Goblin Secrets (8 page)

Sunlight peered down through the tarnished glass of the arched ceiling, outside the railcar. It was morning. Pigeons roosted on the tops of the hanging clocks. They seemed to be ignoring him. He didn’t think they were Graba’s birds. He didn’t think so.

He crept out of the station and slipped through the bars of the rusted gate. A few scattered people were going about their morning business. He picked a direction and started walking.

Zombay was a different place to him now, and for the first time in his life Rownie felt lost in it.

ROWNIE WAS HUNGRY.
This was usually true. Hunger was a constant background noise buzzing in the back of his head and the bottom of his stomach. But yesterday he had spent more effort than usual, running toward goblins and away from Grubs, and now he needed some of it back.

He let his legs take him in search of food. He found some outside the tin-roofed house of Mary Mullusk, a pale woman who thought that her family was trying to poison her. She rarely took more than one bite of anything before she threw it out her window. Rownie got there just in time to catch a green apple as it came sailing across the street.

“I wouldn’t eat that,” Miss Mullusk called to him. She sounded calm for someone who believed herself surrounded by poisoners. “It’s a tainted thing.”

Rownie bit into the apple, smiled, and shrugged. It tasted fine. It tasted perfect. She shook her head and left
the window. He waited to see if she would toss away any other tainted things, but she didn’t.

It started to rain. Rownie tightened his coat and breathed in rain smells of dusty mud and wet stone. He tried to clear his head. He was still tired and still alone. It was worse than how he felt on days when Graba moved her shack without warning anyone first or telling them where she intended to go. Rownie knew where the shack was this time, but he couldn’t go back there. It was no longer home.

He missed Rowan. But he didn’t know where Rowan might be, and he didn’t know where to start looking.

The heavy rain faded to a drizzle. Each misty droplet seemed to hang perfectly still, as though someone had shouted “Stop!” at the rain, and the rain had listened. Rownie moved through the hovering drops.

He decided to start with the alehouse in Broken Wall, where he had last seen his brother, to find out if anyone there knew anything at all. This was what you were supposed to do when you lost something—go to the last place you remembered seeing it, even if it had been a couple of months ago. He also had another reason to find the alehouse.
We
play at the Broken Wall tomorrow
, the old goblin had said. She had offered him welcome. Rownie could be a part of the goblin troupe. He could be a giant again. He could help them put on plays. Or he could slave away for
thousands of years in goblinish underground cities, if that’s what they
really
wanted him for.

Broken Wall was the name of the alehouse, and also the name of the neighborhood. It was a part of Southside where most of the buildings had been pieced together with stone from the old city wall—or else carved
into
the larger, solid blocks of the old city wall. It was a long walk to get there, and it took Rownie most of the day. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t run. His legs were still sore, and he had only scrounged up a single apple. Hunger was still there, buzzing in the middle of him.

When he got to the alehouse, he found goblins in the outside yard. Thomas stood on the roof of their wagon. He was shouting and waving his big black hat.

“I will write you into our next play!” Thomas roared. “I will sculpt your face into grotesque caricatures and paste them onto small, ugly puppets!” The alehouse windows and doors were all shut. No one seemed to be listening to the old goblin, but he continued to roar invective at the walls. “I’ll pen your name into immortal verse, and for a thousand years it will be synonymous with ridicule and scorn!”

Rownie stood at the corner of the building and wondered what the fuss was about. He was glad to see a familiar face—even one with a long nose and pointy ears—but he didn’t want to stand between a cursing goblin and the
object of his ire. He didn’t want one of the curses to fly off course and hit him by accident.

“Excuse me,” said someone behind him.

He moved out of the way. A small, slight goblin passed him with two arms full of costumes. She wore the sort of dress a lady might wear, but with the skirts hitched up over her shoulder and a soldier costume visible underneath. Her short hair was rain-wet and spiky.

A mask fell from the top of the costume pile as she went by. Rownie caught it before it hit the ground. The mask was feathered, and it sported a long, curved beak. It looked unsettling. Rownie held it so that the empty eyes weren’t looking up at him, and he followed the walking pile of costumes.

“You dropped this,” he started to say, but the goblin didn’t hear him. She was already shouting up at Thomas.

“Haven’t we put enough of our enemies into immortal verse already?” she asked. “Do we really need to humiliate a stupid alewife and her very stupid husband for the next thousand years? Really? We’ve already named villains after the players who stole Semele’s script book, and that farmer who set his dogs after us, and the alderman with the funny nose. I can’t remember what he did to deserve it. What did that alderman do to deserve an eternity of scorn?”

Thomas ignored her. He may not have heard her. “I will curse this place!” he shouted. “Your ale will turn! Your bread will be maggot-ridden! I will visit humiliations upon you in verse!”

The small goblin climbed the stairs at the back of the wagon, pushed open a door with her foot, and went inside. The door shut behind her.

Rownie knocked on the door. “You dropped this,” he said to the door, but it didn’t open.

“May the River take you!” Thomas raged above. “May the floods take your household and drown your bones! I will have our artificer build a pair of gearworked ravens, and they will croak your vile name outside your bedroom window, every night, at irregular intervals! You will never sleep again!” He lowered his voice then, but only a little. “Does anyone remember his name?”

“Cob,” said someone else. “My father’s name is Cob.”

It was a young-sounding voice. Rownie looked around the side of the wagon to see who it belonged to.

A dark-haired girl stood in one of the alehouse doorways. She carried a basket in front of her.

Thomas climbed down from the wagon roof and stood before the girl. The rain picked up, and water poured down all sides of his hat.

“Cob,” he repeated. “That is an easy syllable for a
gearworked raven to remember and croak at him. What brings you out in the rain, Cob’s daughter?”

“I’m just sorry he tossed you out,” the girl said. “You should have some payment for the show, so I brought you some bread.” She lifted the basket she held. “It’s fresh. It doesn’t have maggots in it, not unless your curses work very fast.” She gave him the basket.

“I withdraw my curses on your household,” the old goblin said. He hummed a tune, making his words into a song and a charm, stronger than just a saying. “I may yet carve a grotesque mask in your father’s likeness, but I withdraw each curse. May the flood pass your doorstep and leave dry your boots.”

“Thank you,” the girl said. “The dancers were all perfect. Please tell them.”

“I will,” he said. “But to whom should I attribute this critique? I have not yet caught your name, young lady.”

“I’m Kaile,” she said.

Thomas took off his hat and bowed. “Thank you, Kaile, for the tribute of your compliments and the bounty of your family’s bakery.” Then he rummaged around in his hat and produced a small, gray flute. “This token is yours, I think.”

Kaile took the flute. Then someone bellowed at her from the alehouse door, and the girl hurried back inside. The door slammed behind her.

Thomas seemed to diminish where he stood. He returned to the wagon with his head down, and almost bumped hat-first into Rownie.

Rownie meant to say something like,
Excuse me, sir, but one of the other players dropped this. I saved it from getting very muddy and probably stepped on.
Instead he just said, “Here,” and handed over the bird mask.

The goblin took it from him and dropped it in the basket with the bread. “Much obliged,” he said gruffly. He did not sound obliged, not even a little. He sounded disgruntled and tired. Then he looked more closely at Rownie. “I know you,” he said. “You played a giant for us, and not badly—but you vanished afterward.”

“Sorry,” Rownie said. “My grandmother was angry.”

“I see,” said Thomas. “Well, would you consider . . .” The goblin paused. Then he shoved Rownie underneath the wagon.

Rownie slipped in the mud and slid to a stop. He was not happy about being shoved. He almost shouted something about that unhappiness. Then he heard Guard-boots marching, and saw the boots stand between the wagon and the road. Rownie decided it would be better to be quiet.

One pair of boots stepped forward.

“I have heard noise complaints,” the Captain announced. Rownie knew his voice. He remembered his voice from the
alehouse, from the proclamation he gave while standing on a table. “Have you heard anything about a raving goblin throwing curses?”

“I have not,” Thomas said, “though I am impressed that the Captain of the Guard himself investigates such a minor concern. Your attention to even the most trivial duties is commendable, and I am very glad to see you. The proprietors of this alehouse have stiffed us payment for performing here, and I wish to register my own complaint.”

“Noted,” said the Captain, though he did not sound like he had actually taken note. “I am also given to understand that goblins put a mask on an unChanged child yesterday, in front of a crowd of witnesses. Goblins have masked an unChanged citizen of Zombay.”

“That would be a terrible thing,” Thomas said, gravely and seriously. “I am deeply stricken that anyone would think simple Tamlin performers, such as ourselves, could be capable of such an irresponsible deed.”

The Captain took a step forward. Rownie shuffled back a bit, underneath the wagon.

“The Lord Mayor would be very interested in the whereabouts of
any
unChanged actor,” the Captain said. “Even a child, even someone who has only worn a mask once. In exchange for such information, the Lord Mayor
could provide you with a special license to perform within the proper limits of the city.”

“That is very generous,” said Thomas. “Very generous. We would, of course, be delighted to help the Lord Mayor with his interests.”

Rownie braced himself for more running. He knew how to get away from the Guard. He knew how to zig and zag in Southside streets and escape from those who only ever marched in straight lines. His legs hated the thought of running again, but he braced himself anyway. He would run if he had to. He would make himself run.

Thomas went on. “If we hear the slightest rumors about unChanged actors, we will of course find you immediately.”

Rownie took a breath. He had been holding it. He hadn’t noticed. He wouldn’t have to run. The old goblin wasn’t about to turn him in.

“Do so,” said the Captain. “I have further business here, but my officers will happily escort you to a proscribed area at this time.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Thomas, with politeness and courtesy. “Certainly.”

The Guard-boots made precise turns, and surrounded them. Rownie heard Thomas climb up into the driving seat. A gearworked mule unfolded itself at the front of the wagon. Rownie could see coal glowing red in its belly.

They use coal
, he thought, horrified.

The mule began to trot. Rownie’s hiding place was moving, and now he had nowhere to go. There were Guard-boots in every direction he looked.

A hatch opened in the wagon floor above him. Several pairs of hands reached down, caught him, and pulled him inside.