The Maelstrom

~ 7 ~ Piter's Folly

Cursing, the goblin set to kicking at Max with an iron-soled shoe.

“Skeedle!” Max yelled, absorbing a heavy blow as he scrambled over the driver’s railing. The other wagon continued on, oblivious, as Kolbyt lashed out with a whip that nicked Max’s ear.

“Skeedle!” he cried again, crabbing sideways on the wagon, clinging to walls, until he could swing himself up onto its roof. Startled by the commotion, the mules snorted and trotted faster. Wheels skipped and bounced over the rough road as the wagon closed the distance on the one ahead. When they clattered past Skeedle, the little goblin offered a cheerful wave.

Upon seeing his cousin, Kolbyt tugged furiously on the reins. The wagon lurched wildly, nearly flinging Max from the roof, as the mules stumbled and slowed and finally came to a panting halt. Leaping down, Kolbyt lumbered toward the other wagon.

Skeedle met him in the middle, the two goblins smacking into one another’s stomachs. The impact was such that each staggered back. Resuming the struggle, they bellowed furiously at one another in a flurry of harsh, unintelligible words while each clutched his absurd hat and sought to force the other backward with his belly.

The showdown lasted nearly fifteen minutes. By then, Max had climbed down off the wagon’s roof and joined David and Toby to await the outcome. Max was amazed that Skeedle could hold his own. The little goblin was half his cousin’s size, a mere peanut colliding with a pear. But he was a stubborn peanut and not in the least cowed by his more massive relation.

Occasionally, one of the goblins would jab a stubby finger at their passengers and renew their bellowing, but soon they grew too exhausted for even these demonstrations. The only word Max understood was Yuga, for the older goblin uttered it several times. At times, it appeared that Kolbyt’s saggy bulk would win the day, but Skeedle held firm until the larger goblin tired. The final minutes were little more than the two combatants propping each other up, clutching their brims, and growling.

At last Kolbyt broke away, glowering and wiping his nostrils with a brawny forearm. Muttering something to his cousin, he shook his head disapprovingly and turned to gaze down the road.

“Well,” said Skeedle, coming over and catching his breath, “everything’s all worked out. He’s really a softy at heart and I’ve always been his favorite relative.”

“So he’ll take us to Piter’s Folly?” said David.

“Oh no,” Skeedle chuckled. “He says it’s much too dangerous—not worth anywhere near what I’ll be paying him. But he’ll tell you what he knows about the Great Piter Lady and we’ll drive you close and leave you with one of the wagons. From there you’re on your own.”

“That’s fine,” said Max. “Can I ask you what it’s going to cost you, though? I hope it’s not too much.”

“My trade wagon for one year,” replied Skeedle, readjusting his hat. “A deep bite given wartime profits, but I’ll manage.”

“We’ll see what we can do to compensate you,” Max promised. He knew the journey was already dangerous and didn’t want to bankrupt the little goblin in the bargain.

But Skeedle waved him off. Grinning, the goblin lowered his voice. “Plümpka’s already promised me three more wagons and choicer routes because of the troll. What Kolbyt doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He can have my old wagon; the latest models are equipped with fire spouts!”

Skeedle tittered at the mere thought of his potential wealth. Having checked on the mules, Kolbyt lumbered over. Pointing at the smee, the goblin hooked a thumb and indicated that Toby was to ride with him.

“But why me?” protested the smee. “I’m perfectly comfortable in the other wagon.”

“Because Kolbyt can tell you all about the Great Piter Lady,” explained Skeedle. “At Piter’s Folly, you’ll have to take his shape and pretend to be him. There’s just one thing.…”

“What?” inquired the marmot suspiciously.

“Well,” said Skeedle, glancing at his cousin, “Kolbyt wants you to change shape now.”

“Into what, pray tell?”

“A hag,” blurted Skeedle, flushing green. “A big one.”

The smee looked from one goblin to the other, utterly appalled and speechless.

“I am a spy, sir!” he finally declared. “An espionage agent par excellence, a master of ruse de guerre. My duties most certainly do not include taking the guise of some gargantuan hag so that your depraved relations can paw at me.”

“He promises not to touch,” said Skeedle. “But it’s a long trip to Piter’s Folly; Kolbyt just wants something pretty to look at along the way. He gets lonely.”

Outraged, the smee turned to Max and David for support. The boys merely shrugged.

“First a steed, now an escort,” grumbled Toby. “This trip will never make my memoirs.…”

Before their eyes, the smee swelled into a squat hag with greasy gray skin, a tuft of auburn frizz, and a fleecy orange robe. After appraising her, Kolbyt grunted to his cousin.

“He says you look very nice,” translated Skeedle. “But perhaps a little larger. He says—”

Toby exploded. “I know perfectly well what he said!”

Panting, the smee ballooned so that his flesh expanded like rising dough. When a fourth chin appeared, Kolbyt grunted his approval. Beaming, the goblin proudly ushered the enormous, petrified hag to his wagon and helped her up into the driver’s seat.

They resumed their journey to Piter’s Folly, Max now luxuriating in the compartment of Skeedle’s wagon. As expected, the smee had devoured almost all of the chocolate, but Max found that several treats remained and kicked off his boots to savor a cherry tart and survey the scenery through the small windows. Finishing his snack, he smacked away the remaining crumbs and burrowed beneath a blanket for a well-deserved nap.

The next morning, they veered the wagons onto the smaller road known as the Ravenswood Spur. While the main highway curved away south, the new road wound north and east toward the Carpathians. Day after day, the wagons clattered toward the looming gray mountains, stopping only to rest the mules or for the goblins to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

There were no human travelers on the road, but they did encounter several goblins—a small caravan of surly Blackhorns and a solitary Highboot whom Kolbyt would most certainly have robbed had they not forbidden it. The skies were growing ever heavier, ever darker as they headed northeast and began to climb again into hilly terrain.

Past a windswept hillock, Max saw the first evidence of Prusias’s war. It came in the form of a caravan that had been driven off the road and into a pond of brackish water. At first Max thought it was the water’s steam rising into the chill morning, but it was smoke still trickling from the charred crumble of wagons that had been incinerated down to the shallow water-line. Among the grisly spectacle, Max saw the twisted forms of burned horses and several others that were vaguely man-shaped. As Skeedle halted the mules, Max got out to scan the road as it climbed up into the mountains, winding amid the jutting clefts until it disappeared in the mist. Glancing about, he saw no evidence of the attackers; no hoof marks or even boot prints were pressed into the frosted soil. Several ravens hopped about the wreckage, eyeing Max suspiciously as he walked about the water’s edge. When he stepped into the icy shallows, they cawed and flapped heavily away.

Kolbyt bellowed something in his guttural speech. Max turned to see the goblin swaddled in wolf pelts next to Toby, whose plump, haggish face looked cold and miserable.

“He says we should move on,” reported Toby. “We’re too exposed out here—better that we get up into the mountains.”

Max nodded and took one last look at a scorched carcass before heading back inside the wagon.

David glanced up from his solitaire game. “What was it?” he asked.

“Four, maybe five wagons. All burned to a crisp and piled atop one another in a bog. No sign of survivors. No sign of the attackers, either.”

“I imagine we’ll see many such things before we get to Piter’s Folly,” remarked David, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the roof as the wagon bounced over a rut.

“I wish we were already there,” Max muttered. “I’ve been thinking about Walpurgisnacht. Your grandfather magicked us back to Rowan in an instant—without any tunnels or the observatory’s help. How did he do that?”

David smiled and lay down a final card.

“Because he’s Elias Bram. My grandfather’s capable of many things that are beyond my power. People like to make comparisons between us, but in truth there is no comparison.”

“Well, why couldn’t he have brought us to Piter’s Folly?” Max wondered, calculating that they had at least another week of hard travel through dangerous country. “It would have been so much faster.”

“You sound like Ms. Richter.” David smiled. “She’d like nothing better than to hand the Archmage a list of miracles to perform. But Prusias and the Workshop aren’t his priorities, much less some smuggler in a backwater like Piter’s Folly. Imperfect as it is, my tunnel has still gotten us where we are almost a month faster than Ormenheid could and two months faster than an ordinary ship. Let’s be satisfied with that and do our jobs so the Archmage can do his.”

“And what is that?” asked Max.

“Hunting Astaroth,” replied David, pushing aside the cards and pouring Max some coffee. “Not such an easy task—the Demon might not even be in this dimension, much less this world.”

“You still call him ‘the Demon,’ ” Max noted. “Even after what your grandfather said.”

“If that’s what Astaroth’s pretending to be, then that’s what I’ll call him,” replied David. “Knowing what something wants to be is very telling. Astaroth aspires to be the ‘Great God’ and he’s masqueraded as a demon to achieve this goal. Whatever his true origins, it’s clear that he really has become a demon in some respects. After all, he can be summoned against his will, and he must obey Solomon’s circles if they’re properly inscribed. Until I know what he truly is, he’ll always be ‘the Demon.’ ”

Sipping his coffee, Max considered this and gazed out one of the portholes. The marshy land was gone, the hardscrabble terrain growing hillier as the wagons climbed higher into the mountains. He spied a withered hawthorn clinging to life among the rocky soil. There was something vaguely unsettling about the tree, the way its limbs twitched and waved while its neighbors were still. Max shifted to keep it within view, half expecting to glimpse Astaroth peering back at him from behind its black trunk. As the wagon rumbled onward, the tree was lost from view, but Max’s worries remained. He brooded upon the Demon’s white, masklike face, a face that rarely blinked and always smiled.

As they crossed the Carpathians, Max asked several times if Skeedle would like a rest, but the goblin declined. He sat low in the driver’s seat, his hat scrunched down upon his knobby head while he clutched the reins in his calloused hands. Max was puzzled by the goblin’s taciturn mood. Given the road’s sinister reputation, Max thought they’d enjoyed tremendous luck. They’d encountered hardly any travelers, much less the bandits or armies that Alistair had warned of. They’d passed several burned out farmhouses and homesteads but seen no trace of anything on a larger scale. If war had begun in earnest, it had not trodden heavily on the region.

Descending the mountain passes, they followed the Ravenswood Spur through dark forests and shaded hills until they were a stone’s throw from a snowy riverbank. Shortly after noon, Max was sitting next to Skeedle in the driver’s seat when the goblin called out for his cousin to halt.

“It’s too quiet,” Skeedle whispered. “No birds, no foxes … not even a wolf has come sniffing after us and you know how they crave goblin! We’re but two wagons and there have been no bandits or highwaymen. It’s not natural. Th-there’s something out here and it’s watching us. I think it’s been with us since the mountains. My mind’s playing tricks—I’m seeing things in the trees and rocks. Faces.” The little goblin was absolutely trembling. Mopping his forehead, he peered up at Max with an expression of shameful desperation. Tears formed in his shiny black eyes. “I—I don’t know if I can go any farther,” he stammered. “I thought I’d be brave enough, but the Spur’s not like what I expected. The sooner I go home, the happier I’ll be. Would you think I’m a coward if I turn back?”

“No,” said Max gently. “I think you’ve already taken on more than I had a right to ask. Let’s give the mules a rest while I talk to David and Toby.”

While Skeedle and Kolbyt fed the mules and tinkered with the wagon, Max explained the situation to the others. Consulting his map, David glanced at the river and traced his finger on the parchment.

“I think that river’s the former Vistula,” he said. “We have maybe another seventy or eighty miles to Piter’s Folly. We can go on alone if Toby thinks he’s gotten enough information from Kolbyt.”

“I know everything he knows—or at least everything he can recall,” Toby sniffed. “Broadbrim clan lore ad nauseam, their history with Madam Petra, how to enter Piter’s Folly, et cetera, et cetera. I’m a certified expert on everything that rattles around that goblin’s head, and I’ll confess there’s a great deal I’d rather not know. He’s indecent.”

“So Toby can bluff his way in,” Max concluded. “But how are we going to get in to see her?”

“Toby’s been studying Kolbyt, but I’ve been studying Toby,” David revealed. “A smee’s greatest skill is his ability to mimic another creature’s aura. I think I can create an illusion that will do the same. We’re going to become goblins, Max. I’ll be Skeedle and you’ll be our bodyguard. Choose a name.”

“Hrunta, I guess,” said Max, recalling a thuggish Broadbrim he’d once met. “But I don’t speak goblin.”

“Relax,” said David. “Nobody bothers speaking to the bodyguard; just grunt. Toby, see if you can become Kolbyt.”

“I shall relish the change,” declared the hag.

A moment later, Kolbyt stood next to them—complete with the goblin’s hat, leather armor, wolf pelts, and iron-soled shoes. Max pinched the pelt between his fingers.

“How do you do that?” he wondered. “Do you just create the clothes out of thin air?”

“Ouch!” exclaimed Toby, swatting his hand. “No, I do not—you are ruining the elasticity of my magnificent epidermis. Everything you see is smee. In fact—OH!”

The startled smee backed away from him. Max was puzzled until David handed him a mirror. Within its surface, he did not see his own face but that of a toady-faced goblin with a forelock of black hair and a lipless mouth that stretched from ear to ear. As Max smiled, the ghastly reflection did likewise, revealing several rows of sharp, mossy incisors.

“Is that really you?” Toby whispered.

“Of course it’s me,” Max laughed. He did not feel any different; looking down, he saw his same hand and the same Red Branch tattoo. But Cooper had taught Max that mirrors reflect all illusions, and according to this mirror, others would see Max as a barrel-chested Broadbrim with clay-colored skin and bloodshot eyes.

Toby leaned forward and sniffed him. “David,” he exclaimed, “you’ve created an illusion that’s … that’s almost smee-worthy!”

“Yes,” said David thoughtfully. “I think I have. Let’s—”

A faint tremor shook the earth, causing the mules to stamp and bray. Skeedle shrieked and hurried back to them, spilling oats from his canvas sack. He stopped dead at the sight of them.

“Wh-where’s Max?” he gasped. “What have you done with him?”

“I’m right here, Skeedle,” said Max calmly. The goblin merely gaped. “It’s just an illusion. You and Kolbyt can head back now. Which wagon should we take?”

“Th-the big one,” replied the goblin, still staring suspiciously. Summoning his courage, he darted forward and poked Max on the shoulder.

“It’s really me,” said Max, smiling.

“You even sound … and smell like a Broadbrim!” whispered the goblin.

“Music to my ears. You’ll be okay on the road back?”

“I think so,” the goblin chirped. “If trouble comes, I’ll run. I don’t need to run fast, just faster than Kolbyt.” Skeedle grinned, revealing six sharp teeth as he hugged Max. Turning, he barked out something to his cousin, who gazed over, grunted dully at the new disguises, and began transferring crates to the larger wagon. Taking Max’s arm, Skeedle walked him over to the mules, explaining their individual temperaments and quirks.

“And don’t hold the reins too tight,” he cautioned. “Petunia has a sore tooth. When you’re done with them, sell them to someone kind. Or just set them loose. They know the way home.”

“Got it,” said Max. He turned to Toby, who was already sitting up in the driver’s seat. “Do you know our inventory?”

“To the ounce and ingot,” sighed the smee. “Kolbyt might be dense, but not when it comes to what his cousin borrowed. He recited it in his sleep.”

“I guess this is it, then, Skeedle,” said Max, shaking the goblin’s hand. “Thank you for all your help. I expect the next time I see you, you’ll be sitting on Plümpka’s throne.”

“Maybe.” Skeedle blushed, removing his hat and twiddling his fingers. “If he doesn’t eat me first.”

While Kolbyt turned the smaller wagon about, the rest of the group said their goodbyes. Upon seeing David take his own guise, Skeedle clapped and circled the sorcerer to assess him from various angles. Satisfied, the goblin hopped aboard Kolbyt’s wagon and waved his hat farewell. Shaking the reins, Kolbyt barked impatiently at the mules and the cousins began their long, clopping journey back to Broadbrim Mountain.

“A prince among goblins,” Max remarked, climbing up into the driver’s seat next to Toby.

“You set a rather low bar,” scoffed Toby, sounding peevish. “Your ‘prince’ just left us in the middle of nowhere with four gassy mules and no more chocolate. Meanwhile, the thankless smee remains steadfast after serving as a steed, masquerading as a hag, and suffering that brute’s attentions.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” said Max. “Kolbyt said he just wanted to look at you.”

“He was not a goblin of his word.”

As they drove on, however, Max had to admit that Skeedle’s fears seemed justified. There did appear to be something sinister to the landscape, a watchful silence that nipped and worried at the edges of his mind. As the afternoon waned, he found that he’d grown quiet, ignoring the smee’s incessant gripes and philosophizing as the mules plodded on.

It was nearly twilight and they were coming over a barren rise when Max finally saw his first bird of the day. It streaked past the wagon, a large crow whose throaty cries startled Toby from sleep.

“Wh-what’s that?” murmured the smee, blinking stupidly.

But Max was speechless.

He had never seen such an astonishing sprawl of bodies. So many corpses littered the vale below that they nearly dammed the river, forcing its waters to spill over its banks to turn half the plain into a bloody marsh. Broken bodies and equipment stretched as far as Max could see—a grisly feast for thousands of crows that flapped and hopped about the shocking carnage. When the slouching smee made to sit up, Max finally found his voice.

“Don’t look. Shut your eyes and keep them shut.”

Toby instantly clamped his hands over face. “What is it?” he hissed.

“A battlefield,” said Max, searching for words. “A graveyard … a massacre. Thousands dead.”

“Humans?”

“Some,” said Max, sweeping the field with his spyglass. “Mostly vyes … ogres and ettins … some of those riders that overtook us on the road. A few banners are Aamon’s, but most belong to Prusias. It seems things aren’t going so well for the King of Blys. Most of the casualties are his.”

Some movement caught Max’s eye and he trained his glass on a shallow depression near the edge of a thick wood. Scavengers were there, humans dressed in rags robbing the bodies of the dead. Most kept to the fringe of the forest, stripping the fallen of their armor and weapons and tossing the spoils into great sacks that they dragged away. They were a wretched-looking lot, and Max wondered if they would attack the goblin wagon. At least they’d largely cleared the road of bodies, Max thought. Reaching back, he rapped on the wagon’s front shutters.

“What is it?” mumbled David, sounding sleepy.

“Come take a look.”

A minute later, David stood by the nervous, champing mules and gazed down at the valley with a sad, contemplative expression. He pointed to a distant billow of black smoke rising from hills beyond the forest.

“I’d guess that’s coming from the brayma’s palace,” he reflected. “Prusias may have bitten off more than he can chew with Aamon.”

“Let’s get going,” said Max, twisting about to scan their surroundings. “It doesn’t do any good to sit up here for all to see.”

They descended the slope, passing the first body some hundred yards from the summit. Max tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but it was impossible not to stare at the mounds of mangled vyes and men, arrow-riddled ogres in bronze breastplates, and two-headed ettins, all half submerged in cloudy pools of river water. The crows screamed at the wagon as they passed, a shrill chorus that drove the mules into a braying panic. Gripping the reins, Max held them to the road’s center as the wagon lurched and bumped along.

The living disturbed him as much as the dead. While the fallen were an appalling spectacle, the scavengers moved like hungry phantoms among them, dark shapes that stole about the battlefield, crouching over corpses and digging through the scattered wreckage of tents, chariots, and palanquins. Many of the combatants had dressed splendidly for battle—brilliant silk pennons, embossed shields, and magnificent armor of enameled plate. But the stark realities of war had stripped them of their glory; these trappings had been trampled and churned into the raw earth until they were as muddy and tattered as their owners.

I guess we know why it was so quiet.

Shaking the reins, Max urged the mules to a quicker pace as several scavengers came too close for comfort. He studied them as the wagon hurried ahead, men and women with hollow, ghoulish faces. They stared at the wagon, dully registering its occupants before resuming their work with knives and fingers and teeth.

“Can I look now?” whispered Toby.

“No.”

Max did not allow the smee to open his eyes for another twenty minutes, not until the last of the bodies were in their wake. He could now make out the source of smoke and saw David had been correct. Rising from a distant hilltop crowned with charred trees was a burning castle, its bailey, towers, and parapets little more than a brittle armature as it vomited plumes of black smoke into the lilac sky.

That night they camped away from the road, hiding the wagon behind a copse of alders and willows that lined an icy stream. While Toby strapped feedbags to the mules, Max looked in on David.

He found his roommate sitting in the back, propped against a cushion and scratching a nib ever so carefully on a sheet of spypaper.

“Just a minute,” he muttered. “I’m almost finished.” Blowing on the ink, he held the page up to the lantern so that its warmth would hasten the drying.

“Are you writing Sir Alistair?” asked Max.

“Ms. Richter. She left us a third sheet whose twin she keeps. I updated her on our progress and told her about the battlefield.”

“Any word on Cooper?”

“No. I think if there was news—good or bad—she’d have written.”

Max nodded and tried to smile, but his spirits were low. The horrors of the battlefield lingered in his mind. Rubbing his temples, he stared at the lantern’s golden light.

“What if there is no Piter’s Folly?” he wondered aloud. “What if it’s just a burned-out hulk like that castle?”

David shrugged. “Then we’ll gather whatever information we can and continue the search for Madam Petra. If we can’t find her, we’ll go home. War doesn’t come with guarantees; we just have to do our best and hope that it’s enough. Get some rest, Max. You’re worn out. I’ll keep watch with Toby.”

Max was dead asleep in a warm nest of blankets when a thunderclap shook him awake. Bolting upright, he blinked stupidly out the window as he got his bearings. He’d been asleep for much longer than he’d intended, for they were on the move again and climbing uphill. Wind howled outside, bombarding the wagon with an icy mixture of sleet and rain. Pushing aside a cask of phosphoroil, Max peered through the small shutter that was just behind the driver’s seat. David and Toby were hunched low, each disguised as goblins, as the smee drove the mules through the storm.

“Where are we?” Max yelled, struggling to be heard above the wind.

David turned to him, his eyes frosted slits. “Close!” he shouted back. “Ten, maybe fifteen miles. We should be there by dawn.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“I want you to brew some coffee!”

By morning, the weather had calmed. When Toby brought the wagon to a stop, Max climbed out and gazed around. The rain had dwindled to a steady drizzle, but the storm’s fury was evident in every icy pool and battered branch. Max caught the smell of cooking fires on the wind, its aroma a welcome comfort after so many days on the road. Piter’s Folly was just ahead. Through his glass, Max caught glimpses of the town amid the fogbanks below.

Once David renewed Max’s illusion, the three squeezed next to one another on the driver’s bench and eased the wagon downhill. Training his glass on the settlement, Max made out more details as the morning mists retreated.

Piter’s Folly was built upon a wooded isle in the midst of an enormous gray lake. Apparently, the settlement had outgrown these limits, for many other buildings had been constructed upon platforms and rafts that radiated out from the isle like the spokes of a wheel. Smoke trickled from makeshift chimneys, and Max even heard the lowing calls of cattle carry across the still morning. His heart beat excitedly. The town seemed relatively unscathed by the war, and there still appeared to be thousands of people living here. Since Astaroth’s rise to power, Max had not seen such a large settlement of free humans beyond Rowan’s borders. He had often wondered whether any existed.

Once they reached level ground, a lane diverged from the road and curved toward the shoreline. Arriving at the water’s edge, they discovered a heavy bell suspended from a pole near the end of a short pier. Stretching out, Toby rang the bell with all his might. Its notes echoed eerily across the lake, drowning out the loons and the lapping waves upon the pebbled sand. Moments later, there was an answering call from out in the gray mist.

“A ferryman will come,” explained Toby, settling back under his blanket. “Remember, don’t act too friendly. The humans need the goblins, but they don’t like them much. I’ll do the talking.”

Max nodded and peered out into the gloom while the loons and bitterns called in the cold, wet morning. Thirty minutes passed before a shape emerged from the haze—a flat-bottomed raft capable of ferrying several wagons across. A dozen grim-looking men stood about its periphery, leaning on long oars that dripped with lake mud. The leader squinted at the caravan and its three passengers. He barked something irritably in a Slavic-sounding language.

“I don’t understand,” said Toby nervously.

“Where are other wagons?” inquired the man, his words slow and suspicious. “You ring bell three times. Three rings means three wagons. I bring more men for three wagons. You pay for three wagons.”

“Oh,” said the smee. “I didn’t know. Three it is, then, but we’re in a hurry.”

The man laughed bitterly. “Aren’t we all?”

Max handed Toby some coins. Once they tossed the exorbitant fee across, the ferrymen used their long poles to position the raft against the dock. Hurrying off, the men helped lead the mules aboard and secured the heavy wagon at the raft’s center with a system of ropes. The workers were brisk and efficient but offered no greetings or conversation as they went about their business. Many were badly scarred, missing fingers or limping from some past injury. Max imagined each must have survived untold horrors before arriving at Piter’s Folly, where there was safety in numbers and the lake’s deep waters served as an enormous moat.

“What you bring?” asked the leader, glancing at the wagon once the ferry had pushed off.

“Coffee,” replied Toby. “Some sugar. Two casks of phosphoroil and a hundred iron ingots.”

“You should have brought more iron,” the ferryman grunted. “Blacksmiths are busy. People want weapons before they leave.”

“Leave?” asked David. “Where are they going?”

The man shrugged and lit a pipe of strong, black tobacco. “West … north … wherever they can. Aamon’s winning the war, little goblin. His armies will be here soon. I hear his scouts have passed in the night. Prusias may leave us be, but Aamon will not. No humans live in Dùn. Soon none will live here.”

As they sculled ahead, the town slowly emerged as a cluster of brown and gray shapes against the morning gloom. Now Max could hear hammers and saws, a woman’s call. They passed moored platforms where crops were growing in floating soil beds. A small cottage loomed into view at the end of a long dock. A bundled little boy was sitting at the end, dangling a hook into the water while the mutt at his side waited patiently for his breakfast. Upon sighting the goblins, the boy stiffened. His dark eyes followed them until they had eased past and out of sight.

They passed a number of similar houses and floating gardens before they reached the town’s main dock. Anchored to the island, the landing was already crowded with crates and baggage and anxious residents. It appeared the ferryman was correct and many intended to flee before Aamon’s forces arrived. It was a chaotic scene, and it was clear that some were displeased with the ferryman for transporting goblins when time was scarce and many desired passage across.

Ignoring the hissing rebukes and angry muttering, the ferryman tossed ropes to his associates, who moored the raft against the pier. Clearing a path through the multitude, the ferryman and his workers led the mules and wagon down the ramp and gruffly reminded the crowd that honest travelers were to be left to their business, lest trade should wither. Cuffing a youth who was prying at the caravan doors, the ferryman repeated his admonition in a louder voice. He was apparently a person of some influence, for the throng withdrew so that the caravan now had an unobstructed path to the island’s narrow lanes. Emptying his pipe, the ferryman came around to where Toby was waiting anxiously.

“I can’t take you back until nightfall. If I were you, I would not haggle too hard. Watch yourself and meet me here when the bell rings for evening watch.”

Toby nodded and gave the man several coppers by way of gratitude. Shaking the reins, he called out to the mules and they clopped forward, brushing past the crowd and down into the lane.

The way was relatively narrow but well maintained, encircling the island while smaller lanes branched off, leading to grazing pastures and gardens, shops and dwellings. Everywhere, there were cats slinking about in their wake or darting across their path. Toby shivered at the sight of them.

“I don’t like cats,” he confessed. “Don’t like the way they look at me—like they know a secret.”

“I wonder why there are so many,” said Max.

“Keeps the rodents down,” David muttered, “and some believe they drive evil spirits away.”

“Now let’s see,” said Toby, “Kolbyt said it’s the largest house at the end of the lane that runs along the shoreline. Here we go.…”

Max thought it a rather conspicuous address for a smuggler. The house was by far the largest and most luxurious residence they’d seen, a pale yellow Victorian with three stories, a dozen gables, and a half-dozen chimneys poking from its slate roof.

Situated on a sloping, pastured outcropping, the estate boasted its own herds and a private dock that Max could glimpse through occasional gaps in the hedge. A white fence bordered the property, and Toby drove the mules within its broad gate and down the gravel driveway to the main residence.

“I thought we’d be knocking on a door in some alley,” said Max. “What’s Petra’s legitimate business supposed to be?”

“Furs mostly,” replied Toby. “And land. You can’t build anything on Piter’s Folly without going through her, and she wrings out every last copper. Speaking of which, I’ll need more money—at least fifty silvers’ worth. Gold is better if you have some.”

Max counted out the money and handed a small pouch to the smee, who weighed it lovingly before reining the mules to a halt on the circular drive. The front door opened and a young girl in a green smock slipped outside, twirling a paintbrush between her slender fingers. Leaning out over the porch, she gazed down at them disdainfully.

“What do you want?” she said, speaking English and sounding bored.

Whipping off his hat, Toby stood and bowed. “Greetings,” he croaked in Kolbyt’s hoarse voice. “We beg an audience with Madam Petra.”

“You’re supposed to go round back, you know,” sniffed the girl. “The service entrance.”

“Very sorry,” said Toby, reaching for the reins.

“Don’t bother,” she scoffed. “Madam Petra’s busy and cannot possibly see you. Try again in a week.”

Toby seemed to anticipate this. The ensuing negotiations were swift and exceedingly expensive. When the girl had weighed Max’s purse in her hand and counted every last coin, she turned on her heel and walked back to the front door.

“Mother!” she bellowed. “There are three goblins here to see you!”

“Don’t shout, dear,” came a silky voice from an upstairs window. “Take them around back and Dmitri will meet them in the rose garden. Offer them something to drink.”

The girl fixed them with an acid stare. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Wine if you have it,” said Toby cheerfully. “Water if you don’t.”

Rolling her eyes, the girl shooed them impatiently toward a garlanded gate that led around the house. Once Skeedle started the mules in that direction, she stormed back inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

“She’s pleasant,” muttered David, ducking a low-hanging branch.

“This isn’t quite what I expected,” whispered Max, gazing through the house’s windows as they wound around toward the back. Inside, he saw maidservants dusting and cleaning rooms whose rich appointments evoked a tranquil estate rather than some secret smuggler’s den. Passing by one broad window, Max spied the easel and canvas where the girl had been working on a still life in the style of the Dutch masters. He saw no evidence that Madam Petra’s household was in a state of alarm or intended to flee before Yuga or Aamon’s armies.

The lane ended in an impeccably manicured lawn that sloped deeply down to the lake and a small boathouse. Several groundskeepers were already at work, picking up broken branches and twigs and retying oilcloth covers that protected the rosebushes. They glanced up at the visitors with only mild interest. Apparently goblin caravans were nothing new.

It was almost a minute before Max observed the heads.

There were seven of them in total, each spitted on tall poles placed throughout the gardens. They were in various states of decomposition, some little more than skulls while others were jarringly fresh. Four of the heads had belonged to goblins, two were human, and the last possessed the feral, wolfish face of a vye. When Toby finally noticed them, he nearly fainted.

“Here’s your wine,” said a voice behind them.

The three turned to see the girl bearing a silver tray with three goblets of red wine. Setting it on a small table near the roses, she whispered something to the nearest gardener before turning to stare at them.

“My mother’s secretary will be out shortly,” she announced. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

And with a strange little smile, she hurried back to the house, skipping over the shallow steps of the back patio to slip inside the door.

“Something isn’t right,” hissed Toby. “They know something. We should go!”

“Try to relax,” whispered David. “Let’s drink the wine and wait for our hosts.”

“D-didn’t you see the heads?” stammered the smee.

“Of course I did,” replied David evenly. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be perfect. You know what to say?”

Nodding weakly, Toby climbed down from the wagon. Taking seats around the table, the trio sipped the strong red wine while the wind blew wisps of cool mist off the lake. They sat in silence, each watching the house and trying to ignore the seven grisly shadows on the lawn.

Almost an hour had passed when the back door opened. A young man emerged, fine-featured with a slight build and black hair that was combed back from a widow’s peak. He wore an embroidered waistcoat over a black shirt and plum-colored pants that were tucked into Hessian boots. His smile was prim, his manner formal as he came to a halt before them.

“I am Dmitri,” he said. “Madam Petra’s secretary. And who are you?”

Toby stood and bowed. “Kolbyt of the Broadbrim clan,” he announced. “I have traded with Madam Petra before.”

“Yes,” mused the man, plucking at his goatee. “I seem to recall your face … and who are the others? We do not like strangers unless they bring us very pretty things.”

“My kinsman Skeedle and our servant, Hrunta,” replied the smee, gesturing at each in turn. “We have brought oil and iron, coffee and sugar to please the Great Piter Lady and beg an audience to discuss a proposal.”

“What is your proposal?” inquired the secretary pointedly. “You may tell it to me and I will relay it to Madam Petra. She is very busy.”

“I am sorry,” said Toby, shrugging. “But my news is for Madam Petra’s ears alone—the great Plümpka would have my skin if we should tell anyone else.”

This did not please the secretary. His eyes grew hard. “Plümpka might take your skin, but Madam Petra will have your head should you waste her time. Look about you, goblin. Better that you tell me your proposal and let me decide whether it is worth intruding upon my lady.”

“Kolbyt must humbly refuse,” said Toby, bowing low and offering the man a handful of silver.

“How crude,” the secretary muttered, pocketing the coins nonetheless. “And why did Plümpka not come? If the proposal is so valuable, surely the chief of the Broadbrims would make the journey himself.”

“He is unwell,” explained the smee, bowing another apology. “And the Ravenswood Spur has grown very dangerous. A mighty battle was fought not two days’ journey from here.”

“Yes,” mused Dmitri, frowning. “Lord Kargen’s lands. He shall host no more parties, I hear. A pity, but so be it. You may see many more battles ere long. King Aamon’s armies are swift.” The man squinted past them at the broad lake where the sun was peeking through the haze. “Very well, you and I will continue our conversation inside. Your companions must wait here. I make no promises, but if you are who you say you are, I may be able to secure a brief audience.” Gesturing for Toby to follow, the secretary flicked a parting glance at Max and David. “If we do not return within the hour, your friend will not be coming.”

The smee’s shoulders drooped as though he were marching to his own funeral. Clearing his throat, he ordered his companions to wait for him before following the secretary up to Madam Petra’s house.

Max squirmed as he watched them go. There was something profoundly unsettling about this immaculate house with its pristine grounds and quiet, watchful servants. It set him on edge more than any of the black markets and seedy dens he’d visited in Zenuvia. Plodding behind the secretary, Toby looked so alone and helpless. Max prayed that he remembered everything Kolbyt had told him; he also prayed the brutish goblin had not played them false.

As Toby disappeared into the house, the groundskeepers set down their tools. They walked single file up the garden path, a silent procession that slipped inside after the secretary. When the last had entered, the door was closed and locked.