The Goblin's Gift Page 14

  ‘Recognized that song you were singing,’ said Jeb. ‘That bilge about scrubbing dishes. You sing it all the time, in case yer hadn’t noticed. Just like your ma did. And there ain’t too many mongrels like you in Port Fayt.’

  Joseph tried to think clearly. ‘So you knew my father. So what? It doesn’t mean he’s alive. You’re just trying to—’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Joseph must have been speaking louder than he realized, because Tabitha was wide awake and on her feet. Her hair was dishevelled and she held a knife in one hand and Jeb’s revolving pistol in the other. Both were pointing at the Snitch.

  ‘This bilge rat was … He was …’

  ‘Calm down.’

  Joseph closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. If Tabs was telling him to calm down, he must have crossed a line. He gestured at the Snitch with his blunderbuss. ‘He says my father’s alive.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the goblin. ‘It’s true.’

  Tabitha’s eyes widened for just a moment. Then she relaxed.

  ‘So what? He’ll say anything to get what he wants. You know that.’

  Joseph felt a strange surge of emotions. Anger at the Snitch, but also at Tabs. Relief, but disappointment too. He took another deep breath.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I mean, of course I don’t believe him.’

  ‘Whatever you say, mate,’ said Jeb. He stretched and yawned. ‘Reckon I’ll turn in, anyhow. Been a long day.’ He gave Joseph a wink and headed back to his bed on the straw.

  Tabitha sheathed her knife and headed for the empty stool. ‘My turn to take watch,’ she said, as though nothing had happened. ‘You get some sleep.’

  Joseph handed her the blunderbuss. He was still shaking. He found an empty space in the corner, lay down and pulled a blanket over himself.

  ‘Actually, Joseph. You don’t, er … You don’t have to go and sleep right away,’ said Tabitha stiffly. ‘We could talk a bit. If you like.’

  Talk? Joseph didn’t think she’d ever wanted to talk before.

  ‘I – I can’t wait to get out of here,’ she said. ‘Back to Newt and the others.’ She cast a glance at the mermaid, still sleeping peacefully on the straw. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I keep thinking about them, stuck on that rock.

  And Newt, going into battle. Do you think they’ll be all right?’

  ‘Me too.’

  She glared at him suddenly.

  ‘I mean … yes. Sorry. What was the question?’

  The truth was, he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to think.

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Well then,’ said Tabitha briskly. ‘Goodnight.’ The dying fire was reflected in her grey eyes. It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment Joseph thought they were filmed with moisture. She turned away at once, holding onto the blunderbuss like a little child with a doll.

  ‘’Night,’ he said. And he closed his eyes, grateful to be alone with his thoughts.

  Of course he didn’t believe the Snitch. He wasn’t an idiot. But still the goblin’s words ran round and round his head.

  Let’s say your pa was still alive …

  Even if it wasn’t true, the Snitch knew something. He’d recognized the song Joseph’s mother sang; the one she’d made up herself. The only people who knew it were Joseph, his mother and his father.

  Then again, everything was a trick with Jeb. Each time he seemed to be helping, he was really just helping himself. So what did he want from Joseph? Why tell him his father was alive? Was it just to hurt him?

  He sighed and turned over. If only he could ask more questions … But he couldn’t. Not with Tabitha there. She’d get angry and tell him he was being ridiculous.

  Anyway, she was right. The Snitch was a liar.

  Wasn’t he?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE DOOR OPENED and men in white began to file into the library of Wyrmwood Manor. First a young magician, red fireballs embroidered on his shoulders. Then two officers with swords jangling on their hips. They looked so ordinary, just like the humans who lived in Fayt. Except for those white uniforms.

  Next came the slender, fair-haired officer whom Newton half recognized, with the heavy two-handed sword strapped to her back. Last of all, the Duke of Garran, delicate and precise in his movements. He removed his tricorne as he entered and smoothed down his grey hair with pink fingers. He looked relaxed. Peaceful, even.

  On the inside he is a devious, vicious sadist.

  Newton cast a quick glance to his side. Morning sunlight filtered through the windows, glinting off the silver on Colonel Derringer’s lapels. The elf looked calm, smiling as usual, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Governor Skelmerdale didn’t look calm at all. He was seated in front of the map table on a straight-backed wooden chair, hands glued to the arm rests, glaring at his guests with all the welcome of a dragon that had just spotted a would-be hero trying to steal its treasure.

  Newton cleared his throat, ignoring a twinge of pain from his stitched-up arm wound. The League was here now, and they had to keep this civil. If anyone lost their temper, nothing good would come of it.

  ‘Welcome to Port Fayt, your grace,’ he said.

  A blackcoat came forward from the side of the room, placing a second straight-backed chair for the Duke to sit on. He did so, resting his hat on his knee and re-arranging his cuffs. His strange colourless eyes swept around the room, appraising everyone and everything in sight.

  ‘Your grace,’ Newton continued, ‘allow me to introduce Governor Skelmerdale.’

  ‘We are acquainted,’ said the governor. His voice sounded strained, as if it was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and stab the other man with a paper knife.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Duke of Garran. ‘On my last visit, I believe you told me that Port Fayt would never submit to the way of the Light. That we of the League are murderers. You see’ – he brushed invisible dust from his hat – ‘I told you I have a good memory, Mr Skelmerdale.’

  ‘Governor,’ replied Skelmerdale.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I am Governor Skelmerdale.’

  Newton cleared his throat again. ‘Shall we get down to business, your grace?’

  The Duke of Garran gave a curt nod.

  ‘Well, Mr Skelmerdale. My position is this. Port Fayt will submit to the way of the Light, whether you like it or not. Your colleague here has sent fairies to spy on our fleet. No doubt he has conveyed to you the gravity of your situation?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘However, the League is prepared to make allowances. All humans in Port Fayt will be free to stay and live here under our protection. You, Mr Skelmerdale, may even remain as governor, despite your rather unfortunate temper. There will be no battle. No bloodshed. No—’

  ‘What about the other Fayters?’ said the governor.

  ‘Others?’

  ‘The trolls. The imps. The dwarves.’

  ‘The elves,’ added Derringer.

  A cloud passed over the Duke’s face. He examined his fingernails. ‘You know what will happen to them. We must bring light into the darkness.’

  Newton tensed, in case he had to grab Skelmerdale and hold him back. But instead the governor let out a snort of laughter. ‘You came all the way here to tell us this?’

  The Duke sighed and massaged his brow. ‘Must you be so foolish? Look around you.’ He swept out a pink hand, taking in the whole room. ‘Imagine this library, burning. The books. The furniture. The people. And if you are stubborn, Mr Skelmerdale, this will happen to all of Port Fayt – humans and demonspawn alike.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ said Colonel Derringer. ‘We might win.’

  The League officers smiled. All except the tall blonde woman. Her mouth was set in a hard line, just like on the Wyvern, when her coat had been stained with blood.

  ‘Please,’ said the Duke of Garran. ‘Don’t le
t your imagination run away with you.’ His gaze settled on something. He got to his feet and stepped lightly across the room to the podium with the glass case on top. ‘May I?’ Without waiting for an answer he lifted the lid and drew out the sword from inside. Its long, slender blade gleamed in the sunlight. The white star-stones sparkled in the silver hilt.

  ‘The Sword of Corin the Bold,’ said Newton. ‘It belonged to Governor Wyrmwood.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The Duke stepped into the centre of the room, swung the blade once, twice, experimentally. He tossed it into his other hand and flicked his wrist, slicing the air and sending dust motes dancing. Newton was surprised by the Duke’s skill. He had thought this was a man who got others to do his fighting for him.

  The Duke of Garran brought the blade to rest, point down on the carpet, hand resting on the hilt. He sighed.

  ‘Such a pleasure,’ he said dreamily. ‘There is nothing in all the Old World so fine as a good sword. Don’t you agree?’ He looked at Newton expectantly.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Colonel Derringer stiffly, as if it was he who’d been asked.

  ‘The balance. The weight. The singing of the blade,’ the Duke went on, ignoring Derringer. ‘A true joy.’

  ‘Don’t use them,’ said Newton. It wasn’t right, talking like this to the enemy. And talking about fighting at that.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Duke. He was smiling strangely, as if he knew something Newton didn’t, and was enjoying it. ‘Too many bad memories, perhaps?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  The strange smile was gone, and he took the sword by the hilt and passed it over, blade dangling downwards. As Newton grasped it, the Duke locked his other hand around Newton’s wrist, pulling back the sleeve.

  ‘As I thought …’ he said.

  Newton felt his face getting hot. The marks on his wrists, still red and raw after all these years, were plain for all to see. Everyone was leaning in, Fayters and League alike. He caught the eye of the fair-haired woman. She was watching him with a curious expression.

  ‘Manacles,’ the Duke explained. ‘Your captain here has spent time in our zephyrum mines in Garran. A long time, judging by these marks.’ He looked up into Newton’s face, pale eyes studying his features. ‘It’s no work for a human, labouring in the darkness, hunting for the magical metal. But then, you’re not really human at all, are you? There is ogre blood in your veins. Daemonium Turpe. I can see it in your face. Such a shame, because otherwise you seem to be a fine specimen of humanity.’

  Newton felt his grip tighten on the hilt of the Sword of Corin. Stay calm. What was it he’d said to himself earlier? If anyone lost their temper, nothing good would come of it.

  The Duke smiled, and Newton’s knuckles went white around the hilt.

  ‘A fascinating twist of fate. Corin the Bold would never have dreamed that such a creature would one day hold his sword. A mongrel like you, if you’ll forgive the expression. A refugee from the mines. I wonder what he might say … Little enough, I imagine. In the stories, Corin was never a man of words. He was a fighter. A killer. A slayer of trolls and a scourge of goblins. A man who—’

  Suddenly there was nothing but rage, blotting out everything else. Newton slammed his left palm into the Duke’s chest, sending him staggering backwards. Pain stabbed at the wound in his arm but it didn’t matter. He spun the blade upright, brought it slicing down at the man’s head. He was going to kill this cockroach. This scum. But instead of hitting home, there was a clash of metal and his blade juddered, the vibrations shaking his arm and somehow coursing through his whole body, so hard that he almost let go.

  Standing in front of the Duke was the tall woman with the blonde hair, in a fighting stance, her huge blade drawn and locked against the Sword of Corin. A curl of hair had escaped from her ponytail and hung in front of her face, and she glared at Newton from behind it – steel in her hands and steel in her eyes. She shoved, and Newton had to step back to regain his balance. He hadn’t expected such strength from her.

  Who was she?

  ‘I don’t believe I introduced Major Turnbull,’ said the Duke of Garran. He was fussing with his coat where Newton had touched it, making sure that it was still perfectly white. ‘Of course, it’s possible you’ve met before. For many years Turnbull lived in Wyborough, in Garran. Above the mines.’

  Wyborough. Turnbull. The names stirred distant memories.

  Suddenly Newton saw the woman’s face differently. Not the face of an adult, but of a little girl, blonde and smiling, her hair in pigtails. That was how he’d known her. Governor Turnbull of Wyborough had overseen the mining of zephyrum. And this woman before him was Alice. The governor’s daughter.

  He felt dizzy.

  She couldn’t have been more than ten years old the last time he saw her. Clinging to her mother’s skirts and sucking her thumb as she watched her father inspect the miners.

  She wasn’t sucking her thumb now, that was for sure.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Newton saw that the Duke was smiling. Again the urge welled up to attack him, stab him, hurt him …

  There was a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Mr Newton,’ said Governor Skelmerdale gently. ‘Put up that sword.’

  Slowly the rage washed out of him, like bathwater down the drain. He was left with something else, cold and hard. Anger. The memory of the mines burned inside him, impossible to ignore now the Duke had reminded him. He stepped back, lowering the sword as he did so, the pain in his arm subsiding to a dull ache.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly.

  Skelmerdale nodded and turned to the Duke of Garran. ‘Is there anything else you wish to discuss? If not, I suggest you go back to your ships at once. There will be no agreement, unless it is for the League to return to the Old World in peace.’

  The Duke of Garran shook his head, no longer smiling. ‘I’m afraid that will not happen.’

  Alice Turnbull sheathed her sword in one fluid movement. Newton felt a shiver run down his spine. She’d been a shy child, but happy. Whatever had happened to her since then, there was no trace of the quiet little girl left in those cold eyes.

  One of the League officers opened the door, and the men in white began to leave the room.

  Only the Duke of Garran remained, motionless. ‘I am very sorry to hear this,’ he said quietly. ‘I had hoped you would see sense.’ He turned to leave, then paused and turned back, looking thoughtful. ‘Forgive me, but … it is strange for the people of Fayt to possess such a sword. A sword that has slain countless demonspawn. A sword that stands against the darkness.’

  ‘It’s just a sword,’ said Newton coldly. ‘A tool. It could kill you just as easily as it could a troll or a goblin.’ His heart was racing again, his voice getting louder, and Governor Skelmerdale’s hand was on his arm once more. He didn’t care though. Not now. He levelled the sword, pointing it at the Duke. ‘I’ll prove it too. I’m coming for you, your grace. With this blade here. The Sword of Corin.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said the Duke. ‘But be assured I will be ready.’

  He bowed low, replaced his tricorne on his head and left the room. His footsteps receded down the corridor as the door swung shut.

  ‘Put that sword down!’ roared the governor, making everyone in the room flinch.

  Newton lowered the blade. The rage was gone again, passing as quickly as a spring shower. And though the anger remained, there was something else too – a dull, throbbing pain of regret. This wasn’t like him. ‘I’m sorry, your honour. I – I shouldn’t have let him—’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Skelmerdale’s eyes blazed for a moment longer. ‘But what’s done is done. There was never a chance of another outcome, in any case. Back to your ships.’

  There was a shift in the room, as blackcoats and captains made their way towards the door.

  ‘You two, wait,’ said the governor, indicating Newton and Derringer.

  ‘Your honour,’ said the
elf, coming smartly to attention.

  ‘Aye,’ said Newton. He could guess what was coming.

  ‘Mr Newton. Thalin knows, I understand anger. But this is too much. If you cannot control yourself, how can I rely on you to lead our fleet? A commander must think only of what is best for his men.’

  Like when you refused to seek the help of the merfolk?

  But there was no point in saying it out loud. Besides, the governor was right. Newton was not to be relied on. Not any more.

  ‘From henceforth, Colonel Derringer, you will take charge of the Wyvern, and of the fleet. Captain Newton, you will act as the colonel’s second-in-command. Is that understood?’

  Derringer smirked, his eyes shining like the silver on his uniform.

  ‘Understood, your honour,’ said Newton.

  It didn’t matter. Commander or not, he was going to kill the Duke of Garran.

  And he was going to enjoy it.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE MERMAID STILL slept. Even her snoring was annoying. Any louder and Tabitha was going to grab hold of that slimy fish tail and drag her onto the flagstones.

  She rubbed her tired eyes, hunched over the table and took another swig of velvetbean, the warmth of it seeping down her throat. The morning had dawned bright but cloudy, as if uncertain which way it would go. With any luck they’d be on a ship by noon, and Jeb the Snitch would be walking the plank. If he thought he could outwit them he was as crazy as a crate of crabs.

  The door to the back rooms opened and Joseph emerged, frowning, dabbing at his ears with a threadbare towel. He looked clean but exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept either.

  Tabitha watched him sit down opposite her and pour a mug of velvetbean. He was being so odd lately. Ever since they’d rescued Pallione. What was he doing, listening to the mermaid drone on about her father after dinner – then not even caring when she’d tried to talk to him in the night?

  She wished he hadn’t seen her crying. Then again, considering the way he was acting right now, he probably hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Sleep well?’ she asked. She’d meant to sound casual and friendly, but instead her voice was wooden.