Grizelda

by Margaret Taylor

  Foreman Rogdo stood and walked up to the edge of the balcony. “What is your name, ogre?”

  Grizelda swallowed and found her voice at last. “Grizelda.”

  “And your occupation?” His voice was not harsh, but there was a certain edge to it like a warning.

  She tried to make herself as meek as possible. “I’m a seamstress, sir.”

  The foreman coughed. “That’s Comrade, to you.”

  “Oh,” she said, in a very small voice.

  “And how did you, an outsider, come to be found on Manufacturing Floor H?”

  “It was sort of an accident–”

  “Accident? If you weren’t looking for the Goblin Union, then what were you doing underground?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like up there!” She just sort of blurted it out. “The Committees of Public Safety, they’re sending gendarmes into people’s homes and rounding them up. When we threw off the Auks–”

  “Fugh!” Another of the foremen made a dismissive gesture. “If you’re trying to get our sympathy by bringing up Auks, it’s not going to work. Your people were better off with them. At least then we had peace.”

  That shut her up right away. Peace with the Auks? Eleven years ago, before the Revolution, what had the goblins done? Traded with them? Helped them (terrible thought) collect the blood tax? That’s what the sorcerers had done. They’d made themselves the Auks’ tax collectors in exchange for protection, and now they were getting hunted down and stuck in holes by the Committees for it.

  “I … don’t know what to say to you,” she said finally.

  Oh, Grizelda, you hypocrite.

  Another foreman raised his hand. “Move to speak, Chairman.”

  The chairman gave his assent with a nod.

  “Are you or are you not an escaped prisoner?”

  Too shocked to reply, Grizelda stared at him. Her silence was all the answer they needed. The foremen started shifting and muttering to each other in their balcony.

  “We can’t have this. They’ll be overrunning our warrens in days looking for her.”

  “…turn her over to the Corvanian authorities…”

  A goblin in the audience shot to his feet. “Move to speak, Chairman!” Barely waiting long enough for permission, he eagerly blurted out his say. “Why are we even discussing this? She’s an ogre. They’re all pigs. She doesn’t deserve anything better than a swift, hard punishment!”

  Grizelda recognized that goblin. Nelin! She forgot her handcuffs entirely and even her predicament as she pointed at him. “That’s the one that tried to kill me!”

  The Chairman ignored her. “Miner Nelin is reminded that his personal political views are not the issue here.”

  “But don’t you see? We have an opportunity here. We have something that the ogres want. We have a chance to show them what we’re made of, instead of sitting back and letting them rob us with their steel prices like you–”

  “That’s enough!” and bang! went the book. “This is not the time for political squabbling. Miner Nelin, save it for the election.”

  Miner Nelin sat down, furious.

  The foreman named Shad raised his hand. “Something has just occurred to me as you were … debating. We can’t let this girl back into the presence of other ogres. She’s just witnessed the inside of the Union Hall.”

  The chairman rubbed his temples. “Hell! Whose idea was it to bring her in here?”

  “I believe it was one of the undersecretaries,” one of the foremen said.

  “It seems to me,” Foreman Shad continued, “that our only option is to have her executed.”

  “What?” Grizelda cried. The whole Union Hall was in a tumult. Every goblin was yelling his own opinion, foreman and citizen alike. The Chairman mouthed words that nobody could hear and banged his book against the table fruitlessly. Somewhere a chant went up: “Kill the ogre! Kill the ogre!” It spread infectiously until the whole hall was shouting in unison: “Kill the ogre! Kill the ogre!”

  No. Straight from a death sentence to a death sentence. She’d been played with by the Committees, by ratriders… She wanted nothing more than to sit down, to curl up and hide from all those goblins that were demanding to have her killed. It took all that was left of her strength just to stand there.

  It took five whole minutes for the furor to die down. The volume dropped by degrees, and as it did, Grizelda became aware that the Chairman was in the middle of a heated argument with Foreman Shad. The goblins did, too; and as they realized what he was saying, they dropped off their own conversations to listen.

  “Are you out of your mind, Chairman?” said Foreman Shad. “The girl’s a liability.”

  “I don’t like murdering innocents.”

  “At least put it to a vote!” The foreman persisted.

  The Chairman made a dismissive noise. “They’ll just vote to have her killed.”

  “If that’s what the people want, you have to do it, Chairman!”

  “This court will come to order!” He banged the book quite unnecessarily, as the room was now totally silent.

  An older goblin in the audience stood and spoke. “Move to speak, Chairman.” When the Chairman had given him the floor, he went on. “As it is, my laundry’s desperately understaffed. We can’t keep up with the volume of work we get. Adding a seamstress would free up my workers to do their real jobs. I suggest we arrange some sort of a work-for-board arrangement with the ogre.”

  Her heart leapt. Wonderful laundry goblin, if he got her out of this, she promised she’d never think he was slimy again! She wasn’t sure she could trust anything she saw at this point, but she thought she saw a look of gratitude pass between the Chairman and this older goblin. It could have meant anything. At any rate, the Chairman snatched on his idea instantly.

  “Laundryman Crome has an excellent idea. Comrades, it appears that this court–”

  “But you still have to put it to a vote!” insisted Shad.

  Another foreman leaned forward in his seat. “Chairman, if the officers of Promontory discover that we’re harboring their prisoner–”

  “This is outrageous!” Miner Nelin leapt to his feet.

  The chairman fixed him a glare. “This court is adjourned.”

  “What about democracy? What about standing up to the ogres? You sellout!”

  “I said, this court is adjourned!”

  Grizelda watched with dismay as the situation in the hall rapidly degenerated. Were they going to put it to a vote or not? What was going to happen to her? The argument between Nelin and the Chairman raged on as other goblins in the audience threw in their own opinions. The foremen either expressed indignation or offered advice. Before long half the hall was on its feet.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and found the police officer standing behind her.

  “Come on,” he said. “They’ll figure it out. You’re done here.”

  She gratefully let him lead her away. Unnoticed by the crowd, they walked down the ramp and back into the darkness below.

  Calding’s footsteps trailed off, a brief still held limply under one arm. That was Whatshisname, wasn’t it? The fellow he’d sent to fetch up his prisoner. He was running like all Hell was after him to the warden’s office.

  He adjusted his file and waited. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Whatshisname and the warden came down the hall the other direction. They didn’t run now, but their determined military hustle betrayed that they were in a hurry. By the time they turned the corner, they were on a path that would take them to the cell blocks.

  That was odd.

  There was no point in denying it. Much as Mant would have preferred not to see it, there was the popped-open lock right in front of him. The door was ajar and the cell behind empty. Not a sign of force or anything.

  He cursed and rubbed his forehead. The gendarme looked on nervously, a few steps away. Torn between keeping a respectful silence and putting in a word for himself, he started to speak two or three
times, then thought better of it.

  Finally, he said, “Honestly, it wasn’t my fault, sir–”

  Mant waved at him dismissively. “Who all knows about this?”

  “Not a soul. I went straight to you. Wait…”

  Damn.

  “And what is wait supposed to mean?”

  The gendarme did not like telling what he was about to say. “See, it was Lieutenant Calding that sent me down to fetch this prisoner. He’s going to be expecting an answer.”

  “Well, don’t tell him this one’s gone,” Mant said. “Make up a story – something! We’ve got to keep this hushed up.”

  “But how am I going to–”

  “I still rank him here. You’re to follow my orders and not his. Do you understand?”

  The gendarme shrank back. “Yes, sir.”

  The noise of their discussion had woken some of the shadow-prisoners in the nearby cells. Like dead leaves stirred up by the wind, they rustled to each other. She’s gone – who all knows – she’s gone – keep this hushed up – she’s gone, she’s gone.

  Mant ignored the softly rising wind around him. As there was nothing more he could do here, he turned and left.

  Chapter 6

  There was a fat lamp in the middle of the room, a thick hacked-off piece of rope burning smokily in a tray of grease. Every few seconds the fat sputtered and sent a flare of light licking up the wall, orange gleams against the darkness.

  Grizelda was held, less than gently, by a pair of anonymous goblins. The difference between her height and theirs forced her into an uncomfortable sort of crouch that made her legs ache. It was all she could do to crane her head back and see what was going on. Chairman Grendel sat cross-legged at the other end of the ceremony room, his seven foremen in a semicircle behind him. The lamp lit them from below, turned their faces into gargoyle’s faces, still as statues. Laundryman Crome lurked in the corner, not part of the action. Every minute or so, he checked his watch.

  Four candles were arranged around the lamp in a square – north, south, east, and west. As if an afterthought, a small bundle wrapped in red cloth lay at the chairman’s feet. He took it up and unwrapped it.

  Grizelda watched him with apprehension. She hadn’t been coached for this. Just like with the trial, the summons had come suddenly. She was waiting in her broom closet in the government building, for lack of a better place to put her, when a goblin in uniform opened the door and took her deep into the back of the building, without any explanation. Somewhere far in the back, smelling of dust and not fitted with the electric lights, was this strange place, the ceremony room. The delegation was already waiting for her when she got there. She had no idea what they were going to do to her.

  The Chairman finished unwrapping the package. Inside was a hammer and a small jar. He held out the hammer as if for her to take it.

  The two goblins exerted a sudden force on Grizelda’s shoulders to compel her down. She found herself kneeling before she knew what had happened. She shook her head, trying to regain her bearings. The goblins let go of her and withdrew to the back of the room.

  Again the Chairman held out the hammer. This time she took it, and since he didn’t give her any other cue, she turned it over in her hands. It was much heavier than it looked like it should be. It didn’t seem like it was used for actual work, because it was carved all over with that goblinish script she’d seen in the old tunnels and on the archway to the Union Hall. The handle looked like bone, but it couldn’t have been, not for that weight.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  The Chairman’s voice surprised her, much lower and not so weary as it had been in the Union Hall. She shook her head.

  “This is the hammer of the goblins. It was made five hundred years ago, when the first goblins settled under Lonnes. We’ve been here much longer than your silly Auk occupation.”

  He seemed to be expecting a reply, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. Why he should be showing her this hammer was beyond her. She moved it around in her hands uncomfortably.

  “Do you consent to join the Goblin Union of Lonnes?”

  She looked up. “What?”

  “We’re offering you citizenship. That is the sentence of the Council of Foremen.”

  Up to this point the foremen had been watching the proceedings with a statue-like impassivity, but now one of them turned his head a degree and looked at her. The sharpness of that look made her wince. She started to doubt whether this Council’s sentence was entirely the Council’s idea, or if it was the Chairman’s.

  “Um … yes?” she said, not sure whether what she said was a good idea or not.

  The chairman’s expression did not give her any clue. “You know that goblins never go above the surface of the ground. You’ll be expected to abide by this law. You are forbidden to speak with any ogres, and especially from discussing the inside of the Union Hall. Forget your old customs, your old allegiances. The Union will be your home now indefinitely.”

  A little weakly, she nodded.

  “Then it is done.” And unscrewing the lid of the little jar, he took out a pinch of powder and threw some on each of the candles in quick succession. One – two – three – four. The candles flared up bright and white where the powder touched, then died back down.

  “Laundryman, you may take her.”

  The laundryman stepped forward, engaging in the ceremony for the first time. What should have been a smooth operation of taking her hand was hung up as he shuffled around to get onto her other side. For the first time Grizelda realized that his right arm was shriveled. It was smaller than the other arm and curled up on itself uselessly like a chicken’s wing. Alarmed and more than a little revolted, she tried to move away, but the Laundryman’s good hand was strong. He seized her roughly and marched her out of the room. He didn’t give a word or even a glance to anybody there.

  He took her at a rapid pace down the back halls of the government building. That touch was giving her goosebumps. There was a goblin, a creepy, knobbly, joint-bendy goblin, and he was walking right there next to her. And yet his skin wasn’t slimy, and he’d probably just helped save her life.

  “Laundryman Crome?” she said, trying surreptitiously to free herself.

  “Shut up. Walk faster.”

  They kept going. The halls were empty. There was no other sound than her own hurried, uncertain footsteps, and the slightly squashy sound of his webbed feet. After a few more tries, Grizelda found she couldn’t get herself disengaged. She gave it up and turned to him again.

  “Laundryman Crome, I wanted to– to thank you. For taking me.”

  Laundryman Crome gave her a sidelong look out of his slitty eyes. Then he made a low, gravelly sound that might have been a laugh, or might have been him clearing his throat. “Heh. Don’t think it was on your account.”

  He kept on going, and refused to speak to her for the rest of the journey.

  When they had gotten out of the government building and onto the street, Grizelda could tell that word of the Council’s ruling had gotten out ahead of them. Disapproval was reflected in every goblin’s face. When she and the laundryman came near, they would cut off their conversations and stare at them. Some even made the point of crossing over to the other side of the street. Crome curled his lip at them. Mortified, Grizelda kept her eyes on the ground.

  After what seemed like a long time, Crome stopped at a door. The storefront it belonged to was a lot like the other buildings in the goblin city, all weird angles and twisted shapes, with a second story that hung out farther than the first. After fitting his key in the lock and twisting it, Crome led her through an anteroom, full of sacks, cubbies, and a ledger. They crossed another door, and they were on the main work floor.

  The room was a mess of stacks of sodden clothes, clangs, the shouts of workers, and looming shapes that made ominous sloshing sounds. Puffs of white steam came out of the machines’ vents, adding to a haze that hung over everything.

  Grizeld
a was just beginning to get reconciled to the fact that she was breathing pea soup when Crome called to her.

  “Over here.”

  He was already halfway across the floor. Grizelda picked her way past the puddles and pipes running across the floor to catch up to him. In her hurry, and her care to keep her eyes down for obstacles, she didn’t see the worker with the basket of clothes until she had bumped straight into him.

  The just-dried clothes spilled out in a fan into one of the puddles. The worker launched into a tirade, berating her for her clumsiness and how much work she had just ruined. Way to make a great first impression, she thought. She could only mutter a hasty apology and sidle past.

  Crome was already waiting for her, his good arm akimbo, at a machine that vaguely resembled a sewing machine. At least, she could recognize the arm and the needle part. But how the goblin sitting at it was making it go was beyond her. He calmly hemmed a shirt without taking any notice of either of them.

  “Do you know how to work a sewing machine?” Crome asked.

  “Where’s the foot pedal?” she said.

  Crome ignored her and reached across the worker to pick up a small metal dish. It resembled a saltcellar.

  “Good. Veldam, you’ll go to the wringer tomorrow.”

  Veldam shrugged and kept on working.

  Grizelda’s attention was pulled in several directions at once. She was still trying to work out how the sewing machine worked while at the same time she wondered why on Earth they would keep a saltcellar in the laundry room. Another disturbing thought occurred to her, too. Understaffed? But Laundryman Crome already has a seamstress.

  Or a sempster. It was kind of hard to tell.

  Guiltily, she realized Crome was halfway through explaining something important.

  “Lay it out first thing in the morning before starting work. You’d better check every few minutes that the ring is unbroken, or Heaven help you.” He set the dish down. “Come, I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”

  “But what’s the salt for?”

  Crome started to climb the stairs without replying. It was only once he was halfway up that he turned back.