The Goblin's Gift

by Conrad Mason

They set out across the beach, away from the firelight, music and drunken songs. They passed a pair of trolls, stripped to the waist and wrestling while spectators cheered them on; a dwarf with a bandaged leg telling tales of the battle to a circle of friends; scores of folk smiling, laughing and dancing. Further up the beach, Joseph made out the shadowy figure of Governor Skelmerdale. He had arrived an hour before to congratulate the fleet, and now stood drinking firewater with Colonel Derringer and a group of blackcoats, smiling and laughing. Joseph watched him pat the colonel on the back before moving on to another group.

  Their feet sank deep in the sand, still warm from the day’s sunshine. As they got further from their fellow Fayters, Joseph began to notice the surge of the sea, and the cries of the birds that lived inland. One took flight from a nearby tree, the blue and yellow of its wings still just visible in the dusk. It was a perfect evening on a beautiful island that, just a year ago, he could never have even imagined visiting. For a moment it made him forget everything. Made him feel sad and happy at the same time.

  Tabitha stopped and sat down on the sand. She hadn’t said a word yet. Joseph lowered himself down beside her.

  ‘Tabs,’ he said, and his voice shook. He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Tabs. I’m so sorry. About leaving you in Fayt. And … and about everything.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘You must be really angry with me, and you’re right to be. I was—’ He broke off, realizing what she’d just said. ‘Did you say “that’s all right”?’

  Tabitha nodded. She still wasn’t looking at him, but something about her had softened.

  ‘I think I just want to forget about it.’

  Joseph could barely believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Besides,’ she went on, sifting sand through her fingers. ‘The truth is …’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’m sorry too. When we were in the warehouse, and I said … I said I would be better off without you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Joseph. He tried a smile. ‘I mean, I suppose you were right.’

  She smiled back at him, and it was the best thing he’d seen all day.

  There was a silence, but a comfortable one.

  ‘There is one thing though,’ said Tabitha finally. ‘I want to know what happened. Why did you help the Snitch?’

  Joseph hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about it. But after everything he’d put her through, he owed her an explanation at the very least.

  He reached into his coat pocket. There it was, nestled next to his heart. He pulled out the watch and handed it to her. Against all the odds, it was still ticking.

  ‘It’s a watch,’ said Tabitha. ‘So what?’

  He turned it over in her hands so that the engraving was face up. ‘See? Elijah. My father. Jeb gave it to me. He was going to take me to him. To the Old World.’

  Tabitha stared at the engraving. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

  ‘Bilge,’ she said.

  Joseph felt as though she’d slapped him. His ears twitched.

  ‘What do you mean, bilge?’

  ‘This is Jeb the Snitch we’re talking about. Listen to yourself! I already told you, he made it up so that you’d help him.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Joseph, as calmly as he could.

  ‘He tricked you, Joseph. He got someone to make that watch for him. Or maybe it was your father’s, but that doesn’t mean he’s alive. Look, don’t feel bad – he even tricked Newt into trusting him, before he betrayed us all to Captain Gore and his pirates. I know how hard it is not having a ma and a pa. But that doesn’t—’

  ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  Tabitha raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Are you sure about that?’

  He wasn’t. Not at all. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘Even if it was true, and even if you helped him, he still wouldn’t tell you. Why would he?’

  ‘I’d make him.’

  There was a pause. Something about the way he’d said that had thrown her. He swallowed. ‘I mean, I’d—’

  ‘Hey,’ said Tabitha. She smiled at him and punched his arm. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about it, all right?’

  Joseph looked back at the Fayters sitting around their fires, celebrating, and for a moment he felt like he was looking at them from outside. Like Pallione and her father, bobbing in the waters of the bay and wondering at the strange way these land dwellers behaved. He thought of the mermaid princess hunting for shells and chasing shoals of fish. Fighting in the shark pits. Singing for the Boy King. And he thought about her father, waiting for her, and dying for her.

  Forget about it.

  No. That was the one thing he couldn’t do.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  WHEN NEWTON WOKE, the snoozing figures all around him were just dim blue shapes dotting the beach. In the distance a soft orange glow ran along the horizon, staining the clouds. Dawn.

  He sat up, pushing the thin blanket aside. He ignored the ache in his back from sleeping in the wrong position, the twinge in his arm from the butcher’s sword and the pain in his chest from where Alice Turnbull had kicked him.

  It hadn’t been a restful night. That little red fireball on the League officer’s arm had kept reappearing in his dreams, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Perhaps there was a completely ordinary reason why she hadn’t worn it the day before, in Wyrmwood Manor. Perhaps not.

  And that wasn’t all. What was it the Duke of Garran had said? I only enjoy the games I know I will win. Well, he’d lost the battle. The merfolk had turned the tide and the League ships had fled. But Newton had a feeling that there was something else going on, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was. The Duke had insisted on the parley in Port Fayt, but why? He must have known Skelmerdale would never bargain with him. So what had he got out of it?

  Only one thing. The Sword of Corin.

  Newton rubbed at his stubbled chin and sighed.

  He didn’t know why the League wanted that sword. But he knew he shouldn’t have let the Duke get to him. Shouldn’t have become so angry. Should have taken the Banshee into battle, instead of that relic.

  Out of nowhere, Old Jon’s voice came into his head.

  Don’t be too hard on yourself.

  Newton pictured the elf’s face, rugged, weather-beaten and kind. Jon would have wanted him to stay strong, for the Demon’s Watch.

  He took a long, deep breath. He felt calm. Calmer than he’d felt in days.

  Whatever it meant – and whatever happened – he would be ready for it.

  ‘Newt!’

  Around him, several of the sleeping figures stirred.

  ‘Newt! Get up!’

  Tabitha’s voice. He turned and saw her stumbling towards him across the sand. Judging by her pale face and hollow eyes, she’d had as sleepless a night as he had. But he knew at once that it was more than that. Something was wrong.

  ‘It’s Joseph,’ she said breathlessly, before he could speak.

  ‘Keep it down,’ muttered one of the Fayters.

  ‘Some of us are trying to sleep,’ grumbled another.

  Tabitha ignored them. ‘I was talking to him last night, and he was being really strange. It’s not as if I said anything bad. I was just trying to be nice. And now this morning—’

  ‘What is it, Tabs?’ asked Newton gently.

  She ran her hands through her tangled hair and swallowed.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  All right. Think.

  ‘Just Joseph? Or is anyone else missing?’

  Tabitha shrugged.

  He got to his feet, laid his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Tabs. Is there anything he said last night – anywhere he might have gone?

  She chewed her lip, frowning. At last she looked up at him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He did say something. Something about Jeb the Snitch.’

 
There was a shout from further down the beach, making more of the Fayters groan and roll over. Newton turned to see Cyrus Derringer striding towards him, fully dressed in his black uniform despite the hour. Following him, half scurrying to keep up, was an imp in shirtsleeves. Newton recognized him at once.

  ‘You!’ Derringer called out. He didn’t sound happy. Didn’t look it either. ‘Mr Newton. You’re responsible for that filthy smuggler, aren’t you?’

  ‘Phineus Clagg? Why?’

  ‘Mr Newton, sir,’ said the imp, who was only just catching his breath. ‘It’s my ship. The Dread Unicorn. He’s … Well, he’s stolen it.’

  The wind was good and the Dread Unicorn had left Illon behind, a dim shape in the distance. Gulls circled above. Ahead, there was nothing but the open sea.

  ‘Not much to look at, this ol’ tub,’ said Captain Clagg. ‘Fast though, ain’t it? Even with them burned up holes in the sails. That imp and his crew’ll be hopping mad when they wake up, I’ll wager. Eh, lads?’

  His crew chorused their agreement.

  ‘And you,’ he called as he strode across the deck. ‘Knew yer’d see sense. Bunch o’ do-gooders like the Demon’s Watch. You’re much better off here with me, out on the Ebony Ocean.’

  The smuggler clapped Joseph on the back, nearly making him spill the bucket of water and soap suds he was holding. He carried on scrubbing the cannon, trying to ignore Clagg’s running commentary. It felt good to do some cleaning, just like he used to in the Legless Mermaid. Something familiar to hang on to. Something to stop him from looking back at the rapidly disappearing island of Illon, and the Fayter fleet that lay at anchor there.

  ‘Yer’ll make a fine cabin boy, just you wait and see,’ said Clagg. ‘You’ve come a long way from that scrawny, scared little tavern runt I met back in the Legless Mermaid. Maybe one day you’ll even—’

  ‘Just till Azurmouth, remember?’ Joseph interrupted. He sat up and dropped the sponge into the bucket. ‘I’m only your cabin boy until then. After that I’m leaving you. That was the deal.’

  Clagg tapped his nose. ‘Aye-aye, matey. Don’t you fret, I’m a man of my word. Yer’ll regret it though. A mongrel boy in Azurmouth! Only say the word and yer can stick with me and my crew. It’s back to smuggling for us. Just like old times, aboard the Sharkbane.’

  There was a quaver in his voice, and Joseph looked up to see that the smuggler’s eyes were filmed with tears.

  He didn’t know what to say. But thankfully Clagg was already striding off, whistling to himself and pulling a bottle of firewater from his pocket. ‘Nice drop of firewater … How I’ve missed you, my darling …’

  Joseph put down the bucket and reached into his coat. There it was, at the bottom of his inside pocket. The silver pocket watch. And next to it his fingers found the wooden spoon. Hal had been fast asleep when Joseph took it from under his pillow. What was it the magician had said? All you had to do was point the wand at the target, then think the right thoughts.

  How hard could that be?

  He remembered the last glimpse he’d had of Captain Lortt’s junk, heading east. If Jeb was going to the Old World, then Joseph was going too. He’d make the Snitch tell him the truth about his father. And more than that, he’d get his revenge. Two dragons with one fireball, as the old saying went. It was Jeb who’d tricked him into betraying his friends. Jeb who’d sided with the League. Jeb who’d shot Pallione, before the King died to save her.

  Finally Joseph knew what he had to do. And he was going to do it, even if it killed him.

  He knelt back and breathed in the fresh sea air. He felt calm at last. Almost content. And best of all, this way he wasn’t putting Tabitha or any of the other watchmen in danger. It was all up to him.

  Always do the right thing.

  He rested one hand on the hilt of his cutlass and gazed out over the prow, across the sparkling Ebony Ocean, towards Azurmouth.

  Epilogue

  AZURMOUTH. THE GREATEST city in all the Old World.

  The white carriage is waiting on the docks, emblazoned with the Golden Sun, drawn by four white horses puffing out clouds of mist in the cold morning air and stamping their hooves on the cobblestones.

  He pauses a moment on the quayside before climbing inside. It is so good to breathe Azurmouth air again. His eyes wander over the brickwork of the giant warehouses that line the docks, each one as big and imposing as the governor’s manor house in Port Fayt. Below, sailors and stevedores go about their business. So many human faces. Not an imp, elf, goblin or troll in sight. A dwarf hobbles into view from behind a warehouse, rattling a tin full of coins. The Duke of Garran frowns, turns and points out the beggar to a revenue official.

  ‘Have that taken care of.’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  Strange. He almost misses those creatures. Clearly there is some sickness in his soul that drives him to seek out demonspawn. To probe at the darkness within them.

  And yet someone must.

  He steps into the carriage as two soldiers head over to the dwarf.

  Major Turnbull follows him, settling on the plush red velvet seat opposite. She carries the Sword of Corin wrapped in a leather sheath, laid over her lap. Her delicate fingers clasp it tight as the carriage moves off.

  ‘An unfortunate loss, the Justice,’ he says mildly. ‘Expensive.’

  She nods.

  ‘But a worthy sacrifice, nonetheless.’ His eyes return to the chased silver hilt of the sword, encrusted with white star-stones. It is beautiful. ‘What spell did you use in the library, I wonder? A little emotional manipulation, perhaps – intensifying his anger and binding it to the sword? Hardly required. The only pity is that we could not crush them all at Illon. The captain of the Demon’s Watch, that mongrel—’

  ‘Filth,’ says Major Turnbull. She spits the word out like a mouthful of rotten apple. ‘Demonspawn.’

  The Duke of Garran smiles. Since the battle, Turnbull has been even more quiet than usual. This is the first thing she has said all day, and he knows he has made her furious to get that much out of her. It amuses him.

  ‘Filth, you say? Perhaps. But a worthy enough opponent for you on this occasion. You let him beat you. And with nothing more than a wooden club. Are you not ashamed?’

  Turnbull does not rise to the bait, just turns to glare out of the window at the people passing in the streets.

  ‘No matter. I do not doubt that you will have another opportunity to cross swords with him.’

  Turnbull carries on glaring, and the Duke of Garran smiles again.

  He leans forward, takes the leather sheath from her lap and places it on his own. The blade slides out easily, just a little way, so that he can admire the craftsmanship. It has stayed with him all the way from Illon, in the wavecutter he commandeered from one of his scout captains, locked up in a chest in his cabin.

  The Sword of Corin the Bold.

  The most powerful blade in all the Old World. Imbued with a magic so deep and ancient that scarcely any still remember. They will be reminded though. And from this day forward, he will not let it out of his sight.

  Soon, perhaps, the Fayters will realize what it is they have lost. The price they have paid for their little victory.

  Perhaps they will even try to take it back.

  The Duke of Garran smiles and slides the blade back into its sheath.

  Let them, he thinks.

  Let them try.

  HERE ENDS BOOK TWO

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks once again to Jane and to everyone at Lutyens and Rubinstein. To my superstar editors Hannah and Bella, and to Simon, Tilda and David. To Lauren and everyone at RHCP, and to cover wizards Alison and David. To all my wonderful supportive friends and colleagues, particularly Hugh for comments on the manuscript and Simon for trailer-making skills. A special thanks to Henry for his Latin expertise. And as ever, thanks to Mark, Verity and Katrina, who’ve read this book almost as many times as I have.

  About the Author
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  Conrad Mason was born in 1984. He studied Classics at Cambridge University and now works in London as an editor of children’s fiction. The Goblin’s Gift is his second novel, and the second title in the Tales of Fayt series. You can visit him online at www.conrad-mason.com

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