillest place to aim for, do you think? Kneecaps first, then stomach?”
“Excuse me,” Archie said.
“I wouldn’t,” the young woman said. “The more he suffers, the nobler it gets. Just blow his head off and have done with it.”
“I said, excuse me.”
“I don’t want to stress you guys out or anything,” the dark-haired man said, “but we are on the clock here.”
“Only,” Archie said, raising his voice just a little, “you aren’t really going to shoot me, are you?”
The Curator clicked his tongue. “Looks like we’re going to have to,” he said, “if only as a pretty desperate stop-gap measure. And even then, there’s absolutely no guarantees it’ll work.”
“But I thought—”
Suddenly they were all looking at him. “Well?” said the young woman.
“I thought you were just trying to, you know, scare me. Threats and bluster and stuff. I didn’t think you really meant it.”
“Twenty-four minutes and thirty seconds,” the dark-haired man said. “Just so you know.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop being nice,” Archie said quickly. “I’ll be evil. You can even put me back to sleep if you want to.”
“Sorry.” The Curator shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid it’s all gone a bit too far for that. You see, if you renounce good and embrace evil at this late stage in the proceedings, it’d only be in order to avert catastrophe and save the universe. An act,” he added bitterly, “of supreme heroism and self-sacrifice. Although it’s well-nigh impossible to think of anything that could make the mess we’re in even worse, that might just possibly do it.” He scowled and raised the gun. “Let’s not find out.”
“I still want to know,” the young woman said, “why he woke up. I think we’re missing something. He shouldn’t have been able to do that.”
“I know why I woke up.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s playing for time,” the dark-haired man said. “Talking of which, twenty-three minutes exactly.”
“I’m not, I just remembered,” Archie said. “There was a voice in my head, it said, Wake up. So I did.”
“Which means nothing,” the dark-haired man said. “I get voices in my head all the time. I just tell them, please hold, and hum Vivaldi at them till they go away. Meanwhile, we’ve just lost Farmington. Which, I have to say, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t lose sleep over, except—”
But the Curator had lowered the gun. “A voice,” he said, “in your head.”
“That’s right. And it called me by my goblin name. At least, I think it did, because I’m not entirely sure what it was any more. My name, I mean. Look, do you think you could possibly take these chains off? My arms are getting rather sore.”
“This voice. Did it say anything else? Tell you to do something?”
“Drive the English out of Aquitaine, probably,” the dark-haired man said. “That’s what mine tell me. I try to explain, but will they listen?”
“I don’t think so,” Archie said. “But I can’t remember.”
“You can’t?”
“No. The voice said, You will not remember this message.” He frowned. “I think. I can’t really remember.”
The Curator and the young woman looked at each other. “Surely not,” the young woman said.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” the Curator replied.
“But the sheer level of plant and equipment he’d need. Where’d he get that from? In a pre-industrial—”
“A doughnut and a crystal ball,” the Curator said. “Remember, as far as we know, over there magic works.”
“Twenty minutes and forty-five seconds,” the dark-haired man said.
“And anyway,” the young woman protested. “Why? Why would he want to sabotage everything we’re trying to do?”
“Maybe he simply doesn’t realise the harm he’s doing,” the Curator replied. “Probably he just wants to make sure we can’t go over there and grab him and fetch him back. Understandable, in the circumstances.”
“But he must know—”
The Curator shrugged. “Not really. Bear in mind, after everything he’s been through, he probably isn’t thinking straight.” He thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. “All right,” he said, “this is what we do. Get him down.”
“What?”
“Get those chains off our friend there and make him a nice cup of tea.”
“Nineteen minutes and fifty-four seconds.”
“All right, forget about the tea, just give him a cake or something.” He turned to Archie and smiled. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re not going to die after all.”
“Really? That’s nice.”
“No.” The Curator stood aside as the dark-haired young man brought up a stepladder. “Guess what? You’re going home.”
“Am I? Oh good.”
“On condition,” the Curator said, “that you do one simple little job for us when you get there. Right up your alley, very straightforward, and you’ll save not one but two realities from total destruction. Well? Up for it?”
The dark-haired man released the chains. Archie dropped to the floor with a bump. “Yes,” he said.
“Splendid. Now, we haven’t got any time to lose, so Angela here will take you to the interface, just do exactly what she tells you and everything will be fine. Got that?” He turned to the young woman and said, “Plan B.” She went pale, but nodded.
Archie rubbed his shin. “Sure,” he said. “Really and truly back home? Exactly where I was?”
“Exactly the same place,” the Curator said. “It’ll be like you never left.”
Archie grinned. “Cool,” he said. “Oh, just one thing. This little job you want me to do.”
“Well?”
“What is it?”
“Oh, just kill someone. Won’t take you five minutes. Angela will give you the details on your way out.” He frowned. “Oh, don’t stand there pulling faces, it’s not much to ask. We’re sending you home. You should be pleased.”
Archie hesitated. “Yes, but killing someone—”
“Don’t be such a baby.” The Curator straightened his spectacles on his nose and called up a long column of numbers on his computer screen. “It’s all right, I understand, it’s the monkey-suit. Skews your judgement. Well, you’ll be rid of it soon, and you’ll see things more clearly once you’re a goblin again.”
“Will I?”
“Guaranteed,” the Curator said reassuringly. “After all, what’s that old goblin proverb? A goblin who’s tired of killing is tired of life? Angela, get this man his cake.” He smiled. “Better make it a doughnut, don’t you think?”
“Well,” said the little man, tilting the kettle towards t
he teapot. “This is nice, isn’t it?”
Efluviel and Mordak looked at him. “Is it?”
“Yes,” the little man said firmly. “It’s cosy and friendly. Milk and sugar?”
“No milk for me,” Mordak said. “Allergic.”
The little man raised his eyebrows and glanced at Efluviel, who shrugged. “And there’s freshly baked scones, clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. Homemade by people who just happen to live in a factory, but what the hell. Don’t be shy, tuck in.”
Efluviel picked up a scone, nibbled warily at the top edge and put it back on her plate. “The wise hermit said you could tell us the answer,” she said.
“Quite likely,” the little man said. “What to?”
“Where have the humans got all this money from all of a sudden?” Mordak said.
“Oh, that’s easy.” The little man sipped his tea. “From me.”
Behind them, something small and vigorous scuttled in the straw. Efluviel shivered. “You,” Mordak said.
“Me.” The little man spread jam on a scone with a small blunt knife. “It’s what I do.”
“Give people money?”
The little man smiled. “In effect, yes,” he said. “I make a wager with them. I tell them, bring me straw and I’ll spin it into the purest gold, which you can keep. In return, however, you must give me your first-born child.” He grinned. “Unless, of course, you can somehow guess my name. But it’s a very unusual name, so that’s not very likely.” He turned and waved his arm at the mountains of straw that filled the barn. “Since I got here, the humans have been keeping me busy.”
Efluviel frowned, as though trying to remember something. “Straw into gold,” Mordak said. “That’s ridiculous.”
The little man smiled. “Yes.”
“I mean,” Mordak went on, “you can’t just make up money out of thin air. It doesn’t work like that. Money’s got to stand for something or it’s worthless.”
That made the little man laugh. “You think so.”
“It stands to reason. Doesn’t it?”
The little man leaned back and put his hands behind his head. He gave Efluviel a bright smile. “You’re looking very thoughtful,” he said.
“I think I’ve heard of you,” she replied. “Only I thought it was just a fairy story.”
“It is.” The little man masked a yawn with the back of his hand. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. Twenty-hour shift at the spinning-wheel, and still I’m way behind schedule. You’re quite right, a fairy story. Would you care to hazard a guess at my name?”
Efluviel looked at him, and for some reason felt strangely apprehensive. “Rumpelstiltskin,” she said. “Rumpelstiltskin is your name.”
The little man laughed. “No,” he said.
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel, and the Dark Lord, gazing from the topmost window of his tower, could plainly see a stooped figure shuffling painfully through the snow. It was an elderly goblin, dressed in rags and bent double with rheumatism, gathering a few sticks and chunks of smashed packing-case from the dump outside the gates to build a meagre fire.
The Dark Lord frowned. Then he yelled, “Guards!”
The Captain came thundering up the stairs. “Boss?”
“Look.”
The Captain stuck his head out of the window. “Right you are, Boss,” he said, uncasing his bow and selecting an arrow from his quiver. “It’s only about seventy yards, should be able to get him easy from here.”
The Dark Lord took the arrow away from him and laid it on the floor. “We’ll need some wine,” he said, “and about a dozen pine logs. Oh, and some flesh.”
The Captain nodded towards the distant goblin. “Will he do?”
The Dark Lord sighed. “No,” he said. “Sausages.”
“Sausages?”
“And veal and ham pie. Quickly.”
“Sure thing, Boss.” The Captain hesitated. “What about him? Shall I send a patrol to string him up?”
“Just get the stuff. And meet me at the guardhouse.”
Shortly afterwards, a platoon of the Black Guard fell in for inspection in front of the guardhouse porch. As well as their armour and weapons they carried heavy packs, and six of them had massive sections of tree-trunk tied precariously on their shoulders with rope. “All present and correct, sir,” the Captain said smartly. The Dark Lord nodded and pulled the collar of his coat tighter around his ears. “Right,” he said. “Off we go.”
“Permission to speak, sir.”
“What?”
“Well, sir,” the Captain said. “Just wanted to ask, sir, what the mission is. We got supplies for three days like you said, sir, sausages and pie and all, and presumably the wine’s for celebrating once we’ve slaughtered whoever it is like sheep, and presumably we’re attacking a town or something, which is why we need the collapsible battering-ram—”
“Oh shut up,” the Dark Lord said. “Right, open the gate and follow me.”
The Dark Lord strode ahead into the snow, and the Guard followed as best they could, though they had to struggle to keep up. The elderly goblin had made himself scarce as soon as the gates opened, but the Dark Lord tracked him easily by his footprints in the snow, which led to a ramshackle little shed, mostly composed of discarded catapult bolt boxes. At first it looked like there was no one at home, until the Captain pointed out the toe of a boot sticking out from under a pile of rags on the floor. “Get him,” he ordered, and his men sprang forward. The goblin shot out from under the rags and nearly made it to the door.
“Get off me,” he wailed, as the guards retrieved him. “It wasn’t me, I was nowhere near the stores, I don’t know how the stuff got there, it’s all a plant. I done nothing.”
The Dark Lord beamed at him. “Sit,” he commanded. The goblin hesitated, so the guards helped him. “Sausages,” the Dark Lord said. “Veal and ham pie.”
“Never seen them before in my life. Must be some mistake. I found ’em, just lying there beside the road, must’ve fell off a cart or something.”
“No,” the Dark Lord said patiently. “These are for you. Because you’re hungry and cold and utterly pathetic. It’s called charity.”
The goblin narrowed his eyes. “You what?”
“Captain, pour the wine. You two, get those logs split up and get a fire going.” He went to sit down, hesitated and stood up again. “And get this place straightened up a bit, can’t you? It’s like a pigsty in here.”
The soldiers looked at each other and then at the Captain, who nodded, though with a certain degree of reluctance. “Sir,” he said. “Permission to speak.”
“Well?”
“No disrespect, sir, but do you think you should be doing this? I mean,” he added desperately, “charity. That’s—”
“What?”
The Captain swallowed hard. “Nothing, sir. Ignore me, sir. Just pretend you didn’t hear me.”
Two of the men made a start on shifting the heap of smelly rags. Under it were a couple of packing-cases, with their official lead seals still intact. One was marked Boots, the other Spoons, wooden, serving. Both were stencilled with lot numbers, and the new concentric-rings logo of the Dark Service. The Captain leaned forward, examined them and grinned. “Oh dear,” he said. “Look what we’ve found.”
The old goblin had suddenly gone still and quiet. “Well?” the Captain said.
“What?”
“Let me guess,” the Captain said. “Late one night, a crack team of Special Services Elves broke in, tied you up, hid these crates under your mattress, threatened you with agonising torments if you told anyone and then left the way they came, leaving not a trace behind.”
“Here,” the old goblin said. “Who told you?”
“Book him,” the Captain snapped, but the Dark Lord held up his hand and shook his head. “I believe him,” he said.
The Captain stared. “Boss?”
“I believe him. Clearly, some passing Elves took pity on h
im and left him these valuable stores. Being an honest fellow and suspecting they might be stolen, he couldn’t bring himself to sell them, because that would be wrong. They’re far too heavy for him to lift, with his back. So he had no choice but to leave them there. I imagine he was planning to inform the proper authorities, once the weather improves.” He turned to the goblin and smiled reassuringly. “Isn’t that right?”
“Bang on,” the goblin said quickly. “That’s exactly what happened. Uncanny, the way you read my mind.”
The soldiers were staring, their eyes practically popping out of their heads. “Boss,” the Captain said. “You don’t actually—”
“What?”
With a tremendous effort, the Captain straightened his back and removed all trace of expression from his face. “Very good, sir. Wine poured and logs split as per your orders, sir, Number Seven platoon standing by.”
“Splendid,” the Dark Lord said. “Well, I think that’s everything, so let’s clear off and leave this dear old chap to his dinner. You can send a cart to pick up those crates in the morning.”
“Sir.”
The Dark Lord stood up, and the Captain noticed that the box he’d been sitting on was marked Socks, woollen, medium. “And I think there should be some sort of finder’s fee, don’t you, as a reward for honesty?” The Dark Lord put his hand in his pocket, then frowned. “I seem to have come out without any money. Captain?”
Without a word, the Captain handed over seven iron coins, his last month’s pay. They clinked in the Dark Lord’s hand like chains as he placed them on the sock box. “There now,” the Dark Lord said. “I expect we all feel a bit better now, don’t we? It’s so nice to be able to do something for those less fortunate than ourselves. Come on, men. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a nice hot cup of tea.”
As they filed out of the shed, the platoon sergeant nudged the Captain gently in the ribs. “Skip?”
“Yes.” The Captain nodded. “I know.”
“But what are we going to do, Skip? I mean…” He tailed off. His eyes were wide with bewilderment and terror. “He’s lost it, hasn’t he? The boss has gone barmy, and—”