Дэйв Дункан - Magic Casement

Now Pondague was danger and enemies. Rap had no money. He wore goblin clothes and goblin tattoos, so he might well be cut down on sight if he ran into a contingent of Imperial troops. Living off the land south of the mountains was going to be difficult, or impossible. He knew roughly what farms were and how farmers felt about poaching. He did not know where Kinvale was. He supposed that it was a place like Krasnegar, but he had no idea how far from the mountains it was, nor how to find it.

His first trial would be to sneak through the pass unobserved. Probably he would be safer south of the mountains, where goblins were no threat and hence would not so readily provoke violent reaction. He would have to find someone—a priest, perhaps—and explain his problem. With luck he might obtain a guide who would believe his story and deliver him to Kinvale on the promise of reward from Inos. Then Rap could dress like a civilized man again and regain his self-respect. Inos would find employment for him until he could return to Krasnegar with her, by land or sea, as she chose.

Unless Andor had already got to her, of course.

Then what?

Eventually Rap decided that he did not know the answer to then what? He rose, took up a spruce bough, and swept clean an area of floor near the fire. The goblin sat cross-legged and watched without comment or question.

“Right!” Rap stripped off his jacket. “Come and give me some wrestling lessons.”

Little Chicken shook his head.

“You’re my trash, you say? Then I order you to come and give me a wrestling lesson!”

A firmer head shake. Trash, apparently, could decide what trash was good for.

“Why not?”

“I hurt you.” A faint smile played over the goblin’s big mouth.

“A few bruises won’t matter. I want to learn, and I need the exercise.”

Another refusal.

Beginning to shiver without his coat, Rap swallowed any trace of pride he might have retained. “Please, Little Chicken? I’m bored! It would be fun.”

“Too much fun.”

“What does that mean?”

Little Chicken’s eyes glinted in the firelight: “I start to hurt you, might not stop. Too much fun.”

He was quite capable of dismembering a man with his bare hands. Hastily Rap took up his jerkin and dressed again.

The third day… a faint light was glimmering through the chinks in the walls and windows that had been plugged with branches. Rap had not realized until he came to this ruined cabin that goblin buildings had windows at all. Apparently they were normally covered over in winter.

He sighed and glanced again at Little Chicken, inevitably sitting cross-legged, bare-chested, idly poking his long stick at the fire. His patience was inhuman. In the firelight his dusky skin shone greenly. His curiously slanted eyes were unreadable. Try conversation again? Just maybe a little companionship? “When we get to Kinvale—” Rap’s voice sounded strange after so many hours of silence. “—then I shall release you.”

“I am your trash.”

“Not forever! You have done wonders for me. I could never have come this far without you, so I am very grateful. If I could reward you, I would.” Perhaps Inos would give him money to reward Little Chicken. What would he buy with it, though?

“Reward?” The familiar faint smile of contempt appeared on the goblin’s face. “You will not give me what I want.”

“What’s that?” Rap rather thought he could guess the answer.

“Go back to Raven Totem. Kill slowly, much pain.”

Rap shuddered. “I kill you? And then your brothers would do the same to me?”

The goblin shook his head. “Not if you do good work, make good show. Kill slow—win honor.”

“Never! I could not do that to anyone. And I am grateful to you. I like you. I want us to be friends.”

“I am your trash.” Little Chicken directed his attention once more to the sparkling logs.

“You won’t be able to help me at Kinvale,” Rap said firmly. “Nor back at Krasnegar.”

“I shall look after you.” Little Chicken seemed to think that the conversation was over. Arguing with him was like trying to bail out the Winter Ocean with a leaky bucket.

“I will give you your freedom!”

The goblin shook his head at the fire and said nothing.

“You mean that you are my trash forever?” What could Rap do with a slave in Krasnegar, a slave who refused to be freed?

Little Chicken looked up now and stared steadily at him for a while. He seemed to make a decision. “Not forever.”

“Good! Until when?”

“Until the Gods release me. Not you.”

This was progress! “And when will the Gods release you?”

“I shall know.”

Suddenly Rap did not like the expression on that wide, greenbrown face. “And how shall I know?”

“I take care of you until the Gods release me,” Little Chicken repeated. He licked his lips. “Then I kill you.”

“Oh, great! You mean that you are my faithful slave until one day you decide you’re not, then you just kill me?”

The goblin’s oversized teeth showed in a sudden friendly grin and Rap laughed in relief. He had been afraid that Little Chicken was serious. It was a surprise to learn that he did have a sense of humor after all.

“You won at testing, town boy. Good foe! I did not know then. I know now.”

Rap’s merriment died away. “Do I get any warning?”

Little Chicken shook his head, still smiling.

“When do I get this surprise? Soon? Or not for years?”

“I shall know when. Then I kill you. Very, very slow. Long, long pain. Good opponent, I give you good death. Light small fires on your chest. Push stick under kneecap and twist. Many days. Sand below eyelids and rub with finger…”

No, he was not joking.

Once started, he could not be stopped. From then until dusk, when his voice failed and he became hoarse, he sat by the fire, slobbering with anticipation, eyes shining bright with hatred. Trembling much of the time with the effort of confining his activities to conversation instead of putting his plan into action at once, the goblin described in infinite detail the revenge he had been devising.

They were on their way! Inos could hardly believe that it was not a dream. But it was real! She was really sitting in a real coach, facing Aunt Kade and Isha, her maid—and sitting next to Andor, too.

Seven days with Andor back in Kinvale! They had been seven days of heaven, and days of frenzied packing, as well—what to leave, what to set aside for shipping, what to try to squeeze into impossibly small packs. They had also been seven days of farewells, of hastily arranged parties, of dancing, and of continuous heavenly music that no one but she had been able to hear. Or had Andor detected a chord or two? She hoped so. The obnoxious Yggingi had vanished, gone ahead to Pondague to arrange for an escort, and his departure had been almost as great a blessing as Andor’s return… No, it hadn’t. Having Andor back, knowing that he had cared enough to cross the bitter taiga in winter, for her—that was the greatest miracle of all.

They had not had a moment alone, not one, but even in the crowds she had been conscious of hardly anyone but him—his smile, his laugh, his imperturbable strength. It had been Andor who had made it all possible at so little notice, purchasing a coach and horses, hiring men to drive it, planning itinerary—organizing and arranging. Aunt Kade had been grateful to leave all those masculine tasks to him. There had hardly been time, even, to brood very much over her father’s illness.

Andor was coming back to Krasnegar! Because they had never been alone together, he had not repeated the pledge he had given her before he left, but his eyes had spoken it many times. Andor was coming to Krasnegar… to stay? Always?