The Blacktongue Thief

35 The Bright Thing in the Grave

Once and long ago, for that’s how fables start, there was a kingdom by the sea. It was full of handsome, brave men and beautiful, clever women. The realm was called Ispanthia. Of course, all kingdoms were full of the brave and beautiful if you asked somebody from that place. Nobody says, “My country’s full of craven karks and reeky old fishwives,” not in a fable, anyway.

But of course, the goblins came again as they had once before, and half the brave warriors in Ispanthia went south to fight them. But the horses that once helped them win the Knights’ War had all died of the Stumbles, and the warriors didn’t fight so well on foot as they had ahorse.

So the goblins ate those warriors.

And came closer.

The goblins said, “We’re hungry.”

So the kingdom sent half of the brave warriors they still had and all their farmers and shepherds and miners and even the little ragpicker boy with no teeth who played with himself in public.

But the goblins ate them, too.

And came closer.

And there they stayed.

Now in the kingdom of Ispanthia, there was a good and brave king, and he went to the wars and fought. But fighting goblins wrecked his head and made his dreams all shyte, and he didn’t care to rule anymore. He just wanted to dance. He didn’t care to bother with his daughter, a sweet child named Mireya, so he bought her a menagerie full of animals. And he danced, and he danced, and he danced and gave away his lands.

The thing about a crown, though—if you lay it down too long, someone else’ll pick it up.

Like your brother.

Now the brother, a sly, handsome bastard named Kalith, asked the peers if they thought the king was mad, but they said no, because the king was handing out lands and titles like a river-child hands out mudpies. So Kalith came and poisoned the king and queen and blamed it on the fool. He tried to poison the daughter as well, but her monkey told her not to eat her soup that night. So the fool was burned alive while the little girl cried.

The uncle petted her hair and smiled at her and said, “There, there.”

She was next to be queen.

Kalith smiled and smiled at her.

The monkey told Mireya the uncle would kill her before she could be crowned and that her only chance was to make herself harmless.

So being a particularly clever child, Mireya talked to the monkey in public.

And stopped washing.

And started howling at the stars and moon.

So the peers declared her mad.

Now in this kingdom, the mad are thought to be favorites of the gods, so even the uncle dared not harm her lest the people cast him down. For the people had winked at the murder of the king who danced while the country fell to ruin, but they loved the infanta Mireya and pitied her for her madness.

The mad may not rule, but they marry well enough, so the uncle, now king, sent his niece to marry a lord in the kingdom of Gallardia. He wasn’t handsome—they called him the Toad Earl of Orfay—but he was brave and good to his mad lady, Mireya, who wasn’t so mad anymore once she got out of Ispanthia.

Now the goblins came closer.

They said, “We’re hungry.”

So the kingdoms gathered all the brave men who were left, but it wasn’t enough. And so the clever women became warriors, but it wasn’t enough.

Mireya wasn’t so mad, but she was dangerous. Turns out she could talk to animals. And bring rain. And make waters run uphill. When her husband, the king, went off to fight the goblins and never returned, the Gallards who were left decided they didn’t care for witches and sent Mireya off to marry the king of Oustrim, far away.

And there she stayed.

Now back in Ispanthia and Gallardia, the kingdoms bred up big war corvids to go into battle with the very last of their men and half their remaining women.

And it turns out goblins are scared of birds.

And the corvids bit the legs from them, and the daughters whacked their arms off.

So they said, “Fuck those birds, we’re not hungry anymore,” and went back home to their shyte tunnels and manfarms and mushroom gardens.

With the goblin tide turned, Mireya, now queen of Oustrim, set about cleaning house. The king loved her and did all she said, so she cast out the Takers Guild. They sent Assassin-Adepts to kill her, but she always knew they were coming because animals told her. And the Guild was driven underground. But she’d used up so much magic laying the Guild low, she didn’t hear the animals when they tried to warn her about the giants. For the kingdoms of Manreach were unlucky, and now that goblins had drained the lands of strength, the giants were come and took the westernmost city.

A cold city in a vale between two sets of mountains.

And no one knew where the queen went.

But her old friend was coming to find her.

A warrior who fought with birds and drove the goblins out.

And who now meant to restore Mireya to Ispanthia’s throne.

With the help of two witches.

And maybe a Coldfoot guard.

And a thief who hated his Guild.

That was the story Norrigal told me, if not in so many words.

After the story, I nearly slept.

I was going to die, but not with bastards, and on a failed but worthy quest.

Would I really have been ready to betray the Guild and work against their interests?

I didn’t know.

But the bright thing in the grave was, as things stood now with us in cages and bound for goblin bellies, I didn’t have to know.

I only had to die.

Relieved of such a burden, I managed to keep a sense of calm and dignity about me, even when the old steam-geezer came near me and showed me a little gadget with a crank. Gods, he smelled putrid. But I kept from heaving even as he held his clawed little hand up and showed me the crank. Invited me to turn it. When I didn’t respond, he took my hand out through the bar and made me turn it. I watched as a fine spill of white crystals fell out one end. He spread these on my arm and then licked it, his awful, armored little tongue, something between a cat’s tongue and boiled leather. One of his teeth cut me just the tiniest bit, and he rubbed salt grains in the little bit of blood that came out, fingered it up, and went back to his steam-making, licking that finger like it was the best finger in the world. Fuck him, fuck all goblins forever, and fuck any who make peace with them. If you don’t yet understand why, heed the next bit. Heed it and know it to be true.