The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  “Ah well. Besides, it won’t be up to you. After all, you answer to the Dark Lord, don’t you? When he appoints me his new finance minister, you’ll have to be polite to me then. You know what?” He beamed at Mordak, possibly the widest smile he’d ever seen. “I think I could get to like evil. This New Evil of yours, anyway. It can be whatever you want it to be. I like that.”

  “New Evil isn’t like that,” Mordak said angrily. “It’s real evil, with values and stuff, but with a caring and compassionate face. It’s not an excuse for not giving a damn, or covering up your mistakes by blowing up universes. That’s not evil, that’s—”

  “Bad?” Mr Winckler sighed. “Not very nice? This is no use, we’re just going round in circles. The time eventually comes when you’ve got to make a deal. Ask the Elf. She knows all about that.”

  Efluviel went bright red. “That’s just so—” She hesitated. “I did not make a deal,” she said firmly. “I agreed to do something I didn’t want to do in order to get something I really wanted. There’s a difference, you know.” She paused and frowned. “And ever since, I’ve been cold-bloodedly manipulating him into doing exactly what I want. That’s not a deal, that’s exploitation.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Mordak said.

  “Yes I have,” Efluviel snapped. “I wheedled and tricked you into making me the editor of the Face. Using you. Not,” she added emphatically, “a deal.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Mordak repeated patiently. “You’ve worked really hard and had some bloody good ideas and we wouldn’t have got here without you. And I’d have made you the editor anyway. You’re a really good journalist.”

  “You—” Efluviel turned on him like a cobra, then stopped dead. “You think so?”

  “Yes. Outstanding. You even check your facts and spell some of the names right. And yes, you’re consistently snarky and point-scoring, but that’s just being an Elf, you do it to each other all the time, it’s really just a sign of acceptance, like dogs weeing down your leg. And no one could say you haven’t stuck to your side of the bargain.”

  Efluviel turned to Mr Winckler. “Ignore him, he’s delusional. It’s the altitude. Goblins can’t cope with more than ten feet above sea level. Elves don’t do deals with goblins. Just, sometimes we deceive and betray them in a mutually beneficial way.”

  Mr Winckler smiled. “Bullshit,” he said kindly. “There, now. See what I’ve achieved? The king of the goblins, and you, soon to be the most influential Elf in the Realms, best friends. I really have done an outstanding job, though I do say so myself. Now, isn’t that worth a single, solitary, non-existent reality going pop, to achieve all that? Come on. It’s not like there aren’t an infinite number of others out there. One more or less really doesn’t matter.”

  Mordak frowned. “You’re sure killing you wouldn’t put things right?”

  “You haven’t been listening, have you?” Mr Winckler said. “Everything would be so much easier for everyone if they just listened to what I tell them.”

  “How about sending you back?”

  For a split second, Mr Winckler’s face froze. Then he laughed. “Sure,” he said. “You and whose army?”

  “Well, mine, actually. A quarter of a million goblins, last time anyone counted.”

  “Forget it,” Mr Winckler said. “Magic works here, remember? You’d only embarrass yourself. Besides, I have superior firepower.” Without turning his head, he called out, “Boys.”

  From the shadows at the back of the barn, two figures stepped forward. One was a very old man, in a cloth cap and a battered-looking raincoat, but with very shiny shoes. The other was a tall, skinny young man, eating a muffin. “Believe me,” Mr Winckler said, “you don’t want to mess with them. Oh, I forgot. You met them before. As I recall, you were terrified of them.”

  “I wasn’t,” Efluviel said.

  “Yes, well, you’re a girl, you don’t count. He’s the battle-scarred veteran of a hundred bloody wars, and he nearly wet himself.”

  “That’s a slight exaggeration,” Mordak said. But he stayed exactly where he was. The young man finished his muffin, gave him a long, cold stare and started on a cherry Bakewell. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Mordak said.

  Mr Winckler was buttering a scone. “Oh good,” he said. “It’s nice when people say thank you. Well, I think that’s about it for now. I’ve explained, so you’re fully in the picture, and we’ve agreed that there’s nothing you can do about anything, so that’s fine, and we’ve done the exchange of veiled threats and you’ve admitted defeat, so I guess that just about wraps things up. You can get a lot done when you set your mind to it. Goodbye.”

  Mordak made a low growling noise that no human throat could ever manage. The old man shook his head sadly. Mr Winckler didn’t seem to have heard. “Don’t,” Efluviel said softly.

  Mordak turned on her. “I thought you said you weren’t scared of those two.”

  “I’m not. But you are, and you know lots more about what’s dangerous or not than I do. Let’s just go.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  “Efluviel—”

  “Outside.” She turned her head and smiled at Mr Winckler. “Thank you so much for explaining everything so clearly,” she said, “it was very good of you to make time for us, specially when you’re so busy. We’ll be going now.”

  Mr Winckler raised one hand in silent dismissal. The young man took a step forward, reached inside his coat and pulled out a baguette. He held it in a faintly menacing way for about a second and a half, then bit the top off it. Mordak swallowed hard (so did the young man) and began to back slowly towards the door without breaking eye contact, until Efluviel grabbed him by the collar, said, “Come on!” loudly in his ear and dragged him out of the barn.

  Mr Winckler looked up from spreading jam on a scone. Outside he could hear raised voices, but what they said seemed not to bother him particularly. He smiled, then handed the scone to the young man. “Dismissed,” he said.

  The old man saluted smartly but didn’t withdraw. “Was there something?” Mr Winckler said.

  “Well, sir.” The old man was still at attention; an alarming sight, like a bow held at full draw, or a tree bent sideways by the wind. “Not meaning to teach you your own business or anything, perish the thought, sir, but don’t you think that Mordak might be thinking of trying something?”

  Mr Winckler shrugged. “So what? He’s a goblin.”

  “Very cunning, sir, goblins. Cunning and devious. Young Art, sir, he always reckons a goblin’s never more dangerous than when he appears to be retreating. Isn’t that right, Art?”

  “He’s a goblin,” Mr Winckler repeated. “He does what he’s told.”

  “Very true, sir, very true indeed. But suppose the Dark Lord—”

  “I wasn’t thinking of him.”

  “Ah.” The old man thought for a moment, then nodded. “In that case, sir, if you don’t need us any more, we’ll be getting along. Doesn’t do for Art to miss mealtimes. He gets all faint.”

  “Yes, that’s fine.” Mr Winckler looked away; then, just as the old man was about to disappear, he called out, “Hang on a second.”

  The old man stopped. “Sir?”

  “You do think I’m right, don’t you? About those two.”

  “Oh, I expect so, sir. You’re very confident, anyway. Essential part of leadership, sir, confidence.”

  Mr Winckler frowned. “She’s got him on a piece of string,” he said, “I’m pretty sure about that, so we don’t need to worry about him. And she’ll be all right. I mean, she’s got what she wants, and that’s all that matters. I never yet met an Elf that wasn’t as self-centred as a drill-bit.”

  “Quite true, sir, me neither. Mind you, I only ever met three.” The old man smiled. “Goodnight, sir. Mind you look after yourself. You work too hard, is your trouble.”

  “True.” Mr Winckler hesitated, then turned his head to look at the old man. “You’ve been there, hav
en’t you? Where I come from.”

  “Many times, sir, many times. I shall miss it.”

  “But you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “I don’t think anything, sir, it’s not my place.”

  Mr Winckler grinned. “Quite right, it isn’t. Very well, you can go.”

  “Our Art, now, he thinks it’s not very nice to blow up one world to help another, just so someone can kid himself he’s a philanthropist. But he’s young, sir, he’ll learn.”

  “Quite,” Mr Winckler said. “A sense of proportion’s something that only comes with experience.”

  “I didn’t mean that, sir. I meant, he’ll learn to keep his thoughts to himself. Like me, sir. Goodnight.”

  “… Prefer a jaffa cake, if it’s all the same to—”

  Archie broke off. He was standing on a rocky hillside. Above him towered mist-shrouded peaks. Far below, a mighty river thundered in foaming white fury along a narrow crack in the rock. He looked down. Where his feet had been he saw claws.

  Oh hell, he thought. I’m home.

  Which was so weird. Just a split second ago, the young woman called Angela had been offering him a doughnut, back in the Curator’s lab. He remembered seeing her face through the hole in the middle. Then he’d felt a curious sensation, like being a very small sock in a very large spin-drier. And now—

  Now, he wasn’t Archie any more. He looked at his arms–long, hairy–and his hands, bunched up, eight-fingered, ending in the most magnificent shiny brown hooked talons. Carefully, he lifted his right hand to his face and let the pads of his fingertips trace the contours. Oh hell, he thought, oh joy. I’m back again. I’m me.

  Then he remembered. One little thing we want you to do for us. He grinned; and, because he’d been human for so long, in doing so cut his top lip quite badly. Not that he cared. The taste of blood was like iced lemonade on a hot day. One little thing, huh? With the greatest of pleasure, he thought. Yes, no problem, no problem at all.

  I’m hungry, he thought. Damn right; haven’t had anything to eat except bread, vegetables and the flesh of non-sentients for ages and ages. Bloody human food; fills you up all right, but twenty minutes later you’re hungry again. No wonder they’re all so fat. Fat and juicy. He licked his lips. This is so great, he thought.

  Behind him was the enormous golden brown circle; he vaguely remembered it, from last time. To think, once upon a time he’d been stupid and gullible enough to go through it, of his own accord. Never again. He shuffled nervously away from it, until he felt the sharp edge of the ledge under his foot. Steady on, he told himself. Probably the sensible thing to do would be to get down off the mountainside and away from the hateful glare of the Horrible Yellow Face, before it made him dizzy and sent him bumping down the rocky slope into the river. Probably not the smartest place in the world to put a magic cave, he reckoned. Or, bearing in mind the sort of thing that happened to you there, a very sensible place indeed.

  It took him a long time to pick his way down through the crags and boulders; the bright light was making his head spin and he wasn’t fully acclimatised to the goblin body yet, even though it was his own. But he took it slowly and steadily, one step at a time, and just as night was falling he found himself beside the banks of the river, where a well-beaten path led directly to the eastern gate of Eighty-six Mineshaft. An unbearable pang of longing and nostalgia tore at his heart. Round about now, the lads would be knocking off from the day shift, trooping back up the winding spiral stair from the ore-face towards the great hall for dinner and communal fighting, then off to the dormitories to sleep. If he ran really, really fast, he might just be in time for the main course. What would it be tonight, he wondered, and realised he didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Wednesday was Giblet Stew, Thursday was Offal Club, Friday was Generic Pie; best of all was Sunday, his favourite, Leftovers. He realised he was drooling, because his chin was all wet. But not yet. Not until he’d done the one little thing. Until he’d got that out of the way and paid off his obligations, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax and settle back into real life. And in order to do the one little thing, he’d need to look at a map, which meant trudging all the way round the bottom of the mountain to the records office, which would be shut now until daybreak. Be sensible, he told himself. It’s been a long day, you’re tired, get some sleep and wake up refreshed and ready, and then you can do the one little thing and get your life back again. He yawned and stretched his wonderful arms, then looked at them again just to make sure they were really real. They were. Bliss.

  One little thing. Find a little man with a funny name, kill him, please dispose of body tidily. One small problem, though. He hadn’t got the faintest idea where to find him.

  He closed his eyes, just to rest them for a minute.

  A voice spoke in his head. Listen carefully, it said.

  Dead silence.

  “Well?” the Dark Lord said. “Oh come on. Surely one of you’s got something to say.”

  The Dark Council didn’t move. They’d stopped breathing some time ago. It was one of those moments when you just know that the slightest sound, the very faintest movement, will have the same effect as sticking both hands up in the air and yelling, “Me! Me!”

  “Nobody?” The Dark Lord sighed. “Well, a fine lot of advisers you are, I must say.” His lidless red eyes swept around the table and lit on a certain Margrave of the Winged Death, who went very pale and tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t there. “Groth,” the Dark Lord said. “What do you think?”

  Strictly speaking, of course, the Margrave wasn’t there at all. He’d been a wraith for nine hundred years, and only the black cowl of his robe and the shiny new badge saying Team Leader pinned to his lapel defined his presence. That was what made it so bitterly unfair.

  “I like it,” he said.

  His voice was faint, the hissing of a soft breeze in dead grass or the last escape of breath from a dying man. It was his sort of signature thing, and he was proud of it.

  “Say what? Speak up.”

  “I like it,” the Margrave croaked, as loud as he could manage. “It’s got—”

  “Mm?”

  At which point the Margrave’s brain froze. He knew perfectly well what the Dark Lord’s new idea had, and so did everybody else. But—

  “It’s original,” he said.

  A frown creased the thin, papery skin of the Dark Lord’s forehead. “You don’t like it.”

  “I do,” the Margrave said desperately. “I like it a lot. I think it’s—”

  “You’re just saying that,” the Dark Lord said. “So as not to hurt my feelings.”

  “No!” You can’t sweat if you aren’t actually there, but a drop of condensation plopped on the table out of nowhere and began to burn into the dark wood. “I wouldn’t do that. Well, I would. But not this time. Unnecessary. Because I love it.”

  The Dark Lord pursed his thin lips. “Really?”

  “Really and truly. Cross my heart and hope to live.”

  But the Dark Lord hadn’t survived for six Ages of the world by being stupid. He stiffened slightly and looked away. “Well,” he said, “thank you all for coming, I think that’s about as far as we can go today. What I’d like you all to do is go back to your departments and draw up an action plan, and then we’ll reconvene this time tomorrow and take it from there. All right, dismissed.”

  “An action plan,” the Margrave hissed, as soon as he was safely out of range of the Black Ear. “What the Us is an action plan?”

  A senior prince of Darkness bit his lip. “It’s a plan,” he said. “For action.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, do I? He keeps using all these strange words lately. Incentivise and preplanning and in this space, going forward. I think he’s doing it to confuse us.”

  “If so, he’s doing a great job,” growled an elderly goblin. “I blame all this New Evil stuff. Our bloke’s getting just as bad. Well,” he added, “maybe not. I think Mordak’s only doing it to keep in wi
th the boss,” he added loyally. “Who can’t,” he added, after a significant pause, “last for ever.”

  They all looked at each other. They’d known and worked with each other a very long time, and some things are best communicated without words. Then a Dark Elf said, “Actually…”

  The goblin scowled at him. “All right,” he conceded, “he’s lasted for ever so far. Doesn’t mean he’s going to go on lasting for ever. Not indefinitely.”

  “I think you’ll find that’s what for ever means,” said the Dark Elf helpfully. “What? I was just pointing out…”

  “We’ve got to do something.”

  They hadn’t noticed the Captain of the Guard, who had no seat on the Council and hadn’t been in the chamber with them. They all spun round in terror, but the Captain shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I agree with you. He’s lost it. He’s completely out of his pram. If you’d seen what I’ve—” He broke off, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s no use,” he said. “He’s got to go, and that’s all there is to it.”

  The combined sigh of relief from the councillors would have powered a medium-sized sloop. “You heard the latest,” whispered the Margrave.

  “I wasn’t at the meeting,” the Captain pointed out. “What’s he done this time?”

  The Councillors looked at each other. “His Dark Majesty,” said the old goblin, “wants us to organise a sponsored walk and Fun Day. In aid of Evil charities.”

  The Captain’s eyebrows shot up. “What Evil—?”

  “That’s Phase Two,” grunted the Dark Elf. “Apparently, Evil isn’t doing enough to connect with local communities on a grass-roots level. So the idea is, we’re going to reach out and embrace Society. Hug a human. Don’t ask me,” he added quickly, “I’m quoting.”

  There was a terrible pause. Then the Captain said, “It’s the Elves, it has to be. They’ve got to him somehow. They’ve turned his brain to goo.” He turned and gave the Dark Elf a nasty look. “They can do that,” he said, “mess with your head, using arcane mind control techniques. Well-known fact.”