He ignored her, instead addressing the stallholder. ‘Attend to the lady,’ was all that he said.
The stall was minded by a goblin rather taller than Drig, his skin almost black in hue. He had a shock of night-dark hair and large eyes the colour of amber stones. His garments were made from the same patchwork leathers as his awning, and over his tunic and leggings he wore a sturdy apron. He bowed to Grunewald, suggesting that he at least recognised the red-haired gentleman as his monarch. But his manner lacked the deference Bess might expect; he flashed Grunewald a cheery smile and said, ‘Right ye are, Lordship,’ and turned to Bess.
Goblin society was odd indeed, she thought. Their king acted nothing like a ruler, and his subjects barely remembered to show him even common deference. But in spite of that, Drig’s loyalty to Grunewald was above question, no matter how many times his ears sprouted blisters in response to his lord’s importunate summons. It was a curious puzzle.
As was Grunewald’s intentions in bringing Bess to this stall. ‘You must forgive me,’ she said to the stallholder. ‘My powers of readin’ minds have unaccountably failed this mornin’, and I have no notion what my Gent is fixin’ to achieve wi’ this.’
She received a grin in response, and the goblin pointed at Bess’s feet. ‘Off wi’ those,’ he said.
Bess supposed that he meant her shoes. They were gone in a trice; so worn and stretched were they that they slipped off easily. The goblin wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked at the tattered old shoes, even their colour now indeterminate. He made a faint gesture with one hand, and the shoes promptly disappeared.
‘How’s that?’ he said then.
Bess blinked. She could hardly suppose that Grunewald had intended to vanish her shoes and leave her in stocking feet; but as she opened her mouth to express her confusion, it occurred to her that this was not, in fact, the case. She looked down.
Her feet were clad in boots so fine she was struck speechless. Wrought from cherry-red leather, they were strong and sturdy in make and yet an experimental flex of her feet proved them to be soft and comfortable as well. The toes were a little pointed, and she felt small heels underneath. They rose over her ankles and laced with mossy green ribbon, each one bearing a bunch of hawthorn berries at its end – apparently real, though surely they were not.
On top of all of this, the boots were warm. A chill morning in early November, and she was not obliged to bear the discomfort of cold feet! And she could no longer feel her blisters; had they healed?
Bess could not speak.
Grunewald observed her reaction, and nodded once at the stall-keeper. ‘Thank you, Hastival.’
The goblin tugged his forelock to Grunewald, and winked at Bess. Then he turned to another customer, and Grunewald walked away. He did not trouble to collect Bess beforehand, and she was left standing in shock.
Drig grinned at her. ‘Oh, you have impressed my Gent, right enough.’
Shaking herself, Bess hastened to catch up with Grunewald. ‘I don’t understand,’ she called after him.
Grunewald glanced sidelong at her as she drew alongside. ‘I am desolate at having confused you.’
‘What was that about?’
‘Your attire is a disgrace. I am ashamed to be seen with you.’
This reply was flippant, and Bess was persuaded it was nothing to the purpose at all. But Grunewald said nothing more.
‘Hastival is the best shoe-maker in Gadrahst,’ said Drig, trotting beside her. ‘He fits the shoe to the customer.’
‘Don’t every shoemaker do that?’
‘Not like Hastival. Those are your shoes. They are perfect for you in every way. They’ll do everything you need, whatever the occasion. You will probably never need to buy another pair.’
‘Ever again?’
‘Never, and not ever. You’ll see what I mean.’ He waved his pipe at the crowds, sending a stream of cheerful green bubbles flying, and added, ‘Any one of these people would give their first-born child for a pair of Hastival’s boots. And you are wearing the very best that he can make.’
Bess tried to thank Grunewald, but he ignored her attempts and strode on oblivious. In truth, she hardly knew how to express her thoughts, for she felt that the gift held significance beyond the merely practical. I would stop walking around in someone else’s shoes, he had said not long before. Now she had her own, and there could be no doubt that they would take her wherever she wanted to go.
Well, and well. If he would not listen to her thanks, she would find some other way to express her gratitude. There must be some fashion in which she could be of use to him; at the very least, she could bend all of her efforts towards finding the fairy ointment he sought, or discovering some other means of identifying the imposter whose actions disturbed his peace.
Chapter Six
Oh, Hastival is sought-after! Right enough! Carelessly bestowed them boots might ha’ been, but fer a lass like Bessie, they meant the world. I don’t even think Grunewald hisself knew what he ‘ad done fer her – a lass as was overlooked an’ abused by all the world before.
Well, tha’ Grunewald is an odd fellow. I think even he cannot rightly decide whether he’s more kindness or cruelty. Anyroad, he ‘ad a problem on ‘is ‘ands. That Tatterfoal was roamin’ the Wolds every night while the Markets were on in Gadrahst, and the infernal nag was gettin’ bolder. It got to be that travellers were loath to set foot abroad at night, and who could blame ‘em? One glimpse o’ Tatterfoal is enough to stop the heart, wi’ folk o’ the timid persuasion.
Not tha’ the person ridin’ the beast ‘ad yet shown hisself overmuch. Grunewald ‘ad caught a glimpse o’ the fellow, an’ Lyrriant o’ course, but naught much else ‘ad been seen o’ him besides. What, then, was he doin’ tearin’ about wi’ Tatterfoal? I sent out all o’ my best to keep an eye on ‘im, wi’ some hopes they’d learn a mite or two about his intentions.
Grunewald gave up on the Goblin Market. If it had failed to furnish him with fairy ointment in its first day, it had failed entirely, for he held out no hope at all that such a thing might happen to surface later. He left his servants scouring the stalls in his stead, in case he was mistaken, but he did not consider it necessary to supervise them himself.
‘There is but one person left to entreat,’ he said to Drig on the afternoon of the second day. He had returned with them to the Motley, and he, Drig and Bessie now sat before a lively fire in Maggin’s parlour. She had secured the room for their privacy on Grunewald’s account, ushering out the sparse few of her guests who had chosen to remain there at such an hour; the majority were still out enjoying the Market.
Bessie sat at her ease with a cup of chocolate in her hands. The fire was warm, her chair was comfortable, and she had not yet ceased to revel in the glory of her new boots. She sat listening drowsily, flexing her toes from time to time with a frisson of hidden glee.
Grunewald did not elaborate upon his statement; apparently it was not necessary, for Drig nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘She will not lightly help you.’
‘She is compelled to assist me,’ said his master coolly. ‘She is gravely in my debt, and she knows it.’ Grunewald had thrown off his coat and sat in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, his cravat loosened. He, too, cradled a cup of chocolate, though his delight in it clearly did not equal Bess’s. As a high lord in these parts, she supposed he had long since grown used to such luxuries and they could hold little wonder for him now.
Bess listened carefully, intrigued to learn more of the reluctant woman they discussed. Was she a witch, like Mrs. Aylfendeane? Why would she dislike being of use to Grunewald, and what had happened to place her in his debt?
But little more of her was said. Silence fell for a short space, and then Drig asked: ‘She is not still in Mirramay, is she?’
Grunewald grunted, an inarticulate sound which Bessie interpreted as a negative.
‘So we are to Aviel?’
Grunewald sighed deeply – and then his eyes flicked to Bess.
He had, perhaps, forgotten her presence, so quiet had she been. He spoke again, but this time in a tongue she could not understand. It was a lisping, faintly guttural language, and Bess found it interesting to listen to, in spite of its utter incomprehensibility. Drig responded in the same tongue, and their conversation proceeded for some minutes.
Then, as one, they fell silent and both looked at her.
Bess’s eyelids had been drooping shut, lulled as she was by the warmth, comfort and peace of the parlour. But she opened them wide upon noticing this joint scrutiny, and waited. Clearly they had been speaking of her; what had they discussed?
‘There is some debate, dear baggage, as to what to do with you,’ said Grunewald. ‘Drig is in favour of bringing you along.’ One side of his mouth curved into an amused, half-sardonic smile; he was well aware, Bess guessed, that Drig had some ulterior motive in mind for wishing to keep her close.
‘But you are not?’ she said in reply.
‘I am in favour of depositing you back into the ditch I hauled you out of. Or one similar, for I do not think I could find precisely the same one with any accuracy.’
Bess nodded sleepily, and took another mouthful of chocolate.
‘You accept this probable fate with equanimity.’
Bess smiled upon him. ‘You ain’t really contemplatin’ it.’
Grunewald’s eyes opened wide. ‘No? Why do you say that?’
‘I dunnot think your heart is cold enough, for all that you pretend.’
Drig chuckled at that, but Grunewald sighed in annoyance. ‘I tell you one thing for certain: if you dare to use the word “ain’t” in my hearing one more time, straight into a ditch you shall go!’
‘That’s fair,’ Bessie agreed.
Grunewald muttered something inaudible, and drank the rest of his chocolate off in one gulp.
‘I hate to seem overly curious,’ Bess said, ‘but whereabouts was it you was absolutely not thinkin’ of cartin’ me off to?’
Drig glanced sideways at Grunewald, who made a carelessly dismissive gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes.
‘We are to Aviel,’ said Drig. ‘The King’s Court, that is. There is one there who may yet be able to craft the ointment.’
‘How fascinatin’,’ said Bess politely. ‘And just what is it you’d wish me to do there?’
That stymied Drig a little, for he could hardly own out loud that he had yet to request his favour of Bess. ‘The lady is of a stubborn nature,’ he said after a moment. ‘You may be of use in persuading her!’
‘And I am noted for my powers o’ persuasion, to be sure. They have always operated powerfully upon his Gentship here, for one.’
‘Do you mean to say that you do not wish to attend us?’ said Grunewald, a little sharply.
Eagerness had availed Bessie little before; she suspected Grunewald of harbouring a contrary streak. Instead, she made a show of scepticism. ‘What would the likes of me want wi’ the King’s Court? You said it yerself: I am a disgrace in these rags. ‘Ceptin’ the booties.’ She stretched out one leg to admire her beautiful cherry-red boot yet again, smiling complacently.
Grunewald grunted.
‘Besides, I am not sure as I have the time,’ she continued. ‘I need to be settin’ about buildin’ a life for meself somewhere in these parts. Won’t happen by itself. I’ll need to seek work.’
Grunewald glowered, his teeth set. ‘Dreadful girl!’ he complained. ‘Drig, she could out-manoeuvre you any day.’
Drig grinned at Bessie. ‘Do I not know it?’
Bess watched as Grunewald struggled with himself. She could not imagine why, but she sensed that he could by no means cast her off so easily as he claimed — or what was he doing sitting at his ease in the parlour with her, when he could have departed for Aviel more than an hour since?
‘I do not require assistance with Hidenory!’ Grunewald growled. ‘She cannot refuse her aid.’
‘But it is so much nicer when people help of their own volition, is it not?’ said Drig coaxingly. ‘A willing Hidenory is always so much better than a resentful one. She might make you fairy ointment, but she’d poison it before she gave it to you.’
‘Hidenory will despise the baggage,’ Grunewald predicted. ‘This bundle of rags is the last person that lady would ever listen to.’
‘Well and well. Bess is looking for work, did you not hear? I am sure we can be of use to our English friend, and set her in the way of some suitable mode of employment in Aviel.’
Grunewald merely sat looking at Bess, his eyes half-closed. She was not fooled by this posture into thinking him careless in his scrutiny, for she felt herself closely studied, and by a mind full awake. ‘Very well, baggage. You have your offer. Out of the kindness of his tiny heart, Drig would like to assist you in this life-building business of yours. Shall you have it so?’
Bess pursed her lips. ‘Reckon I could go along wi’ that for a time. Only I’ll not be a maid again! ‘Tis to escape that fate that I left England.’
Grunewald made no outward show of satisfaction, but Bessie felt a slight lessening of tension in the room. He jumped up with alacrity and collected the coat he had carelessly thrown across a nearby chair. ‘Then let us away, and at once. There is no time to lose!’
Bessie could not account for his sudden hurry, when he had been content enough to lounge before. But she made no objection. ‘I’ll collect me things,’ she said, and darted away to her room.
When she came down, Grunewald and Drig were waiting for her in the hallway. ‘Is it far to Aviel?’ she enquired.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Grunewald.
‘It is rather far, but it will not take long,’ added Drig.
Bess grimaced, and sighed. ‘Very well. Just how much of my guts am I likely to be retchin’ up this time?’
‘How refreshing you are,’ said Grunewald with vast amusement. ‘I had no notion how wearied I was with fine ladies and sophisticated company. Mr. Green’s life has been sadly devoid of such plain speaking.’
‘I should not ha’ mentioned vomitin’, I suppose,’ said Bess, demurely smoothing her cloak. ‘But seein’ as you’ll be watchin’ me do it in but a short space of time, it can’t be of much use to avoid speakin’ of it now.’
‘The second time will not be so bad,’ said Drig with an encouraging smile. ‘Besides, our Gent is a better hand at the Whishawist than I. You will hardly feel it.’
‘Tis of small matter either way,’ Bessie assured him. ‘I’ll lose all my fine chocolate, which is a blow; but I dare suppose you are plannin’ to feed me again at some point after.’
‘Stale bread and water,’ Grunewald promised. ‘That is what you deserve, for your sauce.’
‘How fortunate that none of us receives our just desserts!’ Bess said devoutly.
Grunewald’s eyes gleamed amusement for but a moment, and then he was all business. She thought he might take hold of her arm again, as he had before, but nobody moved so much as a step nearer to her. ‘Here’s off,’ was all that Grunewald said, and in a conversational tone.
It was enough, for the Motley dissolved around Bess and the night rushed in.
In spite of Drig’s confident prediction, the sensations of disorientation, dizziness and nausea were much the same as before. Bess realised with dismay that the outcome was likely to be identical, too – until all of it stopped, all at once. She was able to breathe, and swallowed some of her panic.
She received the impression that their passage was not complete, not least because she remained buried in a darkness so deep she could see nothing. She felt, by some obscure sense, that their progress had been interrupted; an idea strengthened by Drig, who uttered two syllables in an alarmed tone only to be shushed by Grunewald.
Bess waited, breathing slowly. The darkness was unnerving, and the patently disturbed reactions of Drig and Grunewald did nothing to soothe her. What had occurred?
Judging from his call for silence, Grunewald must be listening for some
thing, but no sound reached Bess’s ears at all. After some little time spent in breathless anticipation, a soft, greenish light flared and Grunewald’s face materialised in the darkness before her. He was frowning. He met Bess’s gaze for an instant, and she lifted a brow in a silent question.
He made no answer. A second, paler light bloomed: Drig held up a glowing bauble, and by its light he peered up at Bess. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘What are we doing here, Gaustin?’
The two lights together were strong enough to illuminate their surroundings, and Bess glanced curiously around. She perceived a tunnel with rounded, darkly gleaming walls. Each was covered in deeply-graven carvings, though she saw no lanterns or windows; why the images existed in such a dark place, Bess could not imagine. She looked more closely at the nearest patch of wall, and saw what appeared to be a trio of goblins engaged in sharing a pipe. Nightmarish creatures crept up behind the oblivious smokers, teeth bared; the inevitable outcome of the tableau was clear.
Bess looked away, half fascinated and half sickened. What manner of place was this?
‘Don’t look at the walls,’ Grunewald recommended. ‘These are the Darkways. Built by my grandfather, whose tastes were a little strange.’
‘What are we doin’ here?’ said Bess, tired of waiting for an explanation.
‘We passed someone,’ said Grunewald shortly. ‘It felt… strange to me.’
‘Someone who should not be down here?’
‘Indeed.’ Grunewald uttered the word in a clipped tone which clearly heralded the end of the conversation. Bess had no chance to enquire further, for the sickening whirl of passage resumed without warning and her thoughts shattered into confusion once more.
Some minutes passed, as far as Bess could judge; perhaps it had only been a few seconds, and the extent of her misery only made it seem longer. She came to herself again to find that, to her relief, full light had bloomed around her, and the Darkways with their disturbing carvings were gone. A moment’s investigation revealed that she had not again disgraced herself, and her garments were clean. This pleased her immeasurably.
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 11
