Apples jarred to a stop. “But,” he stuttered. “But.”
“You know we mislike bright light,” Hork said. “We will escort you through this anteroom to where we bid you a tender farewell.”
“I see. Thank you, lord.” Apples trotted forward. The goblins pullulated with him. The last of them shut the door.
Runt waited. He thought he heard noises but could not be sure, for huge waves beat through his head and shook his bones.
It was forever and it was an eyeblink until the goblins returned. Runt hunkered as small as might be in his hiding place. If they found him here and now, maybe he would die. Maybe first he would tend the loathly worms. Certain it was that he would never go free.
The goblins passed by in a troop. They gibbered and gabbled. Runt understood some of it. “Ale for us, the best of Mother Carrion’s brew,” Drongg exulted. “Then a sound sleep, and then Smaga readies the feast, eh?”
“Ei-ya-a,” they shrieked.
The last of their clamor had hardly died from hearing when Runt darted forth. Strange how steady his hands were as he laid hold of the latch. He drew the door aside just enough to let him past and immediately closed it anew. Wildly, he looked about for the portal beyond.
There was none. He stood in a bare brick chamber lit by a candelabrum whose nine arms twisted like limbs under torture. Their tallow tapers stank. A gutter ran between flagstones which glistened, freshly mopped. Implements for housekeeping stood against a wall. At the middle was a large, rough wooden table, blackly stained. Knives and cleavers lay on it. They too shone newly washed.
Runt screamed.
When he came to himself again, he lay on the floor in a puddle of his vomit. Cold gnawed into his marrow; his teeth clattered. He opened his eyes. They were aimed straight at the sight above the table—Apples, naked, blanched, hung by a hook from the ceiling.
The boy’s mouth was open. His tongue stuck out, gray. His eyes were dry and unblinking. His belly was also open, empty. The goblins had piled his entrails in a bucket. Economical, they had caught most of the blood in another.
“I didn’t mean it, Apples,” sobbed a voice somewhere. “I didn’t want this. Truly I didn’t.”
Runt crawled to his feet. He felt numb, as hollow as the corpse. Thought clanked slowly. Here was the end of service, for every child who ever dwelt in the castle. Tomorrow the goblins would strip off the flesh. They would bring it to their kitchen. Smaga, their chef, would supervise the children on his staff as they spiced and cooked it, sauced and served it. How natural that child waiters told their mates what jolly occasions the going-away feasts were.
If the goblins knew Runt knew, would they hold a second banquet at once? They might pickle him for snacks. They might consider it a jest to give the mess a share.
Well, they would not. A water bucket was still full. Runt carefully cleaned his tunic, his skin, and the floor. The scrubbing stung his injuries. They reminded him of the price of talking freely. This time he would keep silence. He would go about his work, make no further trouble, and—and—
What?
Why, when no Greenleaf World awaited him?
“Goodbye, Apples,” he mumbled, and left.
Stunned as he was, he went with little caution. However, no goblins were present, and his path through the labyrinth avoided their festival salon. Noises of carousal echoed faint. Not many remained awake. He must have been in the butcher room a long while.
Entering familiar territory, he hastened his steps. At least his bunk was nigh. At least he could creep into it, pull the blankets over his head, and be alone. Tomorrow, when the alarm horns roused children to their labors—tomorrow, among the goblins, he would take care to look away from their mouths.
A light burned outside the quarters but none within. The entrance yawned black. Runt stopped. He cringed, remembering. “No,” he whimpered. “Please no.”
Pallor glimmered. He sprang back. Almost, he fell. His heart racketed.
Squeaky stepped out of the common room. The tunic she had thrown on was wanness and shifty shadows. Legs, arms, face shone white. A living white, though, he thought crazily. Blood beat in a fine blue vein beneath her throat. Wide eyes beheld him. Brilliances moved in them. “Runt,” she breathed. “Where were you? I couldn’t sleep, I was so afraid for you. Are you well?”
He stood slack.
She came to him and took his hands. “You’re cold,” she said. “Freezing cold. What’s wrong? What happened, Runt?”
“Who cares?” he rasped. “What does it matter?”
“I care,” she answered. Did that blood in her rise through the cheeks and over the brow? Warmth flowed from her into him.
She shivered. “Something terrible has happened,” she knew.
He strove. Finally: “Yes,” he got out. “Something terrible will.”
“What is it?”
His wounds twinged. “I told you—earlier—”
“You daren’t?” Her grasp tightened. She lifted her head. Light rippled down the loose hair. “I understand. No, don’t say. I don’t—” Tears gleamed on lashes. “I, I don’t want them to hurt you, ever again.”
“But they will hurt you!” shouted someone.
She let go. “Runt, are you sick?” she asked anxiously. “Come in with me. I saved your ration for you, and part of mine. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”
“Eaten? Squeaky, Squeaky! The hook, the knives, the buckets!”
She glanced behind. Half wakened, a child made a sound. Her palm rose to cover his lips. “Hush, Runt. Here, come where we can talk quietly. Do.” Her hand tugged at his.
He lurched after her. They found a niche. In darkness they sat, enfolding one another, and trembled. Soon his head dropped to her breast. He wept. She held him, stroked his hair, and crooned.
“No,” he said at last. “They won’t do that to you. I won’t let them.”
And he told her. Now she clung to him, in need of his strength. He knew not where he found it for her, but he did.
“What’ll we do, what’ll we do?” she stammered in sightlessness. Only the faintest unrestful flame-flicker hazed a stony corner.
He felt how she shivered. Beneath it felt the throb of her aliveness. His nostrils drank odors like sunshine, and thyme, and things for which he had no name. Confusion tumbled through him. It swept bewilderment away. Out of a sudden vast clarity, he said: “We’ll escape. Those doors they tell us open on the Greenleaf World, they’ve got to go somewhere.”
“No,” she moaned. “I couldn’t bear seeing—poor Apples—”
“Whatever we find, have we aught to lose?” Runt replied starkly. “This same night. Else the masters are bound to notice we’ve changed.” Resolution set. “And, you know, it could be those doors give on the outside. We know the masters go away and come back. We know they bring things home—food, cloth, gold, yes, toys and games and—and babes, Squeaky. Where do we come from, if not from outside?”
His voice cracked, a silly squawk. Fury at that flogged weariness and weakness till they fled him.
Squeaky clutched his arm. “We can’t go through.” Her words wavered. “The Terror—”
“That the masters—the goblins saved us from?” Runt sneered. “Do you believe that anymore? I say they stole us from the Greenleaf World, same as they steal everything else.”
“We can’t open those doors. We can’t reach the bolts.”
His mind leaped. “I know how. Three of us together can do it. You and me and—” He faltered. “And—”
“Who?” she wondered desolately. “The little ones aren’t strong or clever. The big ones, why should they believe you? Why shouldn’t they run and tell the masters?” She was still a moment. “I don’t know why I believe you, Runt. I truly don’t know why.”