by Tom Holt
Ms. White was silent for a long time. Then she said, “You know, I think it probably would.”
“An obscenely large amount of money?”
“True,” Ms. White said. “And it’s tempting, I’m not denying it. But then I ask myself, in the sort of world that would inevitably result, what would there be to spend all that money on that could possibly be worth having?”
“Oh, you,” the Eye said. “You’re just an old worrywart, you are.”
“Maybe.” She picked up a lace mob cap she knew for sure she wouldn’t be needing again and draped it over the mirror, extinguishing the Eye. Just for a split second, she hesitated; then she grabbed the door handle and pulled it toward her.
The door was dwarf-made, three-ply oak, studded with square-headed nails. A dwarf could open and close it easily, but she wasn’t quite that strong. She had to tug a bit, and so when it opened it came with a bit of a rush, and that caused a bit of a backdraught, just enough to flutter under the trailing hem of the mob cap and lift it for a fraction of a second.
Which was all it took.
The hem floated down again and the mirror was covered once more. Ms. White stood in the doorway, chewing her lip. Then she reached out and picked up the mirror.
“Oh, go on, then,” she said, and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Explain,” Mordak said wearily. “And it had better be good.”
The Employment and Welfare Minister gave him a bewildered look. “It’s a list,” he said. “Of names.” To reinforce the point, he prodded the parchment roll with his foreclaw. “Names of goblins. Written down.”
Goblins are good at patience in the same way rain excels at spontaneous combustion. It cost Mordak more than he could express to count up to five under his breath and not start yelling. “I can see that,” he said. “It’s a long list.”
“Yup.”
“Lots and lots of names.”
“That’s right.”
“Names of goblins you want me to put to death.”
The Minister nodded brightly. Finally getting somewhere at last. “You’ve got to sign it,” he explained. “Before we can start the executions. Red tape and all that.”
“I know,” Mordak said. “What I don’t know is, why do you want all these people killed?”
The Minister sighed. Here we go again. “They don’t comply with the new legislation,” he said.
“I see. Which new legislation are we talking about?”
The Minister had come prepared. From the sleeve of his robe he produced a folded square of vellum, slightly nibbled at one corner. He unfolded it and handed it over.
“This is the new Employment Act.”
“Yup.”
Mordak scratched his head. The Act hadn’t gone down well. It dealt with such issues as working conditions, health and safety, a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, and his Dark subjects didn’t hold with it at all. Where’s the Evil in that, they said. Mordak had pointed out that a happy, well-fed, healthy workforce resulted in higher productivity, regardless of whether they were making widgets or enveloping the Realms in impenetrable darkness; anything that upped the efficiency of the forces of Night was good for Evil, end of discussion. They’d agreed because they had to, but he had the feeling it wasn’t over yet.
“So where does it say in the Act about killing three thousand goblins?”
The Minister stabbed at a paragraph with his claw. “There, look. Paragraph six.”
“What? But that’s just—”
“The living wage,” the Minister said. “Well, this lot don’t comply.”
“They don’t?”
The Minister shook his head. “The living wage is three Iron Pence a day, right? Well, this lot don’t earn that much.”
“So?”
“So they can’t go on living, can they?” The Minister produced a stub of charcoal pencil and indicated the dotted line at the bottom of the list. “If you’ll just sign there, we can get on with it.”
Mordak got as far as four. Then he crumpled the list into a ball and ate it. “Nice try,” he said. “Now go away and do some work, before I get annoyed with you.”
It was generally held that Mordak was at his most terrifying when he didn’t shout. The Minister looked into his eyes, saw something there that he didn’t like one bit, and backed away out of the audience chamber, slamming the doors shut behind him.
Mordak sighed and poured himself a stiff skull of milk. You do your best, he thought, and they fight you every step of the way. He glanced up and caught sight of the motto he’d had carved, in foot-high letters, on the opposite wall.
Tough on Good.
Tough on the causes of Good.
He’d hoped that would’ve sunk in by now, but apparently not. To him it was blindingly obvious. For Evil, Good is the greatest enemy. Evil exists to stamp out Good in every one of its various forms and permutations; so, the logical thing must be to start with the causes of Good, the factors that brought it into existence in the first place. And what made people do Good? Easy-peasy. Compassion for the unfortunate, righteous indignation at cruelty, tyranny and injustice, a burning desire to right wrongs. Now think about that for a moment. If there are no unfortunates, you can’t feel sorry for them. If there’s no cruelty, tyranny or injustice, they can’t inspire you to make the world a better place. If there are no wrongs, you can’t right them. Get rid of the root causes of virtue, and Good could be obliterated practically overnight. It was so simple, so logical; and yet they just didn’t get it.
A shuffling noise from the direction of the doorway caught his attention and he looked up. A very small, skinny, bony goblin in a helmet two sizes too big for him was standing in the shadows, trying his best to look as though he wasn’t there. Mordak knew what that meant. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot directly in front of the Iron Throne. The goblin approached, very slowly.
“Let me guess,” Mordak said. “There’s a message for me.”
“Mm.”
“It’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Um.”
“So good, in fact, that you and your mates in the guardhouse had a discussion about whose turn it was to be the messenger, and because you’re the smallest and the weakest and the one least likely to be missed, you won.”
“Mhm.”
“Fine.” Mordak sighed. “Go ahead,” he said. “I won’t eat you.”
(Not willingly, anyhow. To the list of the goblin’s qualifications, he added least appetising. Not a bad thing to be, in the Household Guards.)
“Um,” said the goblin. “There’s some people to see you.”
“Is that right.”
“Three of them.”
“I see.”
“Humans.”
“Nobody’s perfect.” He thought for a moment. Three humans, strolling up to the Black Gate? Very brave, very stupid or absolutely sure they’d be safe. He could rely on natural selection to weed out the first two categories, so whoever these humans were, they were bad news. Which tied in perfectly with his small friend here getting the job of announcing them. “You’d better fetch them in, then,” he said. “Go on, scoot.”
While he was waiting, he had a small bet with himself about the identity of two of the humans, and wasn’t entirely overjoyed to discover that he’d won.
“You again,” he said.
The very old man gave him a sad grin. “That’s right, Your Majesty, and fancy you remembering us. I was just saying to young Art, I bet you he’ll remember us, that’s the hallmark of a true gent, not forgetting a face.”
The skinny young man standing next to him ate a chicken sandwich. He had a wooden box slung over his shoulder on a carrying strap.
Mordak jerked a thumb at the third human. “Who’s he?”
“My name’s John, Your Majesty,” the third human said. “John the Lawyer. I’m here to, um, well.” Mordak noticed that the knuckles of his balled fists were white. “I represent my client, United Realms Holdings Limited.”
“That’s a funny name.”
The old man smiled. The young man ate a slice of cheesecake. John the Lawyer cleared his throat and went on, “I’m, um, here to ask all of you gentlemen to leave.”
Mordak blinked. “Leave.”
“That’s right, yes. In accordance with a notice to quit duly served.” He paused, and looked like he was struggling for breath. “My client having gained an order for vacant possession from the Chief Registrar of the High Court of Elvenhome. Terribly sorry and all that, but you’ve got to go.”
“Excuse me?”
“Vacate the premises.” John the Lawyer fumbled a sheet of parchment from his sleeve, held it up and dropped it. The old man retrieved it and gave it back to him. “It’s all in here,” John said.
Mordak leaned forward, took the paper and glanced at it. “The whole palace,” he said.
John nodded. “And the dungeons, the mines, the stairs of Snirith Bugol and the Pit of Orogruin. By noon today.” He swallowed. “That’s in about forty-five minutes.”
Mordak nodded slowly. “Or?”
John closed his eyes and kept them shut for two or three seconds. “Or I’m afraid I shall have to ask these gentlemen here to, um, throw you out. Using only the minimum of reasonable force, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Mordak replied. He drummed his claws on the arm of the throne three times. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
John shrugged helplessly. The old man gave him a reassuring nod. “A minimum of reasonable force, Your Majesty. Isn’t that right, Art?”
The young man ate an apple turnover. Mordak gazed at all three of them, but it didn’t help. “All right,” he said. “What’s really in the box?”
The old man looked incredibly sad. “Well, sir, it’s a bit technical, really.”
“Go ahead. I have an enquiring mind.”
“It’s called a neutron bomb, sir. It’s a sort of little gadget thing that kills people but leaves buildings standing. It’s not from around here. Like the Vickers gun, sir. In fact, there’s no reason why you should have heard of it.”
“Like that thing that made holes in steel plates.”
The old man nodded. “A bit like that, sir. In the same way a tiny puppy’s a bit like a very, very big dog. If you get my meaning, sir.”
“I get you,” Mordak said slowly. “I don’t suppose you’re going to give me a demonstration.”
The old man grimaced and rubbed his chin. “Could do, sir, could do. Only too happy to oblige a real gent like yourself, sir, nothing’s too much trouble, if you get my meaning. The only problem is, in order to show you how it works, we’d have to set it off in a confined space full of lots of people. Much better all round if you just took my word for it, Your Majesty. You know I’d never lie to someone like your good self, far too much respect.”
“No,” Mordak said quietly, “I don’t suppose you would.” He rested his chin on his hand and stared at the old man, who met his gaze with a steady blank smile. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can, sir, bless you. Ask us anything you like.”
“Who are you?”
The old man smiled. “Well, sir,” he said, “this here is young Art. He’s my nephew. And I’m his uncle.”
“Right. And you’re not from around here.”
“No, sir. Fact is, we’re not from anywhere in particular, Art and me. We just go where the job takes us, if you follow my drift.”
Mordak nodded. “And that box—”
“Yes, sir.” The old man spread his sticklike arms and noiselessly mouthed boom. “Bit of a sledgehammer to crack a nut if you ask me, but that’s our orders, sir, you know what it’s like. Being a military man yourself and all.”
“So if you let that thing off, won’t you go with it?”
The old man laughed. “That’s so like you, Your Majesty, sir, always worrying about the little people. But we’ll be all right, sir, Art and me. We always are.”
The young man nudged the old man in the ribs and extended his skinny wrist, around which was a steel bracelet, mounted with a round, glass-framed ornament. Then he ate a sausage roll. “Just thought I ought to mention, sir,” the old man said, “don’t want to rush you or anything but time is getting on. You now have thirty-nine minutes to evacuate the premises. Sorry about that. Just doing our job, sir. You know how it is.”
“You know what,” Mordak said. “I think I may decide to call your bluff.”
“Call it what, sir?”
“Or maybe not. You couldn’t give me just a teeny bit longer, could you? Say, five years. Only we’ve got ever such a lot of stuff squirrelled away down here.”
A tragic look contorted the old man’s craggy face. “If it was up to me, sir, you could have as long as you like. Always had the greatest respect, sir, been following your career for years now, I think it’s marvellous, what you done with the New Evil and all. But it’s not up to me, sir, and that’s the long and the short of it, so if you could possibly see your way to clearing out at some point in the next thirty-eight minutes, me and Art, we’d really appreciate that. Save us a lot of trouble and aggravation and getting blown up, that would.”
“Fine. Any suggestion as to where we can go?”
“Oh, anywhere you like, sir, that’s entirely up to you, not my place to go telling you what to do, wouldn’t be respectful. You go where the fancy takes you, sir, just so long as it’s not anywhere on land owned by the parties we represent. That’s me and the lad, sir. Anywhere else, though, that’ll be right as ninepence.”
Mordak nodded slowly. “So what do these parties of yours actually own?”
“Oh, just a few bits and bobs here and there. Art, where’s that map? Show the gentleman the map.”
The young man felt in one pocket, found a prawn and mayonnaise sandwich, ate it, felt in his other pocket, found a blueberry muffin wrapped in a bit of old paper, ate the muffin, smoothed out the paper and handed it to the old man, who gave it to Mordak. “Just the bits coloured red, sir.”
Mordak looked at it. He frowned. “That’s a lot of red,” he said.
“There’s a green bit just there, sir. Oh, you’ve got your thumb over it. If you’ll allow me.” The old man nudged a claw an inch to the left. “There you are,” he said. “Masses of room.”
“That’s Elvenhome.”
“Is that right, sir? Sorry, haven’t got my reading glasses.”
“Which is full of Elves.”
The old man gave him a sad smile. “Currently full of Elves,” he said.
“And we’d have to shift them if we wanted to live there.”
“Thirty-seven minutes, sir. Well, yes, you would have to do that. But I’d have thought—no offence intended and forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn—I’d have thought you’d have liked that. Being a goblin and all.”
Mordak lifted his head a little and gazed into the old man’s watery spaniel eyes. “So either we launch an unprovoked attack on Elvenhome and get shot to bits with arrows or we get slaughtered by what’s in your nasty little box there.”
The old man looked straight back at him; sorrow, but no guilt or regret. “I always say, don’t I, Art? That King Mordak, he’s a real gent. To think: a king of the goblins who’d rather be wiped out with his entire race than go to war with the Elves. That’s really putting your money where your mouth is, sir. I respect you for that, I really do. That’s integrity, that is.”
Mordak sighed. “Thirty-seven minutes, you said.”
“More like thirty-six now.”
“Thanks,” Mordak said. “Thanks a whole lot.” He stood up, sagging slightly, like someone carrying a heavy load on his shoulders. “Just out of interest.”
“Sir?”
“These creeps you work for. Who are they?”
The old man sighed. “Sorry, sir. That’s need-to-know, that is. More than my job’s worth to tell you that.”
Mordak nodded slowly. “Let me hazard a guess,” he said, “just for the p
ure hell of it. You don’t have to say anything, of course.”
“Of course, sir. Mum’s the word.”
“I’m guessing,” said Mordak, “that they’ve got something to do with those crazy humans living in the wizard’s tower and the old mine and places like that. Well?”
The old man’s face was completely blank. “Could be, sir, could well be. Anything’s possible.”
“Got you. Right, I suppose I’d better get on with it.” He crossed the room and banged on a door with his fist. “Guards,” he yelled. “You two,” he added, “get out. Nothing personal and I know you’re only doing your job, but if I ever catch you anywhere near me again, so help me, I’ll—”
They’d gone, vanished without a sound or a trace. Of course they had. Out of sheer curiosity Mordak searched the room, under the chairs and behind the big oak chest, but all he found was the stub end of a crust and a paper bag with a few crumbs in it.
The stranger, who wasn’t from around there, sat on a tree stump and gazed up through the dappled forest canopy at a cloudless blue sky. He’d tried to follow the directions he’d been given by Pat Lushington, but for some reason they didn’t seem to correlate very well with the actual geography, and he’d come to the conclusion that he was lost. That bothered him, but not all that much. When you have no idea who you are, not knowing where you are isn’t all that big a deal.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember, but it didn’t work; you can turn the key, but if the battery’s flat, it’s flat. He frowned, considering the imagery he’d just resorted to. Turn the key of what, in what? He realised he knew what a car was, and how you make it go, and every pertinent detail of the science behind the principles of the internal combustion engine; at some point, therefore, it was logical to assume that he’d used a car, maybe even had one of his very own. But as far back as he could remember he couldn’t recollect ever having seen one, so how could he possibly know about such things? That’s if they even existed, a proposition for which he had no external evidence whatsoever.
Plato, he remembered, argues that since human beings generally know far more than they could possibly ever have learned, the excess knowledge must have been carried forward from a previous existence. He scratched his head. He had no idea who Plato was, but never mind. So, he thought, maybe I had a previous life, then I died, then I came here. That would account for it, maybe, or maybe not. He seemed to know an awful lot of stuff that other people didn’t know, while at the same time not knowing an awful lot of stuff that other people knew, which prompted the inference that he was rather different from them, possibly as a result of having lived and acquired knowledge and experience in a radically different environment, possibly attributable to geographical separation. Or, as the nice lady had put it, he wasn’t from around here. In which case, he must be from somewhere else. In which case, what was he doing here? Um.
