by Philip Reeve
But when they reached the Street of Antiquaries, Carnglaze met them on the steps of his house. He was wearing his best embroidered robes, and looking harried. “Henwyn!” he cried. “Where have you been! We’ve been looking everywhere! The High King has agreed to meet with you and hear your plea, this afternoon!”
One of the treasures which Carnglaze had brought back from Clovenstone was the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, a strange carriage which the Lych Lord had fetched by magic from another world. It was supposed to run without horses, but Carnglaze had never mastered the sorcery that made it go. Now it lived in a stable near his home and was pulled through the streets of Coriander by a team of white horses whenever he wanted to look important.
If Madam Maura had seen this remarkable carriage she would have been most intrigued. The Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow was exactly the sort of vehicle which rolled through the streets of that strange otherworld she saw so often in her visions. But Madam Maura was exhausted by conjuring up those pictures of Clovenstone in her enchanted bathtub, and she was fast asleep and snoring when the Silver Shadow went past her tent, carrying Henwyn, Skarper and Carnglaze to their meeting with the High King.
Usually it was Carnglaze himself who sat on the Silver Shadow’s roof, controlling the horses. Today, however, he wished to look particularly important, so he had persuaded Dr Prong to act as his coachman. (This wasn’t difficult; Dr Prong would have acted as almost anything in exchange for a bath and a hot meal.) Carnglaze sat inside with his guests on the soft red leather seats. King Knobbler, who had swapped his frock for footman’s livery, stood ready on the running board with a whip to lash any impertinent urchins who tried to hitch a lift on the back bumper.
Down the steep streets to the waterfront they went, and out across the causeway which led to Boskennack. In the back seat Skarper and Henwyn sat side by side in silence. Skarper was wondering whether he should tell Henwyn about his talk that morning with the dwarven girl. He decided not to. Henwyn might think it odd that Skarper had sat eating pasty with one of their sworn enemies. Not only that, he had a feeling that there was something embarrassing about going around with a girl; Henwyn might well tease him about it.
He had not seen Henwyn come home with Zeewa, for the haunted girl had run straight up to her room. Nor had Henwyn mentioned it. If he had told Skarper about Zeewa he would have had to explain where they had been, and describe his dreadful vision in Madam Maura’s tent. Just thinking about that seemed to make it more real; he certainly did not want to speak about it. (Besides, there was something embarrassing about going around with a girl; Skarper might well tease him about it.)
Henwyn’s instincts were still telling him to go back to Clovenstone as soon and as fast as he could, to try to stop the terrible events which the magic bathtub had shown him. But now, at least, he had a chance of winning the help of the High King before he left. As the Silver Shadow rolled smoothly up the steep spiral road from the causeway to the castle gate, he leaned forward in his seat, eagerly rehearsing in his mind the things that he would say when he finally stood before his majesty.
In the yard of the castle, guards in coats of shining mail greeted Henwyn, Skarper and Carnglaze as they stepped out of the Silver Shadow, and led them through courts and colonnades into an audience chamber whose windows overlooked the wide blue sea. There stood the High King, a mild-looking little man who seemed more like a grocer than a descendant of King Kennack. Behind him waited the champions from the Hall of Heroes. Henwyn, kneeling before the king with his head bowed, sneaked a look at them through his fringe, and was surprised to see that they were mostly stout, red-faced men of middle years. Of course, it was a long time since peril had threatened the Westlands: there was not much call for heroes nowadays, and perhaps they did not get much exercise. There was only one of them who looked lean and craggy and wolfish as a good hero should, but he seemed to be asleep.
“That is Garvon Hael,” whispered Carnglaze, who was kneeling beside Henwyn and had seen where he was looking. “He is a terrible drunkard, a disgrace to the Hall of Heroes. His sword once saved the island of Far Penderglaze from an attack by pirates, but after that he crawled into a wine jug, and he has never come out again.”
“So,” said the High King, in a fatherly tone. “What can we do for you, gentlemen and, er, goblin?”
“Greetings, my king,” said Henwyn, and went forward humbly, bearing the wheel of cheese which he had brought with him all the way from Clovenstone. He knelt with it before the king, and the smell that rose from it tickled the royal nostrils.
“What is that awful reek?” the High King asked.
“It is Clovenstone Blue, your majesty,” said Henwyn. “It is a sort of cheese; the produce of the new cheesery at Clovenstone. It is our gift to you.”
“Oh! Ah. . . Jolly good,” said the king, motioning for a servant, who came hurrying to take the cheese away. “Now then, young fellow, what’s all this about? Good Carnglaze here says it’s all dreadfully urgent; somethin’ about dwarves and goblins and suchlike?”
Henwyn explained about the dwarf problem. He was a little nervous, talking in such a grand hall, with all these noble and heroic men listening, but whenever he stumbled or hesitated or missed something out Skarper would step in, and between them they quickly told the whole story.
“So, your majesty,” Henwyn said, when they were done, “Princess Ned sent us here to bring the news to you, and to ask if you would send help to our little kingdom in its hour of need.”
The High King rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Well, I must say, this all sounds most unusual. Most undwarflike, wouldn’t you say? I’ve only come across the dwarves in tales and songs, but aren’t they meant to be bluff, honest, jolly fellows? Red noses and pointy red hats. Sit about in gardens, fishin’, or perchin’ on toadstools.”
“I think that’s gnomes you’re thinking of, your majesty,” said Carnglaze.
“Is it? Is it? Well, maybe. But even so, dwarves are good sorts, I’ve always been led to believe. Whereas Clovenstone is well known to be the citadel of all evil.”
“Oh, not any more, your majesty!” said Henwyn. “The Keep has fallen; there is no Lych Lord any more.”
“No, Carnglaze told me all about that: a murky-soundin’ business it was too. But they tell me that a wicked Dark Queen has taken the place of the Lych Lord.”
“That’s just silly!” said Henwyn. “Princess Ned is not wicked, and she is not a queen; she does not think of herself as ruler of Clovenstone at all. It’s just that she is by far the most sensible person there, so the rest of us usually look to her for guidance.”
“The rest of you?” the king said. “How many people live at Clovenstone?”
“Oh, hundreds,” said Henwyn, who had never counted.
“Thousands,” said Skarper, “if you count the twiglings and the troll and the boglins in the marshes.”
“But I don’t count them,” said the High King. “And I don’t count goblins, neither. How many actual human people live at Clovenstone?”
“Well,” said Henwyn. “Well, there are just the three of us. Princess Ned and Fentongoose and myself.”
“I see.”
“My family visit from Adherak sometimes. It was they who helped us to set up the cheesery.”
“And you three are asking me to send you soldiers and champions to defend you against these dwarves?” the High King mused.
Carnglaze said, “Your majesty, the law of the Westlands states that the High King shall send help to any kingdom which is in peril. It does not matter how many people live there, nor what sort of people they are.”
“Hmm,” said the High King, glaring at him. He turned and clapped his hands, attracting the attention of his heroes and champions, who had been fidgeting and staring listlessly out of the windows while all this was going on. “Well, my warriors? What say you?”
The heroes and champions looked
at one another, as if none wanted to be the first to speak.
The High King pointed to one of them, a tall, sandy-haired man wearing a gorgeous sea-green cloak. “Merion of Porthkindlass, what say you? Shall you ride north to defend these cheese-making goblins against the onslaught of the dwarves?”
“Dwarves?” said Merion. “Oh, it is very difficult to fight dwarves. They live underground, you see. We can’t ride our horses underground, and only common people fight on foot.”
“How do we know the dwarves are in the wrong, anyway?” asked another man. “These goblins and their human friends may just be trying to win our sympathy so that we’ll help them do away with some perfectly decent, hard-working dwarves.”
“It’s all a trick!” agreed a third man, and a fourth said, “I never heard a story yet where the dwarves were the villains and the goblins were good.”
Then another voice, harsher and flatter than the rest, cut across their babble.
“They are scared,” it said.
Garvon Hael, who had not moved from his seat in all this time, and who had appeared to be fast asleep, opened one wolf-grey eye.
“They are scared,” he said again, “and that is the truth of it. They call themselves heroes and champions, but how did they earn their place in Boskennack? By running their swords through brigands armed with nought but cudgels, like Merion here. Or by riding their horses over rebellious peasants, like fat Kerwen of Bryngallow over there. Or just by play-fighting; winning honour wreaths for riding or swordsmanship at the summer games (yes, I’m looking at you, Lord Ponsadane). You, young Henwyn of Clovenstone, you’re asking them to fight real battles, against real warriors, and that thought makes their blood run cold.”
The heroes reddened, or grew pale with anger. Several muttered that it was a disgrace and shouldn’t be allowed. “The man is drunk!” said Kerwen of Bryngallow, his chins wobbling with indignation. “Drunk, as always! Throw him out, your majesty!”
“Aye, banish him!” roared Ponsadane.
But before the High King could say any more, or Garvon Hael defend himself, there came a blare of brazen trumpets from outside the hall and a servant at the door said, “Your majesty! The dwarves are here!”
That brought silence. Everyone turned and stared as in through the arched entryway the dwarves came stumping. Chief Surveyor Durgar wore the same work-worn clothes that he had been wearing when Skarper and Henwyn first met him, and the two dwarves who walked behind him had not even bothered to clean the half-melted candles from the tops of their helmets. Only Etty had made an effort, plaiting blue ribbons into her hair. She walked a little way in front of her father, carrying a plain slate box with iron hinges.
“What are they doing here?” said Henwyn.
“I summoned them here myself, young man,” said the High King, sounding rather pleased with himself. “I thought that we should hear both sides of this fishy-soundin’ story before we made any decision.”
Etty glanced sideways as she passed Skarper, and he thought that she winked at him, though it was hard to tell behind those black glass goggles. She marched straight up to the High King and did not bow or curtsey, just shoved the box at him. A servant ran forward to take it from her, and held it while the High King opened the lid.
“A gift from the dwarves, your majesty,” said Durgar. “We are a plain people, and we don’t know much about court etiquette and the way to deal with kings, but we give you this as a token of friendship between men and dwarves.”
“Ooh!” said the High King, lifting it from the box. It was a magnificent crown, wrought from many different metals: copper and bronze and gold and slowsilver. Diamonds glittered and winked on its prongs. The sunlight reflecting from it seemed to make the whole hall brighter as the High King lifted it and tried it on.
“If it’s too big, we can always adjust it,” said Durgar.
“Oh no!” the High King breathed. “It’s perfect! My thanks to you, O dwarves!”
Henwyn, Skarper and Carnglaze exchanged a look which meant We wish we’d brought him something more valuable than cheese.
Garvon Hael spoke again, watching all this with a wry smile. “So I suppose you’ve come to ask our help against the goblins, have you?” he asked Durgar.
Durgar shot a a quick, questioning look from beneath his wire-wool brows. “No. Dwarves have never asked the help of men, and don’t now. All we ask is that we be allowed to go about our work without interference. There is much precious metal to be had beneath Clovenstone. Let us mine it, and do not aid the goblins if they try to stop us. Some of what we mine will go back north to Delverdale, but much will find its way into the markets of the south.”
“O king!” said Skarper, butting in. “The metal that he means is slowsilver. There is a lake of it under Clovenstone, and that is where goblin eggs come from. If Durgar and his dwarves drain it, then there will be no more eggs, and no more goblins!”
“I was about to point that out, O king,” said Durgar. “Goblins may be no threat to you now, but do you really want a whole kingdom of them, only a hundred miles from Coriander? They are wicked by nature. Who knows when a new dark lord may rise to lead them? Let us dig our tunnels, as dwarves always have. Let us drain that lake of slowsilver, and cool it into forms that can be worked with, and forge it into rare and wonderful shapes. And if by so doing, we rid the Westlands for ever of these pestilential goblins, why, is that such a high price to pay?”
The High King looked at Skarper, and it was pretty clear that he was thinking no, it wasn’t. The world would be a better place with a few less things like Skarper in it, seemed to be his view.
“Your majesty!” blurted Henwyn. “Don’t listen to him! Goblins are not wicked by nature. They like a fight, it’s true, and steal things sometimes – well, quite often – and they don’t like washing, or wiping their bottoms, or tidying up after themselves. And their table manners are atrocious. But they are good and bad and in between and often all three at different times, just as other people are. Clovenstone needs your help! You must not let these devious dwarves tell you what to do!”
“Oh, but I should let you tell me, should I?” snapped the king, losing patience with Henwyn. “My decision is made, young fellow. The dwarves should be allowed to go about their business undisturbed. We shall neither aid nor hinder them.”
“But. . .” Henwyn began.
“Throw this impertinent scoundrel out!” ordered the High King, turning to his heroes. “His friends too. Let them go back to their nasty little kingdom. I’ve heard enough of them.”
The heroes were eager to show how brave and strong they were after Garvon Hael’s mockery. Merion of Porthkindlass picked Skarper up by his tail, Kerwen and Ponsadane took hold of Henwyn, and two others seized Carnglaze. Roughly and speedily the three friends were marched out of the great hall, back through the colonnades and courts, and flung out on to the paving in front of the castle, where Knobbler and Dr Prong were waiting beside the Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.
“How did it go then?” asked Dr Prong, as they picked themselves up and dusted themselves off.
They did not bother to reply.
“If the High King will not help us,” vowed Carnglaze, “we must help ourselves. I will raise an army of mercenaries! There are many old warriors in Barragan and Musk who would be glad of employment now the wars there are ended!”
Henwyn shook his head. “That may take too long. The dwarves’ tunnels must already reach almost to the Inner Wall. But you are right, we must help ourselves. Skarper and I have wasted too many days here already. We shall start for Clovenstone this very afternoon!”
They drove back down the corkscrew road, but when they reached the waterside they found the tide had risen, and the waves now rolled over the causeway. Worse, the people who plied the little ferry boats that went to and fro between Boskennack and the shore had all heard that Henwyn and his friends ha
d earned the High King’s displeasure. None of them would take the companions back across the bay to Coriander.
“We shall have to wait here until the tide subsides this evening,” said Carnglaze angrily.
“I mean to be on the road to Clovenstone by then!” said Henwyn, and he scooped up Skarper, set him on his shoulders, and waded into the sea.
He had not gone ten paces before he started to regret it. The cold waves came up to his knees, his thighs, his waist, and he had a nasty feeling he’d be swimming by the time he reached the middle of the causeway. But behind him he could hear all the ferrymen jeering, and he did not want to give them the satisfaction of watching him turn back, so he kept going.
“What can we do when we get back to Clovenstone?” asked Skarper.
“I don’t know. We’ll think of something. Perhaps between us, if Fraddon lends a hand. . .”
“Fraddon wouldn’t even fit down those little dwarf tunnels,” said Skarper.
The waves were lapping around Henwyn’s chest by then. He heard the creak and splash of oars behind him, and guessed that one of the ferrymen had rowed after him to do a bit more jeering. “Don’t look round!” he said to Skarper. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. . .”
The boat came alongside. It was a shabby little tar-stained lobster boat, and the oarsman was Garvon Hael.
“So you are going home alone?” the grey man asked, resting on his oars and watching Henwyn push through the waves.
“What other choice do we have?” asked Henwyn.
Garvon Hael snorted. “It seems to me that you came to Coriander looking for warriors, and found only a gaggle of fat and pompous old windbags. It seems to me that if it is warriors you need, you must find them for yourself, not look to the High King to provide them.”
“And where would I find warriors?” demanded Henwyn. “Carnglaze said he would find some in Barragan or Musk, but that will take weeks, and we may have only days!” He was about to add something more but a wave chose that moment to break right in his face and so he just said, “Glup!”