A mutually acceptable method of payment was devised, and it had since evolved into an annual event. The goblins themselves were far more efficient in the cold than even jotnar, worlds better than either imps or horses. Teams of goblins cut the trees, then hauled the sleds by moonlight to Krasnegar. Rarely a blizzard would cause postponement, but if the weather behaved itself, the goblins would come to the Timber Meet without fail. They scarcely seemed to notice the cold, although it could bum a man’s lungs. The sled teams were rumored to hold a nonstop three-day race all the way from the edge of the forest. The token prizes awarded in that annual event were said to be fingernails, or ears.
As Rap trotted across the causeway, the sun was a brilliant blur in the ice fog, low to the south. The moon would rise right after sunset. His path wound among a nightmare jumble of ice floes, but the bay itself was worse, with the added danger of falling through to certain death.
Ahead of him, a single line of smoke rose vertically from one of the little cottages that marked the shore. Three sleds of lumber stood waiting for unloading, and forty or fifty goblins formed a dark pattern against the whiteness. Some of them were moving, but most were just sitting in the snow, talking. If Rap tried that, he would be dead in ten minutes.
Panting hard, he reached the shore, where the going was easier. Across the bay, the improbable peak of Krasnegar jutted skyward, blurred by all the smoke from its chimneys, crowned by its castle. His castle. The town seemed to shine in the watery sunlight, glittering behind the ice haze.
A group of three men had separated from the others and he headed toward them, wondering if the one in the middle could be Death Bird himself.
Yes, there were times that Rap regretted his decision not to be a sorcerer. Even with the feeble powers that were all he could summon now, he would know at once whether the middle goblin was Death Bird. Of course he would also know what the man was thinking and that would take all the fun out of the negotiations. He sometimes wondered how long his resolution would last if a meeting such as this one ever turned nasty. Did he have the courage to die a mundane as a matter of principle?
He came to a puffing halt, blowing outrageous clouds of steam and running sweat under his furs—he was not as young as he used to be. Three sets of unfriendly, oddly angular eyes regarded him through the slits of the buckskin masks. Of course they could see no more of him than he could of them. They were short, broad, hard men; none of the three was tall enough to be Death Bird.
Rap dragged up his memories of the rasping goblin dialect. “Am Flat Nose. Speak for town.”
“Speak chief!” the middle goblin snapped. “Am chief.”
Mollified, the spokesman announced himself, “Blood Needle of Porcupines.” He and Rap each advanced a pace and embraced. Rap winced at the pressure, almost gagging at the reek of the bear grease that goblins used as winter underwear.
Blood Needle introduced Silver Flash of Salmon Totem and Busy Tooth of the Beavers . . . more bone-grinding hugs and stomach-turning whiffs of rancid fat. Although they must have ordered the fire lit in the nearest cottage, they were not inviting Rap into the warmth. That meant the negotiations must be completed quickly.
“Have seen trade goods?”
“Trash!” Blood Needle unhooked his mask for a moment so he could spit in disgust. Rap thought he saw the spittle bounce on the ice.
“Good salt!” he said. “Fine glass. Rich spices. Useful buckles . . .” He paused, running through a mental list of the goods he had left stacked in the cottage the previous fall. His feet were chilled already.
“Need swords!” the goblin said, stepping forward a pace. ”Axes. Many many heads for arrows.”
This was where things always got sticky. Krasnegar was bound by treaty with the Impire not to give the goblins weapons. If Rap abrogated that pact, then the Imperial trade would be shut off and the town would soon wither away, even if it did not starve in the first winter. If he angered the goblins, on the other hand, then Krasnegar might vanish overnight in a storm of blood. Long ago, as a sorcerer, he had made the causeway goblinrepellent, and goblins disliked water, but that did not mean they couldn’t grit their big teeth long enough to charge across the ice.
Whatever geography might say, economically his kingdom lay directly between the two sides.
“Have no swords. Imps keep swords.” His goblinish was rusty. ”Not trade us swords.” He went back to extolling the virtues of his offerings.
Blood Needle kept calling them trash and offal and worse. “Wolverine scats!” he concluded definitively, folding his arms. “Are not. Will not speak more.” Rap folded his own. Despite all he could do, he had begun to shiver.
The goblins’ angular eyes flashed. “Will keep trees and take trash, too!”
“Are thieves?”
“Will take trash and chief, too! Trade back to town for swords.”
Blood Needle was a hard bargainer, obviously. Kidnapping and ransom and next he would be threatening to burn the town, no doubt. Rap decided he had played the stupid game long enough. His teeth were chattering.
“Will ask Death Bird if thief!” He spun around on frozen toes and crunched off to the cottage where the fire burned. He marched in and slammed the door. It was only a box of four stone walls with a hearth and a couple of small windows. It contained nothing except Death Bird and a tub of grease.
Stripped to a rag, the goblin king was sitting on the dirt floor, anointing his feet with bear fat. The stench of it would make a man’s eyes water. On the hearth a driftwood fire blazed and crackled cheerfully. He was staying well away from it, but its glow made him shine slickly green all over.
“Playing tricks!” Rap said, by habit stamping his boots to remove the snow. Even in here, his breath smoked. He moved over to the fire and stood as close as he dared, gasping with relief as he thawed.
The goblin chuckled, a low, brutal sound, full of menace. “Are not sorcerer? See through walls?”
“Not see through walls . . . Oh, let’s speak impish, you big lunk! I didn’t need sorcery. I knew you must be around somewhere because Raven Totem owns the trees and there was no spokesman from the Ravens. How are you, you ugly green horror?”
Death Bird laughed at the compliment and scrambled to his feet. He was big for a goblin and growing bigger year by year. He was shorter than Rap, but with the muscles of a troll. His black hair was greased into a rope that hung over his left shoulder, dangling to his bulging belly, and he had much more mustache than most. His eyes seemed almost square, although that was partly an effect of the tattoos around them. Grinning a set of tusks like a timber wolf’s, he strode forward to embrace his old friend. Rap threw all his strength into the hug, but he felt his ribs creak.
The first king of the goblins.
A man with a destiny decreed by the Gods.
Reflecting that he would have to burn his soiled furs as soon as he got home, Rap squatted down by the fire and smiled at his former slave. Death Bird moved away from the heat to begin replacing the grease he had deposited on Rap.
“You’re getting fat!” Rap remarked smugly, aware that his own midriff was well concealed.
The angular eyes narrowed. “Want to try a best of three?”
“Not likely!”
“You put some beer in with that junk you want to palm off on me?”
“No, but I’ll send over a few bags of beer for you.” Rap knew who would drink it when it was thawed out. Nobody else would get as much as a sniff at it. “Mostly I gave you alum.”
The goblin grunted, although that might have been less a comment than just the result of trying to reach an awkward part of his anatomy. “Why alum? I got no use for alum. Don’t know what anyone does with alum!” He shot Rap a suspicious glance.
“Something to do with dyes. But I’m told the dwarves prize it highly, and who makes better swords than they?”
The goblin interrupted his toilet to stare at Rap with an obvious anger that would likely have terrified anyone else. And even Rap had known more pleasant experiences.
“You still claim you’re not a sorcerer?”
Warned by a smell of burning fur, Rap edged away from the fire. “No sorcery. I hear the imps are building a wall across Pondague Pass.”