Best not speak of unpleasant matters. Best keep from your mind that nasty little castle on Mimring Heath. You must lead your life in sensible wise.
So did thirty years and three go by.
“You have been bad again,” said Hork. He raised six inches of forefinger. The claw at the tip caught flamelight in the same ocherous shimmer as his eyes. “Do not compound the offense by denial.” One of the few goblins fluent in a human tongue, he liked to show off his knowledge of its larger words. Perhaps he believed they outweighed his tittering accent—although the children had none other to compare. “This time you really must take your lesson to heart. Else we shall have to find different work for you, shall we not?”
Runt stiffened himself, fists knotted, to face his master. He tossed his head, throwing back the sandy shock-hair that had hedged sight for him. “Defiant, are you?” Hork hissed.
Runt thrust fear aside. He had had practice at that. His flesh stayed clammy with sweat and ashiver; but he could reply quietly: “No, lord. I only wonder what I may have done wrong.” He was sure his latest raid on the pantry had gone unnoticed.
Hork sat straight in his chair made of bones. Gloom and chill seemed to move inward around him, then forward to enclose the boy. “You have blabbered in barracks,” the goblin said. “You have let out what should never have been known to you at all. How much have you snooped? What else have you thieved of the Lore?”
“Nobody told me the Heartstone was secret!” Runt cried. “If you’d just told me, lord, I’d have kept still!”
Gray-blue skin flushed. “You were not told or shown anything,” Hork said, “therefore it should have been clear to you that it was forbidden knowledge. How did you even hear of the Heartstone?”
Runt’s courage stumbled. In truth he had been unaware this mattered greatly. “The, the lords Brumm and Ululu were talking—in the Arcane Chamber—they saw me, they never forbade, never warned—Please—”
“Ah.” Hork’s tone softened. “Tell me, what did you gather from this conversation?”
Faintly hopeful, Runt confessed. “It wasn’t only that, lord. I can’t help hearing things. Like the lord Drongg always swearing, ‘By the doom of the Heartstone!’ when he gets angry. And what Brumm—the lords Brumm and Ululu talked about—” His throat seized up.
“Go on, go on,” Hork snapped. “What do you think you have deduced concerning the Heartstone?”
“It, it’s down in the crypts and is—the life of the castle—”
“You slopped such information out?”
“Please, lord, what harm, I didn’t know—”
“I didn’t know how much of your masters’ language you had gained, you sneak.” Runt dared not protest that this had merely happened, had been going on longer than he could remember. All the children acquired a random handful of goblin words, though they were raised in their native speech and it was always used with them. Runt’s work exposed him to the most. The quickness of mind that caused him to be posted in the Arcane Chamber uncovered many a meaning. “When your time comes,” Hork went on, “can we release you to the Greenleaf World? I wonder.”
Runt stood dazed by horror.
Dimly at first, he saw a smile bare fangs and heard: “I will miss you when you have reached the Measure. You are often ill-behaved, as your scars bear witness, but you are the best assistant we have ever had in the Arcana.” The shrillness turned pensive. “In part because you have served the longest? It seems to me you have … .”
Runt could not tell. If the goblins kept no count of time, why should he?
“Well. It would doubtless impair you, were you to be denied your hope,” Hork said. “Let us see how you conduct yourself after fresh instruction.” He rose. The bracelets that were his clothing jangled. “Shall we to it?”
Almost gladly, Runt removed the tunic that children wore. For a moment, as Hork beheld him unclad, horny lids lifted above bulging eyes. Then the goblin shrugged indifferently and went to the instrument rack. Runt lay down on the lesson table. He clenched the dowel between his teeth, for he was not allowed to scream, gripped tight the handholds, and braced his feet in the stirrups.
At the end of the session, as usual, Hork sponged off blood, applied a salve that closed wounds and speeded healing, and gave Runt a remarkably strengthening drink. “Now go back and sleep,” said the goblin. “Henceforward be discreet.” He giggled. “And duly grateful, I trust.”
“Thank you deeply, my lord,” quavered Runt. He kissed the master’s left big toe. Rising, he donned his garment and limped from the room.
Corridors twisted and intertwined. Sconces cast dull, uneasy light over walls otherwise bare. Sounds scuttled through the shadows, footfalls, whispers, noises less recognizable. Whenever a goblin went by, Runt stood aside, knees bent, head bowed.
That was rarely. Ageless and childless, the goblins are a pleasure-loving race who dash about hunting, stealing, inflicting minor torments on men, and consorting with such other beings of the Twilight as enjoy their company. At home they feast, frolic, devise elaborate entertainments, and do as little real work as possible. Except for a few necessary procedures learned by rote from witches and demons, they have no command of magic. When this band of them chose to settle in a human country, Baubo raised their stronghold for them. His payment is best forgotten.
Passing the Arcane Chamber, Runt paused to stare through its archway. Phosphorescence wavered over ovens, kettles, casks, alembics, wands, besoms, bones, moldering tomes, unholy relics. A vat seethed, slowly brewing a new goblin to replace one who had annoyed a troll. None was on hand at the moment. Ululu, who fancied himself a wizard, cast the occasional spell of maintenance. Brumm helped him. Slef and Khreeh experimented, under supervision, but this was for amusement. A boy fetched, carried, swept, washed, and did whatever else he was bidden, which included those tasks requiring patience and precision. Since Bandylegs reached the Measure and departed, Runt had had that post. By now his recollection of Bandylegs had blurred.
Curiosity flared afresh in him. What was yon silver spiderweb for? Whence came the dried herbs and pungent powders? What had grown such great branching horns? What were the moon and stars depicted in books and invoked in incantations? As much as he dared, especially when alone here, Runt searched, poked, pried, wondered. The mysteries and complexities filled his mind, beguiled him from despair, consoled him in pain.
Pain stitched through him yet. However, aided by the draught, his sturdy frame was already bouncing back from its chastisement. As he stood there, he felt more sense of hunger. How often he hungered! The rations in mess had ceased to suffice him, and he must filch what he could.
Regardless, he failed of the Measure. After a brief spurt, which brought him within an inch, his growth had slowed, perhaps to naught. Instead, perversely, bones thickened, muscles swelled. Changes more odd than that frightened him, shamed him, made him wash with his back to his roommates. Hair fuzzed out on face and body. His voice deepened, but would ridiculously crack just when he was speaking most earnestly. His dreams were different from of yore and his wakeful eyes strayed, as if of themselves, toward the girls.
Runt drew a breath and hastened on. He must not be seen idling. The worst thing he could imagine was to lose his station among the Arcana before he got his release into the Greenleaf World—unless he never did. True, the carpentry shop or smithy would not be bad; weaving, sewing, and the like were for girls. The kitchens would be tolerable, and offer chances to steal food. Ordinary toil, scrubbing, drawing of water, shoveling of coal, that sort of thing he could endure, at least until the sameness of it wore away the fantasies that were his refuge. But the thought of personal service to a goblin knotted his throat, after what he had heard about it: especially the entertainment demanded at whim. Or he might be put to tending the loathly worms in their underground pens, in which case he would not likely live to reach the Measure. No, he thought, at all costs he must preserve what was his.