The Goblin's Gift

by Conrad Mason

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Joseph’s ears burned with shame and anger. He was the one with the gun and yet, somehow, he was powerless. The goblin still sat there, smirking, saying nothing.

  ‘Look, mongrel,’ said Jeb. And suddenly his tone was different – hard and cold. ‘I can’t sneak that mermaid out without your help. So yer’d better get smart. You’ve got until tonight to think about it. If you breathe a word to the girl, the deal’s off. And if yer don’t help, just have a little think about what might happen to your pa. What I might do to him.’

  Something snapped. Before Joseph knew what he was doing, his left fist thudded into Jeb’s face, knocking the pipe out so that it skittered away across the warehouse floor. His right foot slammed into the goblin’s barrel as hard as he could kick. It was just enough to tip it backwards, and Jeb was already off balance, leaning away from the punch. He went toppling head over heels.

  Joseph was upon him in an instant, trying to get the pistol up into Jeb’s throat. But the goblin grabbed hold of his wrists. Joseph struggled on top, pinning Jeb down. And the next thing he knew there were hands on his shoulders and he was dragged away, flailing uselessly. There were tears in his eyes, but he could see a blurred image of the goblin scrambling to his feet. He was filled with a fresh urge to lash out. But the hands that held him were stronger than he was.

  ‘What in Thalin’s name are you doing?’ hissed Tabitha.

  ‘It’s— He’s—’

  She grappled his arms behind his back and forced him down until he was sitting on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pallione, sitting up from her wheelbarrow, blinking and trying to make sense of the scene in front of her.

  ‘Called him a mongrel one too many times, I reckon,’ said Jeb, straightening his coat. ‘He flew off the handle.’

  ‘That’s not— I …’

  ‘It’s your father again, isn’t it?’ said Tabitha. She was still angry, Joseph realized. Maybe even angrier. ‘Look, Joseph, you can’t believe a word he says, understand? Your pa’s dead, just like mine. Forget it!’

  She let go and stepped back. He turned to look up at her and saw that her eyes were just as red and swollen and full of hurt as he knew his own were. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, brittle with emotion.

  ‘We’re not going on that boat. I’ll find another way. I don’t care how.’

  ‘Tabs, I— We need to get out soon, or the Boy King will—’

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. First you pull that stupid trick with the blackwine. Then you believe the Snitch’s lies about your father—’

  ‘Now see here,’ said Jeb. ‘There’s nothing to—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Tabitha ran her hands through her hair, paced up and down. ‘We’ll have to keep this bilge rat here for now. He’s too dangerous if we let him go. I just wish … I mean, for Thalin’s sake, Joseph, I’d be better off on my own.’

  The words stung him, and fresh tears threatened to well up.

  Silence. Even Pallione said nothing; just watched, wearing a slight frown.

  Joseph’s fingers found their way into his pocket and closed around his father’s watch.

  Better off on my own. Maybe she was right.

  Maybe they would both be better off on their own.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  HAL WOKE WITH a jolt. It was night, and the fire had died down to a few glowing embers. Everyone was asleep except for a single smuggler keeping watch.

  He shivered and rolled over, tried to rearrange the seaweed he was sleeping on and get comfortable among the rocks. It was no good. He lay back, listening to the snores of the Bootle brothers, staring at the stars and clamping his teeth together to stop them from chattering.

  He’d dreamed of the King. Of his strange throne of rocks. Of those liquid green eyes, ever changing, like the sea itself. And of his words.

  My powers are at their strongest, magician … and now I am returned.

  It should have reassured him, but instead it made him anxious. Joseph and Tabitha had been gone for three nights now. They’d had no word of Newton or the Fayter fleet.

  And there was nothing they could do about it.

  Distant thunder sounded.

  Except, no – that wasn’t thunder …

  Hal staggered to his feet, picked up a spyglass and looked out across the sea to where the sound had come from. But it was too dark.

  He fumbled on his shoes and picked his way through the sleeping bodies to the shore. The rolling booms sounded again, and again he scanned the horizon. This time a distant orange glow lit up the sky.

  ‘Do you hear, magician?’ said a voice close by. It was the mermaid who’d first brought them to the island. She was sitting on a rock a little way out to sea, her spiky fair hair just visible, her eyes gleaming in the night.

  ‘Cannons,’ said Hal. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed.

  The mermaid laughed her strange, barking laugh.

  ‘My people call this island The Claw. You know why? Because it rises above the waves like the hand of a beast. But tonight there are greater dangers than imaginary monsters.’ She gestured to the distant orange light. ‘The men in white like to practise.’

  Another volley of booms carried across the water.

  ‘Do you think we can defeat them?’ asked Hal.

  ‘You Fayters, on your own? You might as easily ask the sea and the sky to switch places.’

  Hal swallowed again. ‘What about you? If you fought with us?’

  The mermaid was silent for a while. At last she shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Perhaps. It wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.

  ‘Go, four-eyed man. Sleep. You might need it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The mermaid’s teeth flashed in a smile. ‘The Fayters are approaching the big island now. The one you call Illon. Tomorrow they will reach it. Then the battle will begin.’

  Newton leaned over the gunwale, watching the prow of the Dread Unicorn cut through the dark water. Derringer had dismissed him from the Wyvern the moment they’d caught up with the fleet, and that suited him fine. Now there were just a few crewmen still on deck, and the sounds of the ship filled his ears. The rattle of rigging. The creaks and groans of the deck. The slapping of the waves against the hull.

  He looked up and took in the rest of the fleet, sailing through the night, bound for Illon and the enemy armada. Not long now. He shivered and turned up the collar of his coat.

  Newton was glad of those ships keeping them company. The sails, deep blue against a black sky dotted with stars. The yellow glimmer of candlelight from the stern cabins, and the odd lantern strung up on deck. He’d never liked the dark. Wasn’t scared of it – not much seemed to scare him any more. But it reminded him of the mines.

  The thought jolted him, as it always did. A wound that smarted when he touched it and never seemed to heal. Still, he kept going back to it. Especially since seeing Alice.

  The mines. Every morning, kicked awake, and opening his eyes to the half-light. Breakfast – a thin soup and hard bread. The leftovers would reappear at lunch and at dinner time, if you were lucky. Then onto your hands and knees, scrabbling at the rocks, hunting for the precious gleam of zephyrum. The magical metal.

  When Newton was a boy, before all that, his grandfather had told him stories of heroes who fought with zephyrum swords, and damsels wearing magical zephyrum brooches. There was no magic to the work though.

  At noon they were driven up above for a few minutes to eat, the sunlight making their eyes throb. Then back into the dark again, working the rock face until they almost collapsed. Some did. And when that happened the pale forms of the whitecoats would appear out of the darkness, pick up the fallen miner and take him away. They would never see that person again.

  No. Newton didn’t like the dark.

  He focused on the horizon ahead. Not long now. Not long before Illon appeared, a bump above the line of the
sea, and then the League’s armada with its fluttering white banners. He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to picture it all. Tried to stem the hot rage that threatened to surge up again and engulf him.

  The memory of the zephyrum mines still hurt. The memory of his family, and seeing each of them, one by one, for the last time in the gloom beneath the earth. But it had been a long time since it had made him angry. The League had taken everything from him. And, worse, they’d taken that little girl, Alice Turnbull, and made her one of them.

  Suddenly Newton realized that he didn’t want to control his anger any more. He wanted to unleash it on his enemies. He wanted to take revenge. For his grandfather. For his family. For every single one of the miners.

  He reached down for the bundle that leaned against the gunwale, laid it flat and unwrapped the blanket. The Sword of Corin glinted in the moonlight. Newton’s staff, the Banshee, remained in his cabin, and there it would stay until after the fighting was done.

  He traced one finger along the groove of the fuller that ran the length of the blade. The Sword of Corin was ancient, practically a relic. But what better weapon to carry against the League than that of their own hero, Corin?

  He’d let himself into the library before they set sail, while the governor was busy meeting Colonel Derringer. Taken the sword and whisked it away. It wasn’t like him. But he’d felt, somehow, as though he’d needed to do it. And now he was going to hunt down the Duke of Garran and kill him.

  A sword is just a sword. And tomorrow he was going to prove it.

  Footsteps on the deck behind him. He flipped the blanket back to conceal the blade and turned. Old Jon was hobbling towards him, every wrinkle of his face thrown into shadow by the lantern he held.

  ‘Evening,’ said Newt.

  Old Jon came up next to him, gazing out over the ocean. They stood like that for a while, in silence – but a comforting kind of silence. That was Old Jon all over.

  ‘Newt,’ said the elf at last. His voice was deep, soft and calming. ‘You ain’t yourself.’

  ‘Aye.’ There was no getting anything past Jon. ‘I’m angry. What do you expect?’

  The elf nodded slowly. ‘Little bit of anger’s fair enough.’ He turned for the first time to look Newton in the eye. ‘But don’t be too hard on yourself. Don’t lose your head.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  They stood a while longer, listening to the chop and slap of the waves against the ship’s hull. Then Old Jon turned and limped away across the deck, lantern creaking as it swung in the breeze.

  As the light went, Newton’s rage returned, burning through him.

  He drew aside the blanket again, lifted the sword out and stepped back. The stitches in his arm nagged at him, but it was no more than a flesh wound and it was healing fast. He swung the sword, once, twice, enjoying the soft hum of the blade as it cut the night air. His swordplay was rusty, but a little practice would soon bring it back. And he had strength on his side. Yes. He was almost looking forward to it.

  Not long now.

  Tabitha dreamed. She was out at sea, in a mist, treading water. The mermaid floated opposite her, holding something behind her back. Something that belonged to Tabitha. She wanted it more than anything, but when she reached for it the fish girl twisted away, smirking.

  ‘It’s mine!’ she cried.

  There was a sound behind her – oars, dipping in and out of the water. She turned to see the shape of a dinghy, and she floundered towards it.

  ‘Joseph,’ she gasped. He was rowing the boat closer and closer. But his eyes were fixed on the mermaid, his face blank, as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Joseph!’ She screamed it this time. Still nothing. ‘Help me. Please. Help me get it back.’ But he kept rowing. When he reached Pallione he lifted her out of the sea as though she was as light as a feather, set her down in the boat and kept rowing.

  There was a strange scent in the air, rich and musty and sickening.

  ‘Wait!’ howled Tabitha. ‘Wait for me!’

  Sea and sky had turned dark now. She rose and fell with the waves, higher and higher, lower and lower. Thunder rolled overhead and rain began to fall.

  ‘I’ll drown!’

  But the boat just kept moving away, into the mist. As it went, Pallione watched, still smiling. She held out her hand, but when she opened her fingers there was nothing there.

  ‘You’re better off on your own, remember?’ said the mermaid.

  And now the sea was surging as something rose up in the space between Tabitha and the dinghy. A vast, terrible form, water cascading off it. Its body was the colour of seaweed, its back curved, covered in spines. Its limbs were like spiders’ legs – long, slender and pointed. A demon of the ocean. The Maw. And it was too late for Tabitha. Alone. She would die here, all on her own.

  The Maw threw back its head and screamed.

  Tabitha’s eyes flicked open and she sat up, the stink of griffin bile hitting her nostrils instantly. Sweat drenched her brow, and her breathing came fast and heavy.

  She pushed the thin blanket away from her as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the warehouse.

  A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

  She yawned and stretched. Shouldn’t Joseph have woken her already? Surely it was her turn at watch by now? She turned to check on Pallione.

  The mermaid wasn’t there.

  Tabitha rubbed her eyes, looked again.

  Still not there. And no wheelbarrow either.

  She looked round at the barrel where she had left Joseph sitting, keeping first watch. There was another barrel next to it, the two of them like empty chairs. But no sign of Joseph. No sign of Jeb. No sign of Pallione.

  They were gone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  PALLIONE WAS A deep sleeper, and it was only once they’d trundled her up the gangplank and onto the deck that she woke up. Her tail flicked round and caught Joseph a stinging blow, sending him staggering away. She writhed, knocking over the wheelbarrow and falling out. Immediately four big sailors dived onto her, two holding down her tail while the others pinned her arms to her sides.

  ‘Fiery little fish girl, ain’t she?’ remarked Jeb.

  Joseph couldn’t let this go on any longer. He stepped forward, rubbing his arm where the mermaid had struck him.

  ‘Pallione.’

  ‘Joseph,’ yelled the mermaid. ‘What’s going on? Where are we going?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. He crouched down beside her. Her eyes were wide with fear and fury, and his heart ached to see it. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. We’re taking you to the King.’

  Pallione stopped thrashing, her face full of uncertainty. She glanced around, taking in the hobgoblin junk – the polished black lacquer of the deck, the low gunwales and furled battened sails. Above, the sky was still dark. Morning was a good few hours off yet. ‘Then why didn’t you wake me sooner? And where is your friend Tabitha?’

  ‘She … well … It’s complicated.’

  It hadn’t felt good, leaving her there in the warehouse. Tabitha frowned even in her sleep, as if she knew what they were doing and disapproved of it.

  Pallione narrowed her eyes. ‘You left her behind?’

  The words twisted his gut. Yes. He had left her behind. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? I’d be better off on my own. He’d go back for her, just as soon as they’d taken Pallione to her father. And in the meantime Tabs would be fine. Wasn’t she always saying she could look after herself?

  ‘Take that mermaid down below,’ said Jeb.

  The four sailors picked up Pallione and began to carry her away. She struggled again as they took her across the deck to the square hatch that led below.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘I don’t understand, I don’t—’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Joseph, but the words sounded hollow. Unconvincing.

  Don’t worry, he told himself. He was doing the right thing. Tabitha didn’t need looking after. Pallione was going to see her f
ather again. And the merfolk would fight for the Fayters.

  This isn’t just about me.

  At the stern, the gleaming black cabin door opened and a hobgoblin strode up onto the deck. He was tall, grey-skinned and thin, dressed in sailor’s clothes, with eyes and ears larger than those of a normal goblin.

  ‘Captain Lortt,’ called Jeb. ‘We’re ready to make sail.’ The hobgoblin nodded and began to shout out orders.

  Jeb leaned down to squeeze Joseph’s shoulder, grinning in a way that made Joseph want to punch him in the face. ‘You’ve made a smart move here, lad,’ said Jeb. ‘We’ll get this fish girl to her father. Then I’ll get my reward, and you’ll be off to see your pa again.’ He leaned down to squeeze Joseph’s shoulder, grinning in a way that made Joseph want to punch him in the face.

  This isn’t just about me.

  Tabitha raced out of the warehouse, her boots pounding the cobblestones. Faster. Come on, faster! She pushed hard, her lungs burning with the chill of the night air.

  Was it possible that the Boy King had taken them? No. He would have taken her too. So they must have gone themselves. Jeb the Snitch, Joseph and the mermaid. If this had anything to do with that bilge about Joseph’s father … Somehow, she had a feeling it did.

  The streets were empty save for a snoozing drunk sprawled in a doorway and a few beggars sleeping out under awnings. Not even a Dockside Militia patrol. Tabitha sucked more air into her lungs and ran on through the darkness. The Boy King’s men might spot her, but she didn’t care about that any more. There was no time to worry. Whatever Jeb the Snitch was up to, it wasn’t going to be good. She had to stop them.

  That was the funny thing. She’d known they were ganging up on her. But now that she had proof of it, she actually felt better. At least she’d been right. And at least she knew what to do next.

  She veered into a shipyard, stopping to root through its rubbish dump until she found what she was looking for. A hand saw, half rusted, with several teeth missing. But it would get the job done.