The Goblin War (23 page)
“Agreed,” said Cogswhallop. “As long as it’s you yourself, Sunlord, who determine just what constitutes ‘material assistance.’ Not the Landholders’ Council, or the priests, or some court judge. You.”
“I’ll accept that,” said the Hierarch, “on one condition. That young Mistress Etta will assist me. Not just with this. I can think of dozens, hundreds of matters in which her . . . gift, is it? . . . might prove useful.”
Now half the council looked horrified.
Etta climbed out of the pouch and dropped to the floor. She looked incredibly small as she went to stand before the Hierarch’s throne, but she gazed into those sky-blue eyes fearlessly.
“I don’t mind working for a human,” she said. “But what for? This would be a separate bargain, between you and me. And we goblins, we don’t work cheap.”
“Done,” the Hierarch pronounced. “The agreement be-tween the Realm and the goblins will be drawn up, signed, and witnessed, so that none may argue later that it was not as it is. Mistress Etta and I can continue our negotiations in private.”
Etta nodded.
Jeriah’s hand yanked Makenna out of her farewell curtsy, and he dragged her out of the hall. He would have dragged Cogswhallop too, but the goblin, for all his calm expression, was moving to escape even faster than Jeriah was.
“Where’s Tobin?” the young knight demanded the moment the great doors closed behind them. “Did you find him? Is he all right?”
Cogswhallop looked a bit nervously over the open terrace. “Is that girl really going to work here?” Already the clerks and courtiers who passed by were stopping to stare.
“Probably,” said Makenna. “It’s up to her. But city goblins are more accustomed to humans than we are—and frankly, I think the prospect of working with a Truth Seer who has no loyalty to any political faction is what clinched the deal. Did you find Tobin?”
“What’s happened to him?” Jeriah asked. “Why hasn’t he come home? Is he all right? Where—”
“I’ll tell you,” said Cogswhallop, “if you’ll shut your yap long enough for me to get a word out.”
His calm, sardonic expression had already answered the most important question, and Makenna felt a terror she’d refused to acknowledge melt away.
“Don’t get too happy just yet, Gen’ral.” Cogswhallop could read her face too. “He’s alive, and he looks well enough from what I could see, but he’s in trouble yet. The barbarians have him.”
Makenna’s heart stopped. “And you left him there? They sacrifice—”
“No, no,” said Cogswhallop swiftly. “Sit down, hero, if you’re going to faint. I shouldn’t have said they had him. Though it’s hard to think how to put it another way.”
Jeriah sank down on the rim of a planter, though Makenna thought it was less because he was feeling obedient than that his knees were about to give way.
“What are you talking about?
Where’s Tobin?
”
So Cogswhallop explained. And explained some more. Makenna soon forgot the stares of the passersby, for the bizarre story held all her attention. If Cogswhallop had his way, they’d soon get used to seeing goblins out and about.
“You mean he’s working in their camp as a servant?” she finally asked incredulously. “They think he’s one of them? How could that possibly be?”
“I don’t know how it came about,” said Cogswhallop. “But that’s certainly how it looked to me. I couldn’t get near enough to ask him, either. Those barbarian warriors, somehow they always knew where I was, Gen’ral. If I got anywhere near one of ’em—as much as a hundred yards, sometimes—their heads went up like hounds scenting the wind. I had to dig into a badger burrow once, to escape ’em. I’d heard that they could sense our presence, but I’d not rightly believed it till I saw. I couldn’t begin to get near him, nor sneak a written message in to where he’d find it. But if I went back with a support troop, I might. And once we make contact, well, you taught me yourself, the first step in any battle plan is information. It’s going to be tricky, but I’ve got an idea.”
T
OBIN FIRST BECAME AWARE OF
Cogswhallop’s idea when he heard a deep voice shouting curses. He’d grown so accustomed to hearing everything through his amulet’s translation that it took a while to realize that those curses were in the language of the Realm.
Tobin had been sweeping the packed earth floor of Vruud’s tent, and he almost rushed out to aid whoever it was. Fortunately his brain started working, and he peered through the tent flaps instead, as a struggling knot of warriors rolled into camp.
Tobin recognized Cogswhallop’s voice before he saw him; the small goblin put up an amazing fight, kicking and biting as well as shouting threats. It was incredibly courageous and completely futile—and Cogswhallop was too smart to waste so much effort to no purpose. It was also incredibly noisy.
Exasperated affection warred with fear. Was Cogswhallop creating all this commotion to attract Tobin’s attention? It had certainly worked!
After some discussion, the warriors who’d captured the goblin thrust him into the cage they used to transport chickens, for the goblin could slip right through the bars of their human prison. Tobin waited till the goblin was safely stored, then went in search of Vruud.
“Friend of yours, is he?” The storyteller’s single eye glinted. “Well, he found you, I’ll give him that.”
“Will they use a goblin in the blood trust?” Tobin persisted. “Can they? Goblins have innate magic, like the spirits, so I hoped . . .”
He stopped then, because he wasn’t sure what to hope for. If Cogswhallop couldn’t be used in the blood trust, the Duri might kill him immediately.
Vruud sighed. “You’re going to insist on rescuing him too, aren’t you? I knew it! We named you people ‘soft’ in truth. No, don’t answer. I don’t care why, or how, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our escape.”
“It might aid in our escape,” Tobin told him. “Cogswhallop probably came to help me—”
“And got himself captured before he could even reach you. How reassuring.”
“Will they use him in the blood trust?”
“No,” said Vruud. “I don’t know if a goblin can absorb a spirit, like a dying human can. But even if it could, it doesn’t have enough flesh to pass the magic on to the warriors of an entire camp—much less two camps! So when they capture the spring spirit, they’ll kill one of us. Unless, of course, another of your friends turns up.”
Tobin preferred to ignore this. “Then what happens to Cogswhallop?”
“Oh, they’ll eat him as soon as a shaman can set up the ceremony,” Vruud said. “Probably a day or two, but it might—”
“What? You said he couldn’t be used in the blood trust!”
“He can’t,” Vruud confirmed. “But as you pointed out, goblins have innate magic. No one is certain if consuming that magic strengthens a Duri’s blood-trust magic or not. Some swear it does, some say they feel no effect. So few goblins are captured that it’s hard to gather much information, but they won’t waste any chance of enhancing their own magic.”
“I have to get him out of there now!” Tobin rose to his feet. “Tonight!”
“Not tonight,” said Vruud. “The shamans are going out to set more traps around the spring. Your friend should be safe tomorrow as well. The shamans say a ceremony is needed to make the goblin’s magic compatible with ours. Some people think that’s just the shamans’ attempt to make themselves important, but they’ll insist on it, and it takes some time. You’ve probably got two nights.”
Tobin’s racing heart slowed. “Good, that gives me time to come up with a plan.”
“Well, I’d advise you not to take too long,” Vruud said. “And, Softer?”
“Yes?”
“It had better not interfere with our escape.”
Tobin wanted desperately to talk to Cogswhallop, but he didn’t dare be seen near the cage. Even if no one was suspicious at the time, once the goblin had escaped, they might remember seeing him there.
Fortunately, Hesida had been assigned to feed this prisoner too. Unlike the bars of the human cage, nothing in the chickens’ transport pen was designed to give way—and it had been built to resist not only chickens’ beaks but foxes’ teeth. The woven bronze wires were too strong for even Tobin to break, but they’d closed the cage with a simple iron lock.
“I can’t get the key,” Hesida told him. “Neither can you. The chief shaman’s wearing it on a chain around his neck. I can take your friend a message—he’s wearing a blood trust. But I don’t—”
“He won’t need a key.” Tobin passed her a handful of metal scraps he’d picked up in the burned-out village. “Give him these, and ask him if they’ll do. They’re thin enough that he can bend them.”
Hesida looked dubiously at the bits of wire and old nails. “I thought goblins couldn’t touch iron. That’s what Pram said when he put that lock on the cage.”
“This one can,” Tobin told her. “Tell him to make sure he can get that lock open fast, and be ready to run when I give him the chance.”
“And how will you do that?” Hesida asked.
“I’m working on it.”
In truth, he already had some ideas. The goat-pen gate faced the chicken cage, with only a small yard between them, and the goats were penned up at night. All Tobin needed was something to set them in motion, and he had an idea for that as well.
“Why do you want to come with me to the Kabasi camp?” Vruud asked suspiciously. “All I’m doing there is teaching that young idiot the whole chura song cycle, instead of the four measly verses he knows. I don’t need my servant for that.”
“The mules could use some exercise,” Tobin told him. “Which is true, anyway. But while you’re teaching song cycles, I’m going to try to convince a leopard to pee.”
He couldn’t get the leopard to cooperate. For one thing, it was tethered in a large pen, not stuck in a cage like Tobin had hoped. And several of the Kabasi camp chanduri told Tobin it might maul anyone foolish enough to approach it. Even if he’d been willing to take that risk, it showed no sign of needing to urinate in the entire time Tobin watched.
It was a gorgeous creature, its yellow eyes mostly shut, its tufted tail twitching as it napped in the shade. But the short fur on its legs and feet did nothing to conceal its strong arced claws. And even if Tobin had dared enter the pen, he had no idea how to obtain the result he needed.
In the end, he located the much smaller cage where the big cat was kept at night and scraped some of the noisome earth beneath it into his jar. It might not be as intense as the pure liquid version, but it smelled pretty strong to him. It made the mules so nervous, Tobin had to seal the jar with wax and wash both the outside of the jar and his hands before he could put it back in Mouse’s saddlebag.
Tobin chose the time just after sunset. The camp was quieting down and most had retired, but there were still enough people around that his presence wasn’t suspicious.
He had an excuse to visit the meadow where the mules were tethered. On the way back, it took only moments to open his jar and dump small piles of the stinking dirt behind the goat pen’s fence posts, where it wasn’t likely to be noticed.
The goats began to bleat and mill as soon as he opened the jar. Tobin smashed the crockery and buried the pieces in the midden heap. By the time he returned, the goats had gathered at the far side of the pen, pressing against the gate, leaping, muttering uneasily.
Tobin took a quick look around. Several fires still flickered, but there wasn’t much light at this end of the camp. He hadn’t dared approach Cogswhallop. Hesida said the goblin was all right, and he trusted her.
Looking at the chicken cage now, Tobin saw nothing but a dark lump huddled in the center.
Had Cogswhallop opened the lock? Was he ready to run? Or was he injured, asleep, unable to pick the lock with the clumsy tools Tobin had provided?
As he hesitated, a small pale hand thrust through the wires, flashing an unmistakable signal: “Get on with it!”
Tobin strolled casually to the goat pen’s gate, reached down, and tripped the latch.
He’d expected the goats to take some time to discover their freedom. He’d even thought he might have to go behind the pen and make some leopardish noise to set them in motion.
The moment the latch opened, the gate slammed wide, banging into Tobin’s hip so hard, he staggered.
Goats raced out in a bounding, bleating flood, almost knocking him down as they hurtled past. Struggling to keep his feet, Tobin grabbed a fence post and looked back at Cogswhallop’s cage. The door was open, the goblin gone.
Shouts erupted through the camp. Tobin didn’t have time to get away from the pen, so he let out a shout of his own and reversed course, wading through the stream of goats toward the gate. There were only two goats in the pen when he reached it, so he shut them in and turned to see what he’d wrought.
Goats zigzagged through the camp, leaping wildly when anyone tried to capture them. A few forgot the leopard scent, stopping to sample a bite of the tunic someone had hung out to dry or tip the lid off a porridge pot. But most of them headed swiftly away, racing right through the camp toward the desert.
Both Duri and chanduri ran to catch them. Most of them only added to the chaos, although a couple of people were already dragging struggling, shrieking animals back to the pen.
