Maggin produced a matching glass key and presented it to Bess with a flourish. ‘I’ll just need yer name, dear, fer the book.’
‘Elisabeth Bell.’ Bess took the key, and smiled her thanks.
Maggin beamed. ‘What-nots to follow,’ she promised, and disappeared back down the stairs.
Bess unlocked the strange glass door and went through into a narrow room with a very high ceiling. The walls were all wooden, but an enormous window set with greenish glass overlooked the street below. The room was furnished with a wooden bed, a pair of armchairs and a cupboard, together with a set of shelves. All were sized to suit Bess, a little to her relief, and everything was bright with the lively colours she had admired below.
‘It will do,’ Drig decided, having surveyed the room. He walked to the fireplace in the far wall and flicked his fingers at it, upon which gesture the neat bundle of firewood promptly burst into flame.
‘Well, now!’ said Bess, smiling broadly. ‘If this ain’t the nicest room I have ever had for me own!’
Drig seemed delighted with this praise. ‘You need not concern yourself with the matter of payment, for it is taken care of.’
Bess was quick with her thanks, for that question had been troubling her. But Drig waved this away. ‘Tis part of our agreement.’
‘My thanks, nonetheless. But what am I to do here?’
Drig took out his pipe again, though he merely put it to his lips and stood there in thought; no bubbles flowed from its bowl. ‘Mmp, well. His Maj—the Gaustin will be about someplace. By your account he will lose no time in calling the Market, so we’d best wait for that. And then, sooner or later, he will come here.’
‘Oh? Why should he do that?’
‘The Market crosses Gadrahst from border to border. Every town and village participates, and more besides – you’ll find stalls set up in the middle of the woods. If the Gaustin is looking for something in particular, he will come through every one of the bigger towns, at least.’
‘Won’t he send retainers to do the searchin’?’
‘Oh, yes. I intend to be one of them.’ Drig smiled smugly. ‘But he’ll show. He was never one to leave underlings to do everything for him. Most involved, our Gaustin. And if he is in an urgent hurry, all the more so.’ He put his pipe briefly to his lips, only to remove it again a moment later. ‘And the Motley, you know, is a popular spot.’
Bess considered. ‘How will we know if he’s the right one? After all, there is a lookalike wanderin’ about.’
Drig waved his pipe at her. ‘He will recognise you, will he not? We could not expect an imposter to have the faintest idea of who you are.’
‘Aye. True.’
Drig cackled. ‘You are useful for all manner of things, Elisabeth.’
‘Bess, please. Elisabeth’s a right lengthy nonsense.’
Drig bowed acceptance. ‘As you wish.’
Bess was left to amuse herself for the rest of the day, and she did so with alacrity. She spent happy hours exploring Gorrotop and meeting some of its residents. Most were as friendly as Drig and Maggin, with but one or two exceptions, and Bess enjoyed herself enormously. The town was lively, eccentric and powerfully interesting from end to end, and Bessie was well entertained. She wandered abroad until some hours past sundown, enjoying the plethora of merry lights that winked into being once darkness fell; the snatches of music, laughter and song she encountered as she wandered the streets; and the delicious, if strange, foods she purchased with the coin Drig had given her. She retired to bed at last in a state of high satisfaction, happier than she could ever remember being before.
She had planned to spend the following day furthering these explorations, but upon rising the next morning she found the Motley in a bustle of high excitement. She made her way down to the dining parlour at the back of the house, and found not only Maggin but Drig and a few other guests assembled around a veritable feast.
‘Bess!’ greeted Drig. ‘You are in fine time.’
‘Have a seat, lass, and eat yer fill,’ invited Maggin. ‘And ye’d best hear the news at once.’
Bess obeyed this invitation, though she had neither time nor need to reach for any food. The moment she sat down in the chair her hostess indicated, the plate before her filled itself, with naught but an odd shimmer in the air to indicate that anything unusual was happening. Generous portions of eggs, ham, fresh bread, brightly-coloured fruits and many other delicacies appeared, heaped so high upon the plate that Bess was taken aback.
‘Help yerself to what ye like,’ Maggin said with a wink, apparently noticing Bessie’s confusion.
Bess quickly got over her surprise, and began to eat. ‘What is the news?’
‘The Market!’ said Drig happily. ‘You were perfectly right! It was called at dawn, and will soon be underway.’
‘Oh!’ said Bess. ‘Mighty quick work indeed! But how was it called? I heard nothin’.’
Drig merely pointed at the window behind Bess. She turned, and saw what had escaped her notice before: every tree and lamp-post upon the street behind the Motley was decked in purple-and-green flags, streamers and ribbons. They fluttered in the wind, displaying glittering traces of gold in the mild sunlight.
‘Them ribbons?’ she enquired.
‘Aye,’ said Drig. ‘They appear when the Market’s called. Folk are preparing, even now.’
Bess felt a thrill of excitement. The bright banners held the promise of colour and liveliness beyond anything she had ever experienced before. What wonders might she discover at such a Market?
Her feelings were broadly shared, for there was a holiday atmosphere at the breakfast-table, and Bess’s fellow guests soon departed on Market business. Bess’s own anticipation was in such high degree that she scarcely noticed the food she ate. She emptied her plate absently, her mind fixed upon the vivid visions of her imagination, and was recalled to herself at last by Drig’s voice encouraging her to rise from the table.
‘Maggin would be grateful for your help, I believe,’ Drig said, and Bess looked an enquiry at the innkeeper.
‘Aye, that I would,’ confirmed Maggin. Bess agreed readily enough, by no means unwilling to earn her keep by the only means she knew.
But her expectations proved to be misplaced, for Maggin did not set her to cleaning. Instead she led Bess outside, where a trio of stout goblins had just erected a wood-framed market stall directly outside the Motley. They were laying a crimson awning over the top as Maggin and Bess arrived, and Maggin clapped her appreciation.
‘Very good, boys! That will be all! Bess and I will see to the rest.’
The goblins departed, tipping their hats to the ladies as they did so. Bess noticed that Maggin’s was by no means the only stall going up in the vicinity; more were being constructed as far up and down the street as she could see.
‘I hope ye’ve an eye fer this kind of thing,’ said Maggin. ‘Ye see the competition! We’ve a deal to do if my stall’s to stand out.’
Bess understood, and fell to with alacrity. The morning passed rapidly by as she helped Maggin to assemble a staggering range of wares in an appealing array, and afterwards decorated the stall with streamers and ribbons in shades to match the awning. By the time they were finished, Maggin declared herself highly pleased.
Bess took stock of her handiwork, and smiled her own satisfaction. Maggin had a surprisingly large quantity of goods to display. Many were edible: Bess had set out towering stacks of raised pies with golden crusts, each lavishly decorated with jewel-coloured fruits, and sweetmeats of every conceivable kind were packed in delicate boxes or set out upon wide oaken dishes. Maggin had also arranged fragrant salves in glass pots, clear bottles filled with bubbling potions and an array of embroidered cloth knick-knacks. Everybody stockpiled goods for the Market, she explained. One didn’t wish to be caught short, for the Market came but rarely, and without warning. It drew customers from all over Aylfenhame, and anyone suitably prepared might make enough gold to make for a fat and easy
year to follow.
The salves caught Bess’s eye as she had set them out, and her heart had leapt with a hope she later recognised as unreasonable. But her discreet enquiries confirmed that none of the dainty glass pots contained anything so rare as fairy ointment; they were but treatments for work-roughened hands, or goods more along the cosmetic lines. Maggin demonstrated the use of one set upon Bess herself, by smearing some of the scented violet salve upon Bess’s thumbnail. Bess watched in amazement as the nail seemingly absorbed the colour and turned a pretty violet hue.
‘It will last nigh on a month, that,’ said Maggin proudly. ‘Ye’ll find others sellin’ the like, but none so long-lasting.’
As a sample of the Market’s probable delights, Bess considered it highly promising.
It took the residents of Gorrotop (and, presumably, beyond) most of the day to set up their stalls to their satisfaction. By late afternoon, the Market was well underway. As the sun began to sink, lanterns lit up in a range of colours, adding more liveliness and delight to the scene than Bess could have imagined.
Drig took her out into the streets directly, leaving Maggin happily installed beneath her eye-catching crimson awning. The innkeeper was already doing a brisk trade, Bess noted as she waved farewell, and she looked delighted.
‘How long does the Market stay?’ Bess enquired as she followed Drig through the chattering crowds of shoppers.
‘As long as it’s wanted. When everything is sold, away goes the Market.’ Drig had lit up his pipe once more, and Bess was able to follow the streams of coloured bubbles as much as the slight figure of Drig himself. He had swapped his regular hat for another, which he called his Party Hat. It was even more fantastically oversized than the last, very broad at the top and broader still at the brim, and covered over in sumptuous purple velvet. To Bess’s puzzlement it contained a little door set into the base, and three windows spaced above. Bess had thought them merely decorative until, to her immense surprise, the door had opened and a tiny vole-like creature with cloverleaf-green fur and a long striped tail had crept out. This little animal now rode upon the brim of Drig’s hat, its nose lifted and quivering as it inhaled the delicious aromas of the Market.
She and Drig had agreed upon their shared intent: they would scour the stalls of Gorrotop and, should there be fairy ointment somewhere available, be sure to snatch it up at once. But Bess soon felt in danger of forgetting this mission entirely, so enchanted was she with the Market. She marvelled anew at her position. Had it truly been only a few days since she had been a lowly housemaid? At this moment, perhaps, she would be preparing somebody’s bed for their night’s rest, or taking a plain meal with the other servants in the kitchens. Instead she was deep in Aylfenhame, free to experience the delights of the Goblin Market, and her future was hers to decide.
She wandered Gorrotop in a state of high enjoyment, frustrating Drig with her eagerness to pause at every stall and examine virtually everything that she saw. A stall selling flowers caught her attention particularly, for though they were clearly living blossoms, their petals looked like fine velvet or glass. More enchantingly still, each one emitted soft motes of light from their centres; the sparks of colour drifted lazily into the air, twinkling like tiny stars. Bess stared so long at these that Drig grew resigned, and offered to buy one for her if it would encourage her to move along.
‘Why, no!’ said Bess, laughing. ‘What would the likes of me do wi’ such a pretty thing? I’d have nowhere to put it.’
Drig shrugged. ‘As you please, but do let us continue. At this rate, it will take us a week to search Gorrotop alone.’
Chastened, Bess could not but admit the justice of his argument. Their progress after that was faster, and Bess became more adept at resisting the allure of sweetmeats and sable-winged songbirds; gowns which looked wrought from cobwebs and starlight; shadowy cloaks with deep hoods, radiating a warmth Bess could feel from the street; pies offering a change of flavour with every mouthful; flourishing miniature gardens contained in glass bell jars; toys of cloth and wood which danced and told jokes; and so many more delights that her head spun with the wonder of it.
It did not seem conceivable that fairy ointment could be absent among such an array, but so it proved. Bess and Drig examined every stall selling salves, ointments or potions of any kind, and made enquiry after enquiry, but to no avail. The Market ran throughout the night, and their errand kept them busily employed until such a late hour that Bess became too weary even to appreciate a stall of hats even more fantastical than Drig’s. And still they failed to discover any trace of fairy ointment.
‘Ah well,’ said Drig heavily, as they made their way with weary steps back to the Motley. ‘Twas too much to hope, I dare say, that it would be so easily found. Otherwise why would his Ma—the Gaustin have to call a Market?’
‘But the Market goes far beyond Gorrotop, no?’ said Bess, trying to ignore the pain in her feet; she had earned herself at least three new blisters this night.
‘Oh, ‘tis across the whole of Gadrahst by now. Tomorrow we will get as far as Hogwend, and see what we can find.’
Bess thought of Grunewald. Was he out somewhere under the bright moon, striding the Market as she was in search of the ointment he needed? Had he yet discovered any? Before the Market had begun, she had not doubted that she would encounter him eventually, if she was out in the streets every day. Now that she had witnessed the crush of shoppers for herself, and heard Drig’s account of the flabbergasting extent of the Market, she was not so sure. How would they contrive to discover Grunewald’s whereabouts at all? And if they did not, how could they know when he had completed his errand?
‘Why is the ointment so rare?’ she asked instead, struck with an alternate thought.
‘Tis twofold, that,’ said Drig. ‘The ingredients are most difficult to find, or some of them are. It’s the mushrooms. Finicky things.’ He paused as the clover-furred creature atop his hat slid over the brim and almost fell off; Drig caught it with a practiced gesture and settled the tiny animal back atop its perch. The creature squeaked in a fashion Bess interpreted as derisive, whisked back inside the hat and shut the door behind itself. ‘The snowfoots only grow in winter, if it snows enough, and the velvet queen parasols – well, they grow wherever the Queen-at-Mirramay has lately trod. And seeing as there’s no Queen-at-Mirramay anymore, those are getting mighty scarce. And then it is no easy task to combine them in the right way. There’s few as can manage it.’
Bess thought back to Grunewald’s request of Isabel, and her failed attempt at the task. If Drig was correct, the ingredients she had been offered had been incomplete after all; Grunewald had given her snowfoot boletes, but Tafferty had been correct to point out that the parasols were also required.
‘What became of the Queen?’
But Drig would not vouchsafe much of an answer to that question. ‘Died,’ was all he said, and curtly. He would not be drawn to elaborate, and soon fell silent altogether.
Bessie let him be. She was weary, and growing eager to be returned to her comfortable room at the Motley for some slumber. The swarming crowds around her blurred into an indistinguishable mass of people and colour, and the noise of the market filled her ears in a roar. She blinked, trying to focus her tired mind; she could not merely drift after Drig, and rely on him to deliver her safely home.
It gradually dawned upon her that the noise had grown distant, and she was no longer surrounded by shoppers. In fact, all about her was darkness, and there was no sign of Drig. Heart thumping, she spun about, thrust into abrupt alertness in her consciousness of sudden peril. She could see nothing, save a haunting wisp-light drifting somewhere above.
'A fine piece of merchandise,' said a low voice from close by.
Something about the tone invoked a sudden, piercing fear in Bessie, and she shivered. 'Who is there?' she said sharply, irritation building along with the fear.
Nobody replied. Bessie waited, in silence as well as darkness, her heart pounding
so fiercely she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She could not shake the creeping sensation that the merchandise spoken of was herself…
She roused herself from her stupor of fright with a strong effort of will, and began to walk. The wisp shed no useful light, and she blundered about in near darkness. She found a wall only by dint of walking into it, and quickly changed direction. Another wall, and another. She was enclosed in some tiny space, like a cupboard, but no door could she find.
When the floor disappeared beneath her, she fell with a shriek.
Bess landed heavily upon something painfully solid, and for a moment she lay dazed and blinking in sudden, bright light. 'Take the hair,' somebody ordered. Myriad tiny hands grabbed at her loose locks and pulled, hard. Bessie shrieked again, this time with anger, and shot to her feet.
She was surrounded by goblins, most of them smaller even than Drig. She had fetched up inside some kind of caravan covered over with lengths of torn and tattered fabric. To her horror, the walls were hung with neatly-coiled ropes of hair.
'Yer not havin' me hair!' she shouted, grabbing the length of her tumbling black locks and gripping it tightly. She had few vanities, but her hair was one of them. These little nasties wouldn't get so much as a single lock of it!
She cast a quick look around the caravan, and saw absolutely nothing that she could use as a weapon. Very well; it would have to be flight, then. There was a door, but it was sized for the convenience of the goblins, and Bessie suffered some doubts as to whether she could fit through it.
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 9
