The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  The Dark Elf sniggered. “I wish,” he said. “Sadly, no. You’re thinking of journalism, which is slightly different. No, if someone’s got inside his head, it’s not my lot. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who’d be capable of something like that.” He grinned. “With the obvious exception of Himself, of course. I suppose he might have trained someone else how to do all that, without us knowing. But that’s hardly likely, is it?”

  “That’s not important,” the Margrave said firmly. “What matters is, he’s a bloody liability and he’s got to go. Are we agreed?” He waited. Five seconds, a very long time in context. “We’re agreed,” he said. “Fine. We do him in and get a new Dark Lord.”

  A senior troll-wrangler who’d been listening carefully at the back cleared his throat. “I wondered when we’d get on to that,” he said. “Presumably you’ve got someone in mind.”

  The Margrave hesitated. “As it happens—”

  “Thought so. Yourself, of course.”

  “Well, no,” the Margrave said. “Actually, I was thinking of Mordak.”

  A stunned moment, as if someone had just exploded; followed by a gentle susurration of Actually… “Mordak,” the Dark Elf said. “You must be kidding. Although—”

  “Quite,” the Margrave said. “I mean, yes, he’s a goblin. That said—”

  “I’m a goblin,” pointed out the goblin.

  “Yes. My point in a nutshell. That said, he’s bright, he’s capable, energetic, knows how to get along with people, he can read a balance sheet and everybody likes him. Sort of. Anyway, who the hell else is there?”

  “But he’s a goblin,” said the Dark Elf. “You can’t have a goblin as Dark Lord. He’s too—”

  The old goblin shot out an arm and closed his talons precisely around certain strategic points on the Dark Elf’s neck. “Choose your next word very carefully.”

  “Short,” the Dark Elf said. “Well, he is. You can’t have someone sitting on the Black Throne whose feet don’t reach the floor. It’d be silly.”

  “There’s that,” the Margrave said. “But so what, a new throne’s no big deal. Or saw a bit off the legs of the old one. You’re just agin him because he’s a goblin.”

  The troll-wrangler nodded sagely. “Prejudiced.”

  “Of course I’m prejudiced, you halfwit, I’m evil,” snapped the Dark Elf, wriggling free of the goblin’s claws and wiping his neck with a lace handkerchief. “Elves and goblins don’t–well, they don’t, that’s all.”

  “Mordak does.”

  They all turned their heads and looked at the Captain, who shrugged. “Well, it’s true,” he said. “Like, right now at this very minute, Mordak’s off on a special assignment for Him, and he’s got an Elf with him. Boss’s orders. And last I heard, they were getting along just fine.”

  “Wash your mouth out with soap and water,” snarled the old goblin. “That can’t be true.”

  “Straight up,” insisted the Captain. “I was there, I heard everything.”

  “The Dark Lord told Mordak to take an Elf—”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s easily explained,” the Margrave said. “I think the key words we’re missing here are packed lunch.”

  “As a sidekick,” the Captain said firmly. “Sure as I’m stood here.”

  “Well, there you go,” the Dark Elf said smugly. “I withdraw my objection. Obviously Mordak’s got more sense that I credited him with. So, he’s it. Agreed? Show of claws?”

  Voted unanimously, the Margrave abstaining (but only because he had no hand to raise) “Fine,” he said. “Just one thing. How the hell are we going to do in His Majesty?”

  Everyone was suddenly struck thoughtful. The torches in the courtyard flickered, casting ghastly dancing shadows. “We could—” began the goblin, then he shook his head. “No, scrub that. Ignore me.”

  “There are,” the Margrave went on, “certain technical issues. Like, you can’t kill the bugger, because he’s seriously Undead. You can’t imprison him in a sealed dungeon a thousand miles under the biggest mountain in the world, because that’s been tried loads of times and he’s always really snarky when he gets out again. Same goes for binding him on a mountain-top with adamantine chains or hurling him into the Fiery Pit. That’s the thing about Himself, he’s so horribly persistent.”

  “We could always—” The Dark Elf frowned. “No, he’s got a point there. It can’t be done. Bugger.”

  The old goblin shook his head. “There’s bound to be a way,” he said. “Got to be. It’s just, we’re too thick to figure it out.”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered the Dark Elf. “Though personally—”

  “So,” the goblin went on, “what we need to do is, we need to ask somebody smart. The sort of bloke who knows stuff. You know.”

  A pause. Then the Margrave said, “Enlighten us.”

  “Simple,” the goblin said. “Mordak’s smart. Ask him.”

  The Old Giant’s Head at Blackwater is a modest, unpretentious little hostelry situated beside the picturesque Old North Road (southbound section). Serving a wide selection of local ales and a varied menu of traditional goblin, troll and vampire transfusion cuisine, it’s famous far and wide for its friendly, no-nonsense service and its unique architecture. It’s also the only place within a hundred miles where you can get something to eat without having to catch it yourself.

  “What’s this?” Efluviel demanded, pointing at her plate with her fork.

  “Ah.”

  They were sitting in one of the enormous bay windows on the first floor, looking out over the Spuin valley. Far away in the distance, Efluviel’s exceptional eyes could just make out the mist-shrouded outline of the mountains they’d come from.

  “Well? I’m waiting.”

  “It’s a favourite of mine, actually,” Mordak muttered. “Ghnazgk sn’arg Azkazagh, with asparagus tips and lime pickle. You’ll like it.”

  Efluviel put down her fork and folded her arms. “What’s in it?”

  “Oh, well…” Mordak made a vague gesture. “Stuff.”

  “What sort of—?”

  Mordak looked over his shoulder, then leaned forward. “Actually, it’s herring,” he said. “Properly speaking it should be the wind-dried ear cartilage of your sworn enemy, but that’s hardly practical in a restaurant. I mean, how’s the chef supposed to know who your enemies are?”

  “Herring.”

  “Completely swamped in herbs, spices and seasonings,” Mordak pointed out, “so you could be eating any damn thing and you wouldn’t know it, as is usual in goblin cookery. Look, if you don’t fancy it, just eat the fries.”

  Efluviel thought for a moment. “No,” she said, “that’s fine. I like herring.” She detached a tiny square of the main component with the tip of her knife, flipped it on to a corner of her bread and ate it. “Actually, that’s not bad,” she said. “What are these floury dumplingy things in the white sauce?”

  “Oops.” Mordak leaned over, impaled the four dumplingy things off the edge of her plate with the tips of his claws, and leaned back again. “You can have my bread roll to make up,” he said.

  She shrugged, then ate some more herring. “This is a weird place,” she said.

  “I’m rather fond of it. I used to come here quite a lot when I was a kid.”

  “I like the domed ceiling.”

  “Yes.” Mordak nipped the dumplings off his claws and gobbled them up. “Try the beer,” he said. “Worse things happen at sea, though fortunately not often.”

  “And that’s a very oddly shaped fireplace.”

  “Isn’t it? Well—” He picked up his goblet. “Here’s to a job well done.”

  “What? Oh, I see.” She lifted her goblet, took a sip, shuddered and put it down. “So, now what?”

  “We report back–sorry, I report back to the Dark Lord. He says, I see, right, get out, or words to that effect, and we resume our grievously interrupted lives. I carry on ruling the goblins.” He paused, and smiled. �
�You start editing the Face. You know, I’m going to have to start reading the bloody thing, now you’re going to be in charge.”

  “Don’t feel you have to,” Efluviel said. “Why are the two bay windows that sort of oval shape?”

  “Oh, tradition. I don’t suppose it means anything coming from me, but I think you’re going to be a sensational editor. I think you can bring to the job certain key qualities which—”

  “And that staircase. It’s such a funny shape.”

  “Certain key qualities,” Mordak said, “which in a sense are fundamental Elf characteristics, but I think that the time we’ve spent together has left you uniquely qualified to approach your quintessentially Elvish worldview from at least a partially goblin-nuanced perspective—”

  “But the really weird thing,” Efluviel said, “is that front door. Though it’s more a sort of a portcullis, really, or a drawbridge. The way the wall sort of opens and that ramp thing drops down.”

  Mordak sighed. “I think you’ll find the clue is in the name.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Old Giant’s Head. Well, you Elves do it, specially when you’re trying to be cute. The Old Stables, the Old Mill, the Old Post Office—”

  “I don’t quite—Oh.” Efluviel closed her mouth firmly and sort of sucked her lips in over her teeth. “And that’s—”

  “Cost of building materials, chiefly,” Mordak said. “That’s the thing about us goblins, we’ve always been a poor people. Lots of weapons, lots of armour, shedloads of siege engines and instruments of torture, no actual money. So we make do and mend. We find uses for stuff. So, you’re walking along one day and you see a bloody great big skull just lying there, no good to anybody—”

  “You turn it into a restaurant.”

  “Well, yes.” Mordak sighed, then grinned. “Waste not, want not. It works, doesn’t it?”

  “In summer, maybe. In winter, I bet this place is an icebox.”

  “It works,” Mordak repeated. “And it was useless and now it’s useful, and it didn’t cost anybody anything, and it means there’s somewhere you can get a bite to eat and drink out in the middle of the wilderness that wouldn’t otherwise be there. That’s goblins for you. Straightforward. Practical. Down to earth.”

  Efluviel smiled. “And gross.”

  “And gross, certainly, but quite often in a quirky, fun way.” He sipped his beer and winced. “That’s what I mean,” he said, “what I was talking about, just now. That’s why you’re going to be a great editor of the Face. Because you’re still here, even though I told you about the—”

  “The skull.”

  “The architecture,” Mordak corrected her. “No other Elf—”

  “The truly gross architecture.”

  “Yes, all right. No other Elf I’ve ever come across would still be sitting there, blithely eating ghnazgk sn’arg Azkazagh and not making fake retching noises—”

  “Talking of which, is there any salt?”

  Mordak shook his head. “No salt with ghnazgk sn’arg Azkazagh, not unless you want a blood feud with the chef. What you’ve got,” he said, “is vision. You’re prepared to look through and look past, to the point where you can actually see. That’s so rare, in an Elf.”

  Efluviel shrugged. “I told you. I like herring.”

  “Mostly herring,” Mordak said quickly. “No, I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed us working together. I’ve learned a few things, and I dare say you have too. And if we can carry forward that spirit of mutual understanding and tolerance so that it’s not just an emergency expedient but standard operating procedure, then I sincerely believe—”

  “There’s a goblin over there,” Efluviel said. “Waving at you.”

  “What? Oh, I expect he just wants to challenge me to a duel. Like your lot collect autographs,” he explained, “only with body parts. As I was saying—”

  “He’s coming over.”

  Mordak pulled a sad face and turned his head. “I don’t know him,” he said.

  “I think he knows you.”

  “Entirely possible. I’m the king.”

  The goblin bounded over and hovered about two feet away from the edge of the table, grinning. “’Scuse me,” he said. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  Mordak produced a very thin smile. “Yup,” he said. “That’s me.”

  “You’re Mordak. King Mordak.”

  “Yes.”

  The goblin nodded eagerly. “Thought so,” he said. “I saw you, and I thought, stone me, that’s King Mordak over there, sitting having his tea.” The goblin suddenly broke off, squinted and took a step back. “Don’t know if you’d noticed, Boss, but there’s an Elf—”

  Mordak nodded very slowly. “I’d noticed. And it’s perfectly all right.”

  “You sure?” The goblin stuck his face eighteen inches further inside Mordak’s personal space. “Only, they could get funny about it. The management.”

  He was looking at something on the wall. Mordak followed his sight-line and saw a faded parchment notice: Only food purchased on the premises to be eaten at the tables. “Means you can’t bring your own,” the goblin translated thoughtfully. “So—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Mordak repeated firmly. “Well, it was nice meeting you. If you haven’t ordered yet, you really should try the jumbo sausage. Goodbye.”

  The goblin didn’t move. He was grinning. Mordak closed his eyes then opened them again. “Yes?”

  “You won’t believe what just happened to me,” the goblin said.

  “Yes I will. Go away.”

  “You won’t believe it,” said the goblin, “but it’s true. Mind if I join you?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  The goblin sat down next to Efluviel, who inched away as unobtrusively as she could; she didn’t get far, because the goblin was sitting on her hand. The goblin hadn’t noticed. “I’ll tell you all about it,” the goblin said, “and then you can buy me dinner. I haven’t eaten in weeks. Well, not proper food.”

  “I’ll buy you anything you like if you’ll only go away.”

  The goblin laughed. That Mordak, always kidding around. “It’s like this,” the goblin said.

  Some time later the goblin stopped talking. Mordak, looking away, caught sight of his plate. It was empty.

  “What?” Efluviel said, with her mouth full. “It was going cold. You weren’t eating it. Waste not, want not, remember?”

  Mordak frowned and looked back at the goblin. “That’s some story,” he said.

  The goblin beamed. “I knew you’d want to hear it,” he said. “Do I get food now?”

  “Let me get this straight.” Stormclouds were gathering on Mordak’s face. “There’s an alternate universe—”

  The goblin nodded. “That’s right, because of multiverse theory. Sorry, Boss, you were saying.”

  “An alternate universe,” Mordak said, his voice dangerously soft, “where, because of something some bad person did, they’ve got a problem. So they come over here, they kidnap one of my goblins, they lock him up in a vault somewhere and throw away the key. Is that about it?”

  “Yes, Boss. Well, no. It was lots of goblins, not just me, and if they didn’t, their world was going to blow up. To be honest with you, I don’t understand that part.”

  “I do,” Mordak said. “It’s all because of philanthropy. And there’s more of our people over there?”

  The goblin nodded. “Loads,” he said. “And one of her lot, even. You know, an E-L-F.” He frowned. “Actually, she was nice. Well, no, she wasn’t, but—”

  “Our people,” Mordak repeated. “Goblins and Elves. So if their world blows up, our people blow up with it. Yes?”

  The goblin shrugged. “I guess so. But that’s not going to happen, see, because of the one simple thing I told you about.”

  Mordak and Efluviel looked at each other. “You tell him,” Efluviel said.

  “Fine.” Mordak took a deep breath. “Fact is,” he said, “they lied to y
ou. Killing Rumpelstiltskin—”

  The goblin was impressed. “You know his name.”

  “Actually, it’s Winckler,” Mordak said. “But yes, we’ve met. And the thing of it is, killing him won’t make a blind bit of difference, even if it can be done, which I’m not entirely sure about. So either your Curator guy got his sums wrong, or he just wants revenge.”

  The goblin nodded. “Revenge is good.”

  “Well, yes,” Mordak agreed. “But not when it’s counterproductive. The point is, we can’t do anything. Our claws are tied. I’m fairly sure we can’t kill him or send him back. I’d just about sort of managed to reconcile myself to that, and not being able to stop a whole universe going up in smoke, when you come bouncing along and tell me there’s goblins trapped over there. And Elves,” he added, before Efluviel could add it for him. “And you know what? That really annoys me. I don’t think that’s right. In fact, it’s not right at all.”

  He hadn’t looked round lately, so he hadn’t seen the look on Efluviel’s face; probably just as well, since the situation was complicated enough already. By the time he did look round, Efluviel had got rid of it and replaced it with the usual Elf smirk. “But like you said, there’s nothing you can do,” she said casually. “And really, it’s not our problem.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? Goblins. An Elf. That makes it our problem.”

  “Fair point,” Efluviel said. “But there’s still nothing you can do. If Winckler dies, it won’t put things right back there. It could well make real difficulties for us here, if it’s true what he just said about the balance of good and evil and all those laws of conservation. I’m not sure why you’ve decided sending him back’s not an option, though.”

  Mordak sighed. “Well, first off, I don’t think he wants to go, so we’d have to make him, and I’m guessing he wouldn’t be inclined to hold still and let us. Remember, it’s not just him.”

  “Ah,” Efluviel said. “The old man and the boy who eats. One day you’ve got to explain to me why you’re so shit-scared of them.”

  “And even if we could,” Mordak went on quickly, “what happens then? Does everything go back to the way it was? Only, when he left there he was evil but now he’s sort of good.”