The Good, the Bad and the Smug

by Tom Holt

  “But with strong evil overtones.”

  “Nah, that’s just the philanthropy. I think too much has changed,” Mordak said wearily. “It’s a mess, that’s what it is. The truth is, we have no idea what would happen. And there’s no guarantee that killing Winckler or returning him would get us the goblins back. What we really need to do is get in touch with this Curator, who’s the one person in all of this who might actually know what’s going on—”

  “That’s the one who you reckon got his sums so badly wrong.”

  Mordak gave her his best you’re-not-helping look. “Get in touch with the Curator,” he said, “and see what he’s got to say. You know, ask somebody, instead of trying to figure it all out for ourselves.”

  Efluviel opened her mouth and tried to speak, failed and tried again. “You know,” she said, “that’s really very good. Grown-up thinking, instead of here’s-a-problem-let’s-kill-someone. You have come a long way.”

  “Thank you,” Mordak said, “I think. Anyway, I think that’s got to be our next step. In which case, it’s back up the mountain and see if we can get that portal thing to work. It sounds fairly simple, but I bet—”

  “Your goblin.”

  “What?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Mordak looked round. There was no sign of the goblin. “Where did he go?”

  Efluviel shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I guess he just got bored and wandered off.”

  Mordak breathed heavily through his nose. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “No?”

  “No.” Mordak stood up. “I think he’s gone to kill Mr Winckler.”

  “But you told him not to.”

  “So?”

  “You’re his king.”

  Mordak pulled a sad face. “It’s possible you haven’t quite grasped the finer nuances of goblin society,” he said.

  “You lot have nuances? Gosh.”

  “It’d be a matter of honour,” Mordak said. “Which would tend to supervene a royal command. It’s why we still have blood feuds, even though they’ve been illegal for a thousand years.”

  Efluviel nodded. “Quirky and fun,” she said. “You told me.”

  “Yes, well.” Mordak was fumbling in his pocket. “We’d better get after him and stop him. You haven’t got four shillings and fourpence, have you?”

  Efluviel sighed. “You’ve added it up wrong. It’s four and twopence.”

  “And a tip.” He scowled. “Now what?”

  “It was a rubbish meal and the service was lousy, and you’re leaving a tip. Mordak, what’s going on? You’re meant to be one of the bad guys. You don’t suppose it’s all part of the same—”

  “Nah.” Mordak shook his head firmly. “It’s a small tip. That’s bad. Come on, before the bugger gets away.”

  The goblin formerly known as Archie peered out from behind a fallen tree at the orange glow of firelight dead ahead, and grinned. For a while, he’d been worried. After all, he’d been human for quite some time; what if he’d lost his goblin edge, forgotten everything he knew about woodcraft and fieldcraft and sneaking up? But no. It had all come rushing back, and he knew he’d just executed a perfect stalk, silent and invisible. The little man was sitting with his back to him; one sprint, a quick swing with three feet of solid tree-branch, the human wouldn’t know what hit him. Piece of—

  Ironic, really, or at least a massive coincidence, because a piece of cake was the very next thing he saw. It was being fed into a slowly chewing mouth by a human left hand. The right hand, Archie guessed, was what had lifted him off the floor and was now holding him, dangling by one leg, about six feet above ground level.

  “Here, Art. You got him?”

  The chewing head nodded slowly.

  “Good lad.” A very old human hobbled into view. “Didn’t give you any grief, did he, son? Only you can get a nasty nip off goblins if you’re not careful.”

  The chewing head shook, swallowed the last of its cake and was fed a blueberry muffin. “Evil-looking little bugger,” the old man said. “Come on, we’d better take him to the chief.”

  For the next thirty seconds, Archie had a wonderful view of the ground. Then the grip on his ankle relaxed and he landed on his head. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” he heard the old man say, “but Art found this one wandering about in the woods. Probably just lost or drunk, but you never know.”

  Do I look like I’m lost or drunk, you fool? I’m an assassin! But his time spent among the moving-picture people had taught him a thing or two about acting. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “I’m lost. And drunk. Hic,” he added. “Oooh, everything’s going round and round, I think I’m going to be sick. Oooh.”

  The young man took a long step backwards, but the little man laughed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Goblins turn green when they’re nauseous and bright red when they’re drunk, and you’re neither. Mordak send you, did he?”

  Archie shook his head. “Nobody sent me,” he said. “I’m lost. Could you possibly give me directions to the Taupe Mountains? I’ve always wanted to see them, I gather they’re particularly tall at this time of year.”

  The little man grinned. “Mordak sent you,” he said. “The question is, are you just a spy, or were you supposed to kill me? Don’t feel you have to answer that,” he added, “because I wouldn’t believe you anyway. In fact, as a source of information you’re not much use.” He turned to the old man. “Get rid of him, will you? I can’t be bothered with goblins right now.”

  The old man didn’t look very happy about that, but he nodded to the skinny young man, who ate a Bakewell slice and picked up a lump of rock which completely filled his unusually large hand. “Careful now, Art,” the old man said. “Goblin scratches can turn septic. Really, you ought to wear your gloves.”

  A really good time, in fact, for those dormant goblin fight-or-flight instincts to kick back in; which they did. The skinny young man took a stride forward. Archie dived at him, hit the ground all bunched up, rolled like a ball straight between his legs, scrambled to his feet and started to run. I made it, was his last thought before the chunk of rock hit him on the back of his head.

  “You’re really good at tracking,” Mordak said.

  “Yes,” Efluviel said, her eyes fixed on the rough shale beneath her feet. “This way. He definitely came here.”

  “Amazing,” Mordak said. “Of course, we mostly track by scent, and there’s a stiff breeze, but even so. Is that how you’re doing it? By scent?”

  “No,” Efluviel replied.

  They went another hundred yards or so. Then Efluviel stopped, nodded and carried on again. Mordak had to trot to keep up with her.

  “I guess it’s one of those core Elvish skills,” he said, “being able to follow a trail. I mean, centuries of following up leads, sniffing out conspiracies, all that sort of thing. Evolution in action. Like, presumably the ears evolved so you could overhear scraps of conversations in crowded bars, and the thin, pointy noses are for sticking in other people’s business.” He paused to catch his breath, then trotted some more. “And the charm, of course. So people will like and trust you.”

  “Something like that,” Efluviel said without turning round. She’d stopped again, and was looking right, then left. “Ah,” she said. “This way.”

  “One damn thing after another,” Mordak said, scrambling over a heap of loose shale. “I mean, I’m supposed to be the king, I really shouldn’t have to do all this running around myself. I think that when I push through my next batch of systemic reforms, there’s going to be a whole wodge of stuff about how the king shouldn’t have to do his own leg work. Now what? Lost the trail?”

  Efluviel had stopped dead. But suddenly she smiled. “No,” she said, pointing uphill. “This way.”

  Over the crest of the hill, and they found themselves looking down into a lush wooded valley. “Where we just came from, in fact,” Mordak sighed. “You knew. You figured it out. You haven’t been tracking at all.”

>   “I so have,” Efluviel said. “All the way from that bizarre inn place. You’ll note that we’ve come by a much straighter, quicker route than the last time. Of course, then, you were navigating.”

  Mordak sighed and sat down on a rock. “Fine,” he said. “So how did you do it? Elvish magic?”

  Efluviel grinned, stooped and picked something up. It was a tiny ball of screwed-up green foil. “After-dinner mint wrappers,” she explained. “My guess is, he grabbed a handful on his way out of the inn. He’s been stuffing them all the way here.”

  Mordak looked at her for three, maybe four seconds. “Anyway,” he said, “we’ve got a fairly good idea of where he’s headed. There’s Mr Winckler’s shed, look, down there in the clearing.”

  Efluviel nodded. “Of course, we’re probably too late,” she said. “I had to keep waiting for you.”

  “You may be right,” Mordak replied. “Still, we owe it to him to try.”

  “I don’t see why. After all, he’s a rather horrible little man. And he did condemn an entire universe to death.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about, it’s my bloody goblin. Look out,” he added quickly, “someone’s coming. Hide, quick.”

  They ducked behind a pile of rocks, as an old man, in a cloth cap and brown overalls with a very long sword hanging from his belt, and a tall, skinny boy appeared over the skyline. Between them they carried a long pole, from which a goblin dangled by his bound wrists and ankles. The disparity in their heights, and the fact that the old man was struggling a bit, made it a less than ideal arrangement; fortunately, the goblin was fast asleep, so that even when his head hit the ground he didn’t wake up.

  “It’s them,” Efluviel whispered.

  “Quiet, they’ll hear you.”

  No great danger of that. The scrunch of their boots on the shale and the occasional chunky thud of goblin forehead against stone would’ve masked most noises short of an earthquake. “You all right there, Art?” they heard the old man call out. “We can rest a bit in a minute if you like.”

  The young man mumbled something through a cake-filled mouth; it sounded vaguely negative. The goblin’s head, swinging wildly from side to side, flattened a thistle.

  “I say we jump them,” Efluviel said. “You take the kid, leave the old fool to me.”

  “Absolute silence,” Mordak hissed, so vehemently that Efluviel stayed where she was. My God, Mordak thought, she just did as she was told. And then a bit of pollen floated up his nose and he sneezed.

  There was a thump as the goblin hit the ground, and a grating noise as the old man pulled a very long sword out of its scabbard. He held it with both hands, but the weight was too much for him, and he rested the point on the ground.

  “Absolute silence, did you just say?” Efluviel said.

  “Oh shut up.”

  The young man ate a nectarine. Slowly, Mordak stood up. The old man saw him and gave him a friendly smile. “Well, if it isn’t King Mordak. Afternoon, Your Majesty, miss. Fancy bumping into you again. Art, take your cap off, it’s the king.”

  “All right,” Mordak said, in a voice that was slightly higher than usual. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way. Put the sword down and step away from the goblin. Now.”

  The old man looked puzzled. “Got you, sir, right. And what would be the easy way?”

  “That’s the easy way.”

  The old man shook his head. “Beg to differ, sir, beg to differ. That’d be a dereliction of duty, see. Very hard for us. Goes right against the grain. Physically impossible. We couldn’t do it, sir. Young Art, he’s so conscientious, you wouldn’t credit it.”

  Mordak closed his eyes and opened them again. “So the easy way would be—”

  “We fight, sir. To the death. A l’outrance is the technical term, sir, as of course you know. Last two humans standing win.”

  “That’s the easy way.”

  “Comparatively easy, sir.”

  “Bash him,” Efluviel whispered loudly in his ear. “Go on, he’s an old man. Bash him.”

  The old man frowned. The young man took a step forward–just one–and unwrapped a sausage roll. Suddenly, Mordak realised that Efluviel had moved and was standing behind him. “On the other hand,” she said.

  “Not now.”

  “Oh be quiet.” She peered out past his shoulder–she was, of course, taller than him, which helped, and said, “Hello?”

  “Hello there, Miss Efluviel. Nice day.”

  “Yes, isn’t it. Look—”

  “If I can just stop you there a minute, miss, young Art was only saying earlier, after we met over at Mr Winckler’s, how much he enjoyed that editorial you did back along about institutionalised sexism in the widgeonberry dye industry. Well, we both did, Art and me, bang on the nail, we thought it was.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes, miss, great fans, both of us. So Art says, would it be all right if, when we fight to the death in a minute or two, would you mind terribly if he kills you and I kill King Mordak? Something to tell his grandchildren, he said. Assuming you don’t mind, of course. If you’d rather it was the other way round—”

  “We kill you?”

  “I kill you and Art does in the king. Only, it’d mean a lot to our Art, killing you personally, and he’s a good lad really, very sensitive.”

  Of course, that’s the thing about personal combat. Nine times out of ten, when they talk like that it’s all bravado and kiddology. And the tenth time, you go home in a hessian sack. “Actually,” Efluviel said, “I was thinking.”

  “Yes. Miss?”

  “What if there’s three ways? The easy way, the hard way, and the, um—” Her mind had gone blank.

  “Third way?”

  “Yes, thank you. The thing is,” she went on, “I’ve just been appointed editor of the Beautiful Golden Face, and my first priority has definitely got to be hiring a couple of top-flight defence and security correspondents to replace the brace of deadheads we’ve got in the post at the moment. And the thought just struck me, right out of a clear blue sky, that if you two happened to be available—”

  The old man blinked. “Art and me? Write for the paper?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have to do a lot of the actual writing, as such. More a consultancy and mentoring role, with the option of putting in optional input.”

  The old man thought for a moment. “We could do that,” he said. “Young Art, now, he writes a beautiful feature. I told him, Art, you’re wasted on this killing-people lark, you writing so beautiful and all.”

  “Quite. But if I die, of course—”

  “No jobs, got you.” The old man bit his lip. “Thing is,” he said, “we got our duty to our employer to think of. Loyalty to the boss, that’s our watchword. We live and die by that, Art and me.”

  “Exactly.” Efluviel smiled at him. “Unswerving devotion to whoever’s paying your wages. Talking of which, how much are you getting from Winckler?”

  “Not really supposed to—”

  “Only,” Efluviel said quickly, “we’ll double it. Plus a company leech plan and use of the executive hitching posts and watering trough. And then, you see, we’ll be your employers and you can be unswervingly loyal to us. Well?”

  The old man hesitated and looked at the boy, who was eating peanut butter out of the jar with his fingers. “Yeah, all right,” he said; and then he suddenly smiled. “Well done, miss.”

  “Sorry, say what?”

  “Well done. Took you a while,” he added, not unkindly,

  “but you got there in the end. Well,” he added, “you were bound to, being an Elf. Ancient Elvish art of war; never send an Elf where you can send an arrow, never send an arrow where you can send thirty pieces of silver. You can get a lot of victory for thirty bob, miss, if you’re waywise.”

  The faint sound somewhere behind her back might just have been Mordak sniggering; but she hadn’t heard it, had she? “Deal,” she said. “Right, your first assignment for the paper wi
ll be an in-depth analysis of the plight of goblin POWs languishing in human custody. Capisce?”

  The old man nodded. “Loud and clear, miss, thank you. Art.”

  The boy cut the goblin’s bonds with his tangerine-peeling knife, stepped back and peeled a tangerine. “All yours,” the old man said.

  Mordak sprang forward, grabbed the sleeping goblin by the ankle, dragged him out of the way and sat on him. Efluviel turned to the old man and smiled. “You’re fired,” she said.

  “Thought we might be.” The old man put away his sword, a process that took a long time and a cut finger. “Come on, Art,” he said. “We’d better not be late for tea or your mum’ll play war. Severance pay?”

  “A cheque will be in the post.”

  “Of course it will, miss, of course it will. Cheerio, then.”

  They turned to go, but Mordak suddenly jumped up and ran after them. They stopped and turned back to face him.

  “I want a word with you two,” he said.

  “Really? All right then, Chief, fire away.”

  Mordak glanced over his shoulder. Efluviel was approaching but not yet in earshot. “You let her win.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were waiting for her to bribe you. If she hadn’t, you’d have suggested it yourselves.”

  The old man did something terrible and ghastly with his face. Some time later, Mordak realised it was a wink. “Maybe,” he said. “Who knows, eh?”

  Mordak massaged his chin with his hand. “I don’t get you two,” he said. “Why did you do it?”

  “Ah well, sir.” The old man beamed at him. “Like we said, we’re unswervingly loyal and we obey orders.”

  “You just sold out your employer for a bribe you knew you’d never actually get. That’s just weird.”

  “Depends on who’s really employing us, doesn’t it, sir? Mind how you go, now. Have a nice day.”

  “Hold on,” Mordak said sharply. “Just one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Mordak took a step forward and stopped, as though he’d just walked into an invisible wall. He looked at the old man and could tell from his face that he knew about it. “Who are you?” he said.