by Philip Reeve
“And what is this great work, Overseer?” asked Durgar. “All these tunnels and pipes; warriors and miners being ordered hither and yon. . .”
“You’ll know when you need to know, Durgar,” snapped Glunt. “It’s the Head’s orders. The Head Knows All and the Head Knows Best, you know.”
“Oh, aye,” agreed Durgar, “but. . .”
“I have an idea!” said Glunt, brightening again. He waved the slate under Durgar’s nose. “Go asking favours of the king, would they? Well, why should they deserve his favours? Isn’t Dwarvendom one of the kingdoms of the Westlands too? We shall send our own ambassadors to the High King!”
“But we don’t have any ambassadors, overseer.”
“We do now,” snapped Glunt. “Gather your stuff, Durgar, and pick yourself a couple of companions. You’ll be leaving for Coriander this very day.”
It was almost a hundred miles from Clovenstone to Coriander: six days’ hard walking across the wild uplands of Oeth Moor, past the clear waters of Lyn Glas and the frowning scarps of the Calchoen hills. A road had run that way back in the Lych Lord’s time, but nowadays most of its stones were overgrown with grass, or had been dragged away by farmers to wall their fields. For most of the way Skarper and Henwyn trod a wet track paved only with puddles. At last they reached the green valley where the River Ystwyth ran, and as they struck south along its banks the track improved and the villages grew larger and more frequent, until the river widened at last into the great, grey, restless sea, and the road swung westerly and led them down to Coriander.
The city of the High Kings of the Westlands lay upon the shore of a broad bay, whose waters were dotted with many-coloured sails as bright as petals. Along the waterfront were quays, shipyards, chandlers’ shops, ropemakers’ lofts and big, stone-built warehouses. Inland the houses were mostly built of wood, painted in red and blue and yellow, so that when Henwyn and Skarper first came in sight of it the city looked like a cheery patchwork counterpane spread over the hills. Just offshore, on a rocky island linked to the city by a causeway and a steady coming-and-going of ferry boats, stood Boskennack, the castle of the High King, with long banners rippling in the sea breeze and shining copper spires a-glitter in the afternoon sun.
“There!” said Henwyn, pointing proudly. (He’d never been within sixty miles of Coriander, but he’d heard so many stories of it that Boskennack seemed as familiar to him as his father’s cheesery.) “That is where the High King lives, His Royal Majesty King Padstow the Twelfth, who is a direct descendant of King Kennack himself. And that lesser tower, lower down, is the Hall of Heroes. It’s there that we shall find the brave warriors whose swords shall defend Clovenstone!”
Skarper did not feel so sure. Coriander did not look to him like a place for goblins. He had never seen a great city of men before, and he felt as out of place there as Henwyn had felt when first he came to Clovenstone. As they neared the city walls the road grew busier and busier, and Skarper could feel the eyes of passers-by upon him, and hear their whispered comments.
“Look! ’Tis a goblin!”
“Nay, ’tis too small. It must be a gnome, or some rare type of dog. . .”
“Or a monkey from the Night-Forests of Musk!”
“I say ’tis a goblin for sure. Who’d have thought we’d see the day when goblins walked about in our fair city, bold as brass?”
A few did more than look; they also sniffed as the two travellers walked by, for the day was warm, and a strange smell was starting to emerge from Henwyn’s pack. There had been a long debate back at Clovenstone about what sort of gift they should bring for King Padstow (for everyone knows that kings won’t so much as give you the time of day unless you bring a gift with you when you come to see them). Henwyn had suggested a sword from the old armouries, Princess Ned had wondered about a statue for the royal gardens, and Fentongoose had thought of sending a rare and valuable old book from the bumwipe heaps. But they all agreed the High King must have more swords than he knew what to do with, and a statue would be far too heavy to carry all that way, while even Fentongoose had to admit that his books were mildewy, and rather worm-eaten. So, in the end, they had decided to take cheese: a wheel of Clovenstone Blue, which was not only delicious, but would prove that the goblins had given up fighting and raiding and had turned their paws to more peaceful occupations, e.g. cheese-making.
It was a decision that Henwyn had come to regret. Not only was the wheel of cheese heavier than he had expected, it was smellier too, and the smell had haunted him all through the journey south, getting into his head while he slept and giving him the oddest dreams. Still, the sight of Coriander in the sunshine was enough to make him feel proud of his role as cheesebearer again, and he straightened his pack and strode proudly towards the city gate, with Skarper scuttling beside him and a cheesy aroma wafting behind.
The guards at the gate sniffed at the strange smell too, and they looked long and hard at Skarper. But cheese was popular in Coriander, and as for goblins, well, there had been many strange arrivals since the old magic began working again, and they did not try to stop Skarper entering. Soon he and Henwyn were walking along the cobbled streets, gawping up at the tall buildings which loomed over them on either side. More than half of the houses were also shops, with carved and painted signs hung above their doors announcing what they sold: signs in the shapes of lamps, boots, swords, saddles. . .
“We must find our way to the Street of Antiquaries,” called Henwyn over the low but constant thunder of cartwheels on the cobbles. “That is where Carnglaze has his house.”
Carnglaze was their only friend in the city, but he was a good friend. He was one of the would-be sorcerers who had come to Clovenstone with Fentongoose. After the fall of the Keep he had returned home, for unlike Fentongoose he had a wife waiting for him in Coriander. Now he made his living as a merchant, selling genuine Clovenstone artefacts from a shop on the ground floor of his house on the Street of Antiquaries. Every few months he would take a train of packhorses to Clovenstone, and bring them back to Coriander laden with the treasures and curios which the goblins kept unearthing among the ruins. Henwyn and Skarper planned to stay with him, and hoped that he would be able to arrange an audience for them with the High King. But first they had to find him.
Skarper wanted to ask the way, but Henwyn was sure he knew it. “Fentongoose told me that Carnglaze lives on the southern heights,” he explained. “The city is in two halves, you see, north and south, with the River Ystrad running through the middle. Come, here is a short cut. . .”
The short cut led down steep, shady alleys where the houses were narrower and meaner looking, and the shop signs were in the shape of knives, wine jars, and playing cards. Soon there were no shops at all, just dingy, half-abandoned-looking houses, the only signs of life the dogs that slept in the doorways and the lines of washing strung across the narrow spaces between the buildings. It seemed astonishing that in one city there could be streets so poor and others so busy and prosperous. The daylight was fading fast, and Skarper and Henwyn had to take care as they picked their way across open drains, and skirted fly-buzzing mounds of rubbish. The smells made Skarper think of home, but it still felt to him as if they’d taken a wrong turn.
“Are you sure this is the way to Carnglaze’s house?”
“We’ll come to the river in a moment,” Henwyn promised.
Come to it they did, but it took more than a moment, and it was not much of a river: a sad, smelly, brownish stream flowing sluggishly between stone embankments. A narrow, litter-strewn path led along the riverside, and a few hundred yards downstream a footbridge spanned the grimy water, old and mossy and sagging. Henwyn pointed to it. “Look! A bridge! Once we’re across that we’ll start climbing again, and we’ll soon be at the southern heights.”
What Henwyn couldn’t know was that three trolls had made their home under that bridge. Big, gangling, blue-green trolls, who had bee
n mossy boulders on the banks of the Ystrad till that spring, when the magic tingling in the water had awoken them. Instead of creeping into the lonely places of the hills, which were the usual abode of trolls, these three had scented the rich, exciting smells of the city, and come downstream to lurk beneath this ancient bridge. Their names were Torridge, Cribba and Kenn.
As Skarper and Henwyn walked towards the bridge, the knobbly head of Torridge broke the water like a half-submerged stone. His eyes gleamed watchfully, and when the two friends drew near he scrambled suddenly out on to the path in front of them. His brothers, who had crept a little way upstream beneath the dirty water, crawled out behind them, cutting off Henwyn and Skarper’s retreat.
“Trolls!” cried Henwyn.
“I think. . .” he added. For these city trolls were not like any troll he’d ever met or heard of. The dirty water and poor diet had stunted them, and their skin was the pasty grey of lichen on a sooty roof. They all wore dripping man-clothes, and one even sported an old hat with a soggy feather in it. Each carried a cudgel of iron-bound wood, made from uprooted riverside bollards.
“Give us your MONEY,” growled Torridge.
“And your CLOTHES!” roared Cribba.
“And your. . .” Kenn started, then stopped and frowned. “No, jus’ your money and your clothes, that’ll do.”
“All right!” whimpered Skarper, dropping his pack and starting to take off his cloak. He was just glad the trolls didn’t want to eat him, as less sophisticated trolls in country places would have done.
But Henwyn shouted, “Never!” He threw down his pack, and his sword came singing from its scabbard.
The trolls reeled back, surprised. Coriander folk weren’t used to trolls, and the few who’d met Torridge, Cribba and Kenn had all been glad enough to hand over their purses and their clothes as soon as they were told to. No one had ever pulled a sword on them before. Kenn, the most cowardly of the three, slithered quietly back into the river. Cribba swung his cudgel at Henwyn, but Henwyn ducked under it. Skarper, who had seen which way things were going by that time, quickly drew his own little sword and stabbed it into Cribba’s shin. The troll howled, dropped his cudgel and tumbled backwards into the water, throwing up a greenish splash full of old vegetable peelings.
Henwyn whirled to confront Torridge. The troll bared yellow fangs at him and snarled. Swish, swish went his huge cudgel, flailing at Henwyn’s head, but he was too slow, and Henwyn avoided the blows with ease. When Henwyn raised his sword, Torridge squealed and retreated up one of the shadowy alleyways which opened off the riverside, flinging his cudgel away as he went.
Most people would have given up at that point, decided they’d won, and hurried away to better bits of town. Not Henwyn. He still fancied himself as a bit of a hero. He ran after the troll. “Begone, foul troll!” he shouted importantly. “I shall drive you back into the wild hills whence you came, and the good people of Coriander shall sleep sounder knowing you are gone!” But as he advanced on the cowering troll his raised sword snagged a washing line, and a load of damp sheets came down on his head. Blinded, struggling to free himself, he backed out on to the riverside path. Kenn, who had recovered his courage, was just climbing out of the river again to lend his brother a hand, but when that thrashing, sheeted shape appeared he screeched, “A ghost!” and dived back in.
Torridge wasn’t scared of ghosts. Following Henwyn out of the alley, he stuck out a stinking, trollish toe to trip him, and snatching up his fallen cudgel, he raised it high above the fallen hero’s head, shouting, “I’ll bash you flat, I will!”
Skarper was just wondering if a desperate sword-thrust at the troll’s backside would save the day or only make things worse, when the day was saved for him. Something small and squarish went fluttering over his head like a bird with corners. It struck Torridge hard between his dim eyes and made them go dimmer still. The stunned troll staggered backwards, missed his footing at the embankment’s edge and plunged into the river. There was another mighty splash, spattering the path with water, algae and an old boot. Then silence.
Henwyn finally fought his way out of the sheet. He ran, sword in hand, to peer down into the murky water, but the three trolls seemed to have had enough. Only a few bubbles marked their track as they slunk back beneath the rotting piles of the bridge to lick their wounds.
Skarper, meanwhile, had picked up the missile that had struck Torridge down, and turned to look for the helpful person who had thrown it.
The missile was a book, thick and heavy, with hundreds of printed pages bound between hand-tooled leather covers. The thrower was a gaunt, elderly man wearing robes which might have been costly once, but which now hung in grimy tatters. “Ridiculous creatures,” he said, looking at Skarper, but probably referring to the trolls.
Skarper went over to him, holding out the book. Books like that were valuable objects in the Westlands, where printing presses had not long been invented. The man just shrugged and said, “Keep it. You are a goblin, I suppose?”
Skarper agreed that he was.
“The streets of Coriander are filling with creatures out of children’s tales,” the man sighed, shaking his head grumpily. Henwyn ran over to shake his hand and thank him, which seemed to improve his mood a little, but he became gloomy again when Henwyn asked if he knew the way to the house of Carnglaze. “That fake sorcerer? That seller of trinkets from the Lych Lord’s tower? Friends of his, are you?” He looked them both up and down and muttered again, “Creatures out of children’s tales.”
“But do you know Carnglaze’s house?” asked Henwyn, a bit confused.
“It happens that I do,” the ragged stranger admitted. “A very fine house it is, too. It is in the southern heights, a far superior part of town. A long walk from here, mind. Come to my home and let me bind that wound before you set forth.”
Henwyn had not noticed until then that he was wounded. His head must have hit the alley wall while he was struggling in the sheet, and blood was trickling down his face. He felt quite faint when he touched the place and his fingers came away wet and red. He followed meekly as the stranger led the way up one of the nearby alleys.
Skarper trotted after them. It was almost dark now, but candles had been lit in some of the windows that they passed, and by their light he picked out the name of the book he held, embossed in golden letters on its spine. Why Magic Doth Not Exist, by Doctor Quesney Prong.
“Are you sure you don’t want your book back?” he asked. Growing up among the bumwipe heaps had taught him to prize books; he couldn’t imagine someone throwing one away.
The man just gave a hollow laugh. “Keep it, goblin. It is yours. I have plenty more. See!”
They had come to the alley’s end. Beyond it lay a patch of waste ground, covered in weeds and litter, where a sort of small, lumpy shack had been built. At first Skarper thought that it was made from squared stones, but as he and Henwyn went closer he saw that it was actually built from hundreds and hundreds of books. More books, left over from the building, lay in a heap outside the doorway. The man picked one up and flung it on to the glowing embers of a small fire, where it burst into flame. In the sudden wash of light, golden letters gleamed in the book hut’s walls. All the books were identical copies of Why Magic Doth Not Exist.
“I have five thousand of them,” said their host, adding a few more books to his fire and setting a pot of water to heat over the flames. “I am the unhappy Dr Quesney Prong, you see, and I had them printed at my own expense. I expected them to sell, for there had been great interest in my lectures from learned people, not just here in Coriander but in Porthquidden, Nantivey, why, even in Barragan! ‘Dr Quesney Prong is the voice of reason!’ That’s what they said of me. ‘He is rescuing us from a belief in all the superstitious nonsense of the past: he offers proof positive that there are no such things as goblins, trolls and fairies.’
“And then what happens? Why, on th
e very day that I take delivery of my five thousand bound copies, the Lych Lord’s star rises again, and the world begins to fill with goblins, trolls and fairies once more. Mermaids singing on the beach all night! Ghosts and ghouls creeping out of the burial grounds! A fairy even flew into the very hall where I was lecturing and punched me on the nose, the little beast! And of course, no one wanted to buy my well-argued explanation of Why Magick Doth Not Exist when they only had to look about them to see that it plainly doth. So I was ruined, and now these worthless books are all that I have left.”
It was a sad tale, and he told it with great bitterness as he carefully sponged the graze on Henwyn’s brow with water from the pot. When he was finished he used the rest of the water to make three cups of tea, which his guests drank politely, even though Henwyn wasn’t thirsty and goblins don’t like tea. They both understood how generous it was of Quesney Prong to share some of his dwindling stock of best Muskish tea leaves with strangers. It was tricky to make conversation, though, because every time they mentioned Clovenstone, or goblins, or trolls, or dwarves, Dr Prong would scoff and shake his head and say, “Children’s tales!”
At last, draining his cup, Henwyn said, “So, can you tell us the way to the house of Carnglaze?”
Dr Prong looked wearily at him. “Of course I can. It is my house. At least, it was. I sold it to Carnglaze when he returned from Clovenstone, bringing all those treasures. He gave me a good price for it too; I’ll not deny that. Enough to pay off my debts, but not, alas, enough to live on.”
He rose, brushing the dust from his shabby clothes. “Come. I’ll take you there.”
Coriander was not as large a city as Clovenstone, but it was alive and full of people whereas Clovenstone was dead and all but deserted. It was so alive and so busy, in fact, that Skarper grew quite weary from all the new sights he saw on the way to the House of Carnglaze. Dr Prong led the travellers back down to the River Ystrad and across another, much bigger, better bridge where no trolls lurked. Soon they were in parts of town where lanterns hung from metal trees to light the wide, paved streets; where carriages clattered by and people in bright clothes promenaded, enjoying the warmth of the autumn evening. They passed the shops of clocksmiths and locksmiths, map-makers and book-binders; they passed shops so high-class and select that Skarper simply couldn’t work out what they sold. They passed parks and public gardens where fountains played, and a place where a big purple tent was being erected, the signs outside advertising Your Fortune Told! Your Future Foreseen! See Visions of Things To Come in Madam Maura’s Oracular Bathtub! They climbed long stairways, and emerged on to quieter streets which looked out across the bay to where the lights of Boskennack twinkled.
