The Goblin's Gift (12 page)

What are they doing? Have they rounded us up just to kill us?

He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue.

A drummer was playing, beating out a fast martial
rhythm as if they were on an Azurmouth parade ground. As if this was all play-acting.
Thalin knows, it isn't.

There was a final drum-roll, then silence. The League sergeant opened his mouth.

‘Stand aside for his grace, the Duke of Garran!'

The League marines parted and a figure approached, gliding across the deck.

A small man, round and pink-skinned. His white satin coat, white tricorne, white stockings and breeches – all of them were spotless. Unlike the marines, who looked just like the butchers they were nicknamed for, their uniforms smudged with gunpowder, soot and blood.

So this was the man who had ordered the massacre of the Crying Mountains – thousands of unarmed trolls put to the bayonet. The man who had lined the Great Garran Highway with the heads of those trolls, all the way from Azurmouth to Renneth. The man who had sent the few who still lived to work in the darkness of the zephyrum mines. Newton's jaw tightened at the thought.

‘You,' said the Duke of Garran. He pointed at Newton with one finger, and Newton saw that he was even wearing white gloves. ‘You are the commander of this vessel?'

‘Aye.'

The Duke's gloved hand flicked out to the side, and someone stepped forward to place a pistol in it. It was a tall, slender woman, dressed in the uniform of a League officer but hatless, her long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail with a white ribbon. A heavy two-handed sword was strapped to her back – the kind of weapon that might have been common in the Dark Age, and today was anything but. Judging by the long splatter of blood across the side of her coat, she had been using it.

There was something about her – something oddly familiar … Newton was sure he'd seen her somewhere before. But where?

‘Thank you, Major,' said the Duke. He came nearer, white leather shoes clicking neatly on the deck, pistol dangling at his side. He stopped two paces from Newton, examining him like a fisherman might look at a cod he was about to gut. His eyes were so pale they had almost no colour at all. Newton clamped his hand tighter around his wounded arm to stop himself from lashing out.

‘I am disappointed, Mr …'

‘Newton.'

‘Mr Newton. Very disappointed. You are a human, aren't you?'

Newton said nothing. Actually his grandfather had been an ogre, but it only showed in a bit of extra bulk and a strong jawline. He didn't feel like explaining that to this bilge rat.

‘You have lost your way,' said the Duke. He raised his pistol, pointing out the other human members of the
Wyvern
's crew, one by one. ‘You have all lost your way.'

There was a pause, then someone called out, ‘You're the one who's a hundred miles from home.'

‘Go back to the Old World,' called another. ‘You cockroach!'

There were murmurs amongst the Fayters, some fearful, others agreeing. Newton just hoped the butchers hadn't seen who'd spoken. Whoever it was, they were brave but stupid.

The Duke didn't look bothered in the slightest. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a spot of blood that had somehow found its way onto his coat.

‘Do you think that we would not kill you now?' he said quietly. He sounded genuinely curious. ‘We have done it before. It would not weigh on our conscience to slay all the demonspawn on this vessel, and the misguided humans who fight alongside them.' He replaced the handkerchief and held up his empty
gloved hand. ‘I myself have killed dozens of demonspawn with this hand. Trolls. Imps. Dwarves. And may the seraphs give me strength to do so again.'

‘That's as may be, your grace,' said Newton, ‘but if you kill us you won't last long yourselves.' He nodded out to sea. Several Fayter vessels were bearing down on them now. They must have spotted the League ship, and were coming to help.
Better late than never
.

The enemy magicians fanned out over the deck, watching the approaching vessels. But the Duke of Garran didn't even look round.

‘This is nothing we had not anticipated. But we have not come here to kill you. We have come because I wish to speak to your governor. My offer is this. The fleets will remain here, and you will accompany me and my flagship, the
Justice
, back to Port Fayt, where we will discuss terms. Naturally, if you refuse, death will follow. Doubtless we will die too. But you must understand, Mr Newton, that my men and I would welcome such martyrdom.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Consider my offer. Consider it carefully.'

Newton turned to Old Jon. The elf was frowning, but he gave a short nod. Beyond, Derringer was scowling fiercely.

This wasn't what Newton had expected. What in all the Ebony Ocean did the Duke want? So far as he'd known, the League weren't much for talking. Massacring, yes. But negotiating …

He looked up and caught the eyes of the blonde-haired League officer. They gleamed with the cold light of hatred. Her jaw was set tight, and her fingers had curled into fists.

He turned to the faces of his crew and captains, kneeling on the deck, watching the glinting sabres and bayonets of the League. He could practically taste their fear. Most of them had never even been in a battle before.

The body of the elderly troll was sprawled out, his blood already starting to dry.

Not much of a choice.

‘We'll do as you say,' said Newton. ‘Back to Port Fayt.'

The Duke smiled. But his pale eyes were empty, like twin crystal balls showing nothing of the future.

THE MAN FROWNED
harder at the piece of paper. He was dressed in rich blue velvet with small golden crowns stitched on each shoulder – livery like that of a trading company official. But his head was shaven, exposing an angry scar where one ear should have been, and his left eye was made of wood and painted to look like a real one, although not very successfully. All in all he looked like a glorified bully boy. Which was exactly what he was.

‘You're not on the list,' he said at last.

‘I know that,' said Slik. ‘But we're not guests, see? Reckon you're short on servants, what with old Skelmerdale dragging all the ships in the harbour out
to fight the Duke of Garran. And these two here want to help out in the kitchens, earn a ducat or two. I'm Slik. Cold-eyed Parsons knows me. He'll vouch for me.'

‘We already got servants,' said the bully boy.

‘Not like these you haven't. The Boy King'll want them. You know how he likes freaks.' Tabitha scowled at Slik, but the fairy carried on anyway. ‘Look at that mongrel's skin, all weird and blotchy. And the girl's funny blue hair.'

The bully boy narrowed his one real eye.

‘Wait there.'

The door slammed shut, brass knocker jangling. Joseph hugged his shoulders against the evening chill and gazed up at the building. It didn't look like the headquarters of the most dangerous gang in Port Fayt. It was a large, pale stone merchant's house – just one of a hundred in this street, all identical. It was eerie how quiet it was here. Nothing like the busy Marlinspike Quarter he was used to.

He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. The street was dark and empty. The Flagstaff Quarter was where the wealthiest merchants in Port Fayt lived, and folk like that tended to stay safe inside their big houses at night. All the same, he was nervous. What if a blackcoat patrol came … ?

‘They're all at sea, remember?' said Tabitha, who had obviously guessed what he was thinking. ‘Slik – I thought you said this would be easy.' She yanked on the fairy's lead, wrapped around her arm and hidden under her jacket cuff.

‘No patience, this one,' said Slik. ‘He'll let us in. Not nervous, are you?'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘
I'm
nervous,' said Joseph.

‘Well, I'm not, all right? I just don't trust this fairy.'

Slik shrugged. ‘Boo hoo. Not as if you have a choice, anyway.'

‘He's right,' said Joseph. ‘We couldn't get in on our own.'

Tabitha glared at him, then at Slik. She lifted the fairy up on the back of her hand so that he was level with their faces. Slik grinned at them.

‘Listen up, you slimy little sea slug,' she said. ‘If you cause any trouble in there, it won't be the Brig any more.' She drew a finger across her throat. ‘Got it?'

‘You don't scare me.'

Tabitha wrapped her hand around the fairy, so that only his feet and head poked out on either side of her fist. He struggled, but it was no use.

‘How about now? One good hard squeeze. That's all it would take. I'd enjoy it too.'

The fairy paled. ‘All right, keep your breeches on. I'll behave.'

Footsteps sounded beyond the door. Joseph took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists.

‘We'll be all right, Joseph,' said Tabitha. ‘Just stick with me.'

He managed a smile. ‘Thanks. I will.'

Slik rolled his eyes and pretended to throw up.

The door opened again, and the man with the wooden eye stood back to let them pass. As they entered, two more men stepped out of the shadows and patted them down. Thank Thalin they'd left their weapons at Bootles'. It hadn't been easy persuading Tabitha to part with her knives. Or her watchman's coat, for that matter.

Joseph snuck a quick glance around him. The hallway was large and luxurious, a bronze chandelier hanging high above the white marble floor, its candlelight glowing softly onto blood-red walls. There were portraits, just like the ones in Wyrmwood Manor. Except the people in these paintings were terrifying. Most of them were missing something – front teeth, or an eye or a nose – and every one of them looked like they'd stab you in the face for half a ducat.

Joseph shivered.
We've got to do this
, he reminded himself. They couldn't leave their fellow watchmen at
the mercy of the merfolk. Couldn't leave Newt and his fleet to face the League armada on their own.

‘All right,' said the doorman. ‘Tommy here'll take you down to the kitchens. You'll get a ducat apiece for the evening's work. Cause any trouble and you'll get the hiding of your life. Or worse. Is that clear?'

‘Crystal,' said Slik, before Joseph or Tabitha could say anything. ‘Reckon I'll stick around and enjoy the party.'

‘Reckon you won't,' said the doorman bluntly. ‘You can stay with the boy and girl or you can clear off. Parsons doesn't want to see you.'

Joseph thought fast. Better to have the fairy with them, where they could keep an eye on him. ‘He'll stay with us,' he said. ‘Won't you, Slik?'

‘Course I will,' said the fairy, giving him a big grin.

Joseph smiled back, until he remembered Slik's words from earlier.
If you go into the court of the Boy King, you're going to get yourselves killed. And I want to be there when it happens.
The smile died on his lips.

The man called Tommy stepped up behind them and laid his hands on their shoulders. He was tall and thin, dressed in the same blue velvet as the doorman, with a face as pale as a corpse, wispy ginger hair tied back into a ponytail and a long, drooping ginger beard and moustache. He steered them along the dark red
corridor, deeper into the house. It wasn't a gentle grip, and the swirling in Joseph's stomach didn't improve when he noticed that the hand on his shoulder had only three fingers.

There was a clatter of pots and pans and raised voices up ahead. They turned a corner, went through a doorway and down wide stone steps, and at last came out into an enormous kitchen. Servants were scurrying in every direction, tasting soup, chopping vegetables or plucking birds at the long table that ran down the middle of the room. Joseph wiped his brow. It was swelteringly hot thanks to three large open fires set into one wall.

Tommy took them across the kitchen, not pausing for a moment. An elf carrying a giant platter of roast meat had to dodge out of his path, and a woman with a pan of white sauce almost spilled it in her hurry to make way.

‘Meal's already started,' said Tommy. His voice was thin and nasal. ‘But there's room for a couple more serving staff. Put these on …'

He pulled costumes off some pegs and handed them to Joseph and Tabitha.

Tabitha frowned. ‘Do we have to?'

‘Yes,' replied Tommy, in a way that made it clear there was no more to say on the matter. ‘The Boy King
likes his servants dressed up. And the Boy King gets what he wants. Always.'

Slik sniggered. Joseph's costume was a red and yellow jester suit with an enormous coxcomb on its hood. Tabitha's was a dress sewn together from large purple and green patches with a gigantic ruff at the neck.

‘But these are ridiculous. Why do—?'

Quick as a flash, Tommy whipped a silver pistol out of a pocket and pressed it against Tabitha's forehead, two fingers curled around the handle, the third resting on the trigger. Joseph started forward but Tommy's other hand gripped him by the throat, squeezing until he could barely breathe.