***

Bess rapidly discovered that not pleasant had been an understatement of near catastrophic proportions. She did not rightly know what it might feel like to be turned inside out, but the passage into Gadrahst gave her some inkling as to the probable sensations associated with such an experience. She suffered an excruciating minute, or perhaps ten, during which she felt that every part of her anatomy had been wrenched away, and afterwards hastily re-assembled in quite the wrong fashion. She could see nothing, but her ears were filled with a horrific jabber of voices pleasantly leavened with the sounds of high-pitched screams.

She collapsed, eventually, onto something that felt solid, but her head swam as though she were being spun about at speed. It took her some time to appreciate that the aroma assaulting her nostrils was the smell of her own discomfort, given tangible form by way of the contents of her stomach. Indeed, some of the screaming had probably been her own efforts also.

She lay still until her dizziness lessened, and then ventured to open her eyes.

The first thing she saw was Idriggal, standing not two feet from her. He looked wholly untouched by the passage; in fact he was dusting off his bright red waistcoat with an air of mild dissatisfaction.

‘Tis not easy to clean mud out of velvet,’ he informed her, when he noticed her scrutiny. ‘I am only relieved that you contrived to keep your digestive antics to yourself.’ He glanced askance, and added, ‘Or nearly enough.’

‘I can think of few worse happenin’s than the ruin of your clothes, indeed,’ agreed Bess. She raised herself shakily into a seated posture, and waited as her head swam anew. ‘When you said unpleasant, ‘twas no exaggeration.’

‘Oh, not in the least. But may I say that you are bearing it well?’ He grinned at her, flashing teeth.

‘A deal of shriekin’ and makin’ a mess of meself weighs nothing wi’ you, I suppose?’

‘Very little,’ he assured her. ‘I have seen far worse.’

‘Well, that’s reassurin’.’ Bess ventured to gain her feet, and shook out her dress. ‘I’ll need just a moment to remember how me legs work. Supposin’ them still to be attached at all.’

Idriggal looked her over closely. ‘You look unchanged.’

‘That’s somethin’.’ Bess stretched, and shook herself. Her hair had tumbled down during the passage, and she felt the weight of it against her back. Not a respectable way to appear, at least in England. But she was far afield now.

‘And so, we are in Gadrahst?’ she enquired. Stable for the present, she found leisure to look about herself.

They had come out in some manner of village, or perhaps a town; Bess could not immediately determine its proportions. She stood on a patch of purplish grass behind a row of houses of eccentric style. In general, the buildings were much smaller than the houses of England; they were sized, she supposed, for goblins of Idriggal’s stature. They were built with wooden frames, though she could see little of the timbers underneath the daub or plaster that covered them. They ranged in hue from muddy green to vivid purple, encompassing a range of earthy colours and some bright shades. Many small windows were fitted into the walls, and the doors were rounded in shape.

But not every building was diminutive. Interspersed amongst these at haphazard intervals were much taller structures, the size Bess would expect to see in a house. They sat oddly among their smaller brethren, creating an uneven appearance which Bess found charmingly eccentric. The area was quiet; she saw no one at all, save for her companion, and heard little.

Idriggal took a tiny, clear glass pipe from a pocket and put it to his lips. He made no effort to light it, or to activate it by any other means. Nonetheless, the pipe instantly changed colour to a fine raspberry hue, and began to spit bubbles of a similar shade from its bowl. Bess watched in some delight as a stream of them floated upwards into the cloudy sky. ‘That we are,’ he said around the pipe’s delicate stem. ‘Or in some small part of it. Gadrahst is on the large side, you understand. ‘Tis known as the Goblin Lands elsewhere. We have come out in the town of Gorrotop, which happens to be where I live.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and used it to point to one of the nearby houses. Bess had no trouble determining which he meant, for one stood out from the rest: it was diminutive in stature, like Idriggal himself, and painted the same bright red as his jerkin. ‘Sadly,’ he said with a wide smile, ‘I cannot invite you in. But there’s a wayhouse for folk of your size, not far away. I’ll be installing you there.’

His pipe altered its hue, and began to produce watery-blue bubbles. Bess watched in some fascination. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

He bowed his head. ‘I might just ask. What is it you are planning to do in our fair realm?’

Bess blinked. ‘I don’t rightly know,’ she admitted. ‘Gettin’ here was the difficult part. Though, wi’ that said, I would very much like to go to this Goblin Market I heard tell of.’

‘It has yet to be called, but if that happens I undertake to escort you.’

‘It will, I am fairly certain,’ Bess assured him. ‘Grunewald much desired it.’

‘Aye, well. If the Gaustin wishes it, it’ll come about.’

Bess tilted her head. ‘What do you mean by that? The Gaustin?’

Idriggal raised one dark brow. ‘Can you not guess?’

‘If I could, would I be askin’?’

Idriggal puffed upon his peculiar pipe, his gaze thoughtful as he looked at her. ‘Interesting. What do you know of Grunewald, if I may ask?’

‘I met him as “Mr. Green”, only two days gone. He were bowlin’ about the lanes in his fancy wheeler wi’ two black horses. Dancin’ about in the middle of the night and in the worst fog I ever saw. I thought him naught but an ordinary fine gent, albeit wi’ odd habits, but then he talked to Tatterfoal like the beast was an errant pony, and sent him packin’.’ She shook her head. ‘He ain’t no typical gent, that I can see. But what he might rightly be, I dunnot know. Save that he is of Aylfenhame. It don’t take much to see that.’

Idriggal nodded slowly. ‘I’ve risked his displeasure enough, by bringing you into Gadrahst. I’ll not risk it further by telling what he has chosen to conceal.’

Bess nodded. ‘You’re showin’ sense there, Mr. Idriggal. I’d not like to cross Mr. Green neither.’ She was uncertain what to make of Grunewald, in point of fact. He had shown her kindness and expressed concern for her safety, which was more than anybody had ever done for Bess before, in the whole course of her life. For that, she was grateful. He had wit and liveliness, which she appreciated. But he could also be dismissive and autocratic, and there was that in his eyes at times which hinted at worse capabilities hidden behind his urbane manner.

‘You may call me Drig,’ said her goblin friend. ‘Seeing as we are to be such excellent friends.’

‘Then you may call me Bess. I prefer it to “baggage”, all told.’

Drig grinned. ‘I can see that you might. Well, so. Are you right and proper again, and stable on those long pins?’ He made a show of looking all the way up at Bess, rather exaggerating her height, for she was not so tall by the standards of England.

‘That I am,’ said Bess firmly. She took a few experimental steps, and when she did not promptly fall upon her face, she added, ‘For certain. Lead on, Drig.’

Drig turned and sauntered away. He kept one hand upon the stem of his peculiar pipe – which was now producing sunny yellow bubbles – and tucked the other into a pocket of his jacket. Bess followed along as he wandered between two houses and entered a wide street laid down in dark cobblestones. She saw other goblins going about their business, none of them in any greater hurry than Drig seemed to be. They were predominantly of similar stature, though she saw an occasional rather taller goblin. They wore clothes in a surprising variety; the concept of particular, accepted fashions for attire did not seem to apply in Gorrotop.

Drig guided Bess down some few similar streets, and stopped at last outside of an unusually tall, narrow building in the midst of a long row. It towered three storeys higher than its nearest neighbours, though in width it could be barely more than fifteen feet. Its front was set with myriad windows, none of them matching in size, shape or colour, and it had multiple doors: one at ground level, through which Drig clearly proposed to take her, and others stranded at intervals all the way up the building. One of them, a round, wooden door painted crimson, had a staircase which wound its way around the outside of the building and ended outside the door. Others bore no apparent means of access at all.

Bess was instantly enchanted by it.

A large sign over the narrow ground-level door proclaimed simply: “The Motley.” A fitting name, considering the patchwork appearance of the place. The grass-green door helpfully bore three brass knockers: one large one placed high up, though within Bess’s reach; one a little further down; and one only a foot or so from the floor. Drig went up the pair of steps, took hold of this last and pounded mightily upon the door. The sound produced was not the dull thump Bess was expecting, but a burst of shrieking laughter.

The door opened immediately. Revealed in the entrance stood a goblin taller than Drig – almost Bess’s own height. She was of comfortable proportions, with deep brown skin and a mass of greying hair. She wore an earthy-brown dress with a neat apron, a long coat of riotous patchwork, and a large hat of soft purple velvet. ‘Aye!’ she shouted. Her eye fell upon Drig and then upon Bess, and her generous mouth stretched into a beaming smile. ‘Driggifer! Ye’ve brought me a customer! What a fine fellow ye are.’ She bent down to bestow an appreciative salutation upon Drig, and then stepped back, opening the door wide. ‘Whishawist, then. ‘Tis a fine, cold morning and no doubt ye’ll be wanting big fires and warm chocolate and all the what-not.’

‘Morning, Maggin,’ said Drig cheerfully. ‘All the what-not and more, if you please!’

These prospects cheered Bess, and she lost no time in following Drig into the inn. The hall was as mad in character as the building’s exterior, with mismatched furniture sized for goblins of all proportions. It was cheerily lit up with curious lamps in many hues, and strewn with rugs and cushions. Bess felt at home at once, and could not reproach herself for having accepted Drig’s offer.

Drig tucked his bubble pipe into a pocket of his jerkin, and smiled up at Bess. ‘The Motley’s the best spot for miles, especially if you’re one of the leggy folk.’

Bess could well believe it. Maggin led them to a staircase at the rear of the hallway and disappeared up it. Bess had some difficulty following, for it spiralled tightly and was not so roomy as she might wish; she was obliged to duck her head to keep from hitting it upon the next stairs up. She emerged two storeys farther up onto a small landing. Its ceiling was higher, to her relief, and she was able to stand fully upright. Its walls were painted dark green and crammed with pictures, embroidered cloths and other knick-knacks hanging from large brass hooks. Directly ahead of her, a glass door was set into the wall. At least, it appeared to be fine, clear glass, but Bess could see nothing through it.

Maggin produced a matching glass key and presented it to Bess with a flourish. ‘I’ll just need yer name, dear, fer the book.’

‘Elisabeth Bell.’ Bess took the key, and smiled her thanks.

Maggin beamed. ‘What-nots to follow,’ she promised, and disappeared back down the stairs.

Bess unlocked the strange glass door and went through into a narrow room with a very high ceiling. The walls were all wooden, but an enormous window set with greenish glass overlooked the street below. The room was furnished with a wooden bed, a pair of armchairs and a cupboard, together with a set of shelves. All were sized to suit Bess, a little to her relief, and everything was bright with the lively colours she had admired below.

‘It will do,’ Drig decided, having surveyed the room. He walked to the fireplace in the far wall and flicked his fingers at it, upon which gesture the neat bundle of firewood promptly burst into flame.

‘Well, now!’ said Bess, smiling broadly. ‘If this ain’t the nicest room I have ever had for me own!’

Drig seemed delighted with this praise. ‘You need not concern yourself with the matter of payment, for it is taken care of.’

Bess was quick with her thanks, for that question had been troubling her. But Drig waved this away. ‘Tis part of our agreement.’

‘My thanks, nonetheless. But what am I to do here?’

Drig took out his pipe again, though he merely put it to his lips and stood there in thought; no bubbles flowed from its bowl. ‘Mmp, well. His Maj—the Gaustin will be about someplace. By your account he will lose no time in calling the Market, so we’d best wait for that. And then, sooner or later, he will come here.’

‘Oh? Why should he do that?’

‘The Market crosses Gadrahst from border to border. Every town and village participates, and more besides – you’ll find stalls set up in the middle of the woods. If the Gaustin is looking for something in particular, he will come through every one of the bigger towns, at least.’

‘Won’t he send retainers to do the searchin’?’

‘Oh, yes. I intend to be one of them.’ Drig smiled smugly. ‘But he’ll show. He was never one to leave underlings to do everything for him. Most involved, our Gaustin. And if he is in an urgent hurry, all the more so.’ He put his pipe briefly to his lips, only to remove it again a moment later. ‘And the Motley, you know, is a popular spot.’

Bess considered. ‘How will we know if he’s the right one? After all, there is a lookalike wanderin’ about.’

Drig waved his pipe at her. ‘He will recognise you, will he not? We could not expect an imposter to have the faintest idea of who you are.’

‘Aye. True.’

Drig cackled. ‘You are useful for all manner of things, Elisabeth.’

‘Bess, please. Elisabeth’s a right lengthy nonsense.’

Drig bowed acceptance. ‘As you wish.’

 

Bess was left to amuse herself for the rest of the day, and she did so with alacrity. She spent happy hours exploring Gorrotop and meeting some of its residents. Most were as friendly as Drig and Maggin, with but one or two exceptions, and Bess enjoyed herself enormously. The town was lively, eccentric and powerfully interesting from end to end, and Bessie was well entertained. She wandered abroad until some hours past sundown, enjoying the plethora of merry lights that winked into being once darkness fell; the snatches of music, laughter and song she encountered as she wandered the streets; and the delicious, if strange, foods she purchased with the coin Drig had given her. She retired to bed at last in a state of high satisfaction, happier than she could ever remember being before.

She had planned to spend the following day furthering these explorations, but upon rising the next morning she found the Motley in a bustle of high excitement. She made her way down to the dining parlour at the back of the house, and found not only Maggin but Drig and a few other guests assembled around a veritable feast.

‘Bess!’ greeted Drig. ‘You are in fine time.’

‘Have a seat, lass, and eat yer fill,’ invited Maggin. ‘And ye’d best hear the news at once.’

Bess obeyed this invitation, though she had neither time nor need to reach for any food. The moment she sat down in the chair her hostess indicated, the plate before her filled itself, with naught but an odd shimmer in the air to indicate that anything unusual was happening. Generous portions of eggs, ham, fresh bread, brightly-coloured fruits and many other delicacies appeared, heaped so high upon the plate that Bess was taken aback.

‘Help yerself to what ye like,’ Maggin said with a wink, apparently noticing Bessie’s confusion.

Bess quickly got over her surprise, and began to eat. ‘What is the news?’

‘The Market!’ said Drig happily. ‘You were perfectly right! It was called at dawn, and will soon be underway.’

‘Oh!’ said Bess. ‘Mighty quick work indeed! But how was it called? I heard nothin’.’

Drig merely pointed at the window behind Bess. She turned, and saw what had escaped her notice before: every tree and lamp-post upon the street behind the Motley was decked in purple-and-green flags, streamers and ribbons. They fluttered in the wind, displaying glittering traces of gold in the mild sunlight.

‘Them ribbons?’ she enquired.

‘Aye,’ said Drig. ‘They appear when the Market’s called. Folk are preparing, even now.’

Bess felt a thrill of excitement. The bright banners held the promise of colour and liveliness beyond anything she had ever experienced before. What wonders might she discover at such a Market?

Her feelings were broadly shared, for there was a holiday atmosphere at the breakfast-table, and Bess’s fellow guests soon departed on Market business. Bess’s own anticipation was in such high degree that she scarcely noticed the food she ate. She emptied her plate absently, her mind fixed upon the vivid visions of her imagination, and was recalled to herself at last by Drig’s voice encouraging her to rise from the table.

‘Maggin would be grateful for your help, I believe,’ Drig said, and Bess looked an enquiry at the innkeeper.

‘Aye, that I would,’ confirmed Maggin. Bess agreed readily enough, by no means unwilling to earn her keep by the only means she knew.

But her expectations proved to be misplaced, for Maggin did not set her to cleaning. Instead she led Bess outside, where a trio of stout goblins had just erected a wood-framed market stall directly outside the Motley. They were laying a crimson awning over the top as Maggin and Bess arrived, and Maggin clapped her appreciation.

‘Very good, boys! That will be all! Bess and I will see to the rest.’

The goblins departed, tipping their hats to the ladies as they did so. Bess noticed that Maggin’s was by no means the only stall going up in the vicinity; more were being constructed as far up and down the street as she could see.

‘I hope ye’ve an eye fer this kind of thing,’ said Maggin. ‘Ye see the competition! We’ve a deal to do if my stall’s to stand out.’

Bess understood, and fell to with alacrity. The morning passed rapidly by as she helped Maggin to assemble a staggering range of wares in an appealing array, and afterwards decorated the stall with streamers and ribbons in shades to match the awning. By the time they were finished, Maggin declared herself highly pleased.

Bess took stock of her handiwork, and smiled her own satisfaction. Maggin had a surprisingly large quantity of goods to display. Many were edible: Bess had set out towering stacks of raised pies with golden crusts, each lavishly decorated with jewel-coloured fruits, and sweetmeats of every conceivable kind were packed in delicate boxes or set out upon wide oaken dishes. Maggin had also arranged fragrant salves in glass pots, clear bottles filled with bubbling potions and an array of embroidered cloth knick-knacks. Everybody stockpiled goods for the Market, she explained. One didn’t wish to be caught short, for the Market came but rarely, and without warning. It drew customers from all over Aylfenhame, and anyone suitably prepared might make enough gold to make for a fat and easy year to follow.

The salves caught Bess’s eye as she had set them out, and her heart had leapt with a hope she later recognised as unreasonable. But her discreet enquiries confirmed that none of the dainty glass pots contained anything so rare as fairy ointment; they were but treatments for work-roughened hands, or goods more along the cosmetic lines. Maggin demonstrated the use of one set upon Bess herself, by smearing some of the scented violet salve upon Bess’s thumbnail. Bess watched in amazement as the nail seemingly absorbed the colour and turned a pretty violet hue.

‘It will last nigh on a month, that,’ said Maggin proudly. ‘Ye’ll find others sellin’ the like, but none so long-lasting.’

As a sample of the Market’s probable delights, Bess considered it highly promising.

 

It took the residents of Gorrotop (and, presumably, beyond) most of the day to set up their stalls to their satisfaction. By late afternoon, the Market was well underway. As the sun began to sink, lanterns lit up in a range of colours, adding more liveliness and delight to the scene than Bess could have imagined.

Drig took her out into the streets directly, leaving Maggin happily installed beneath her eye-catching crimson awning. The innkeeper was already doing a brisk trade, Bess noted as she waved farewell, and she looked delighted.

‘How long does the Market stay?’ Bess enquired as she followed Drig through the chattering crowds of shoppers.

‘As long as it’s wanted. When everything is sold, away goes the Market.’ Drig had lit up his pipe once more, and Bess was able to follow the streams of coloured bubbles as much as the slight figure of Drig himself. He had swapped his regular hat for another, which he called his Party Hat. It was even more fantastically oversized than the last, very broad at the top and broader still at the brim, and covered over in sumptuous purple velvet. To Bess’s puzzlement it contained a little door set into the base, and three windows spaced above. Bess had thought them merely decorative until, to her immense surprise, the door had opened and a tiny vole-like creature with cloverleaf-green fur and a long striped tail had crept out. This little animal now rode upon the brim of Drig’s hat, its nose lifted and quivering as it inhaled the delicious aromas of the Market.

She and Drig had agreed upon their shared intent: they would scour the stalls of Gorrotop and, should there be fairy ointment somewhere available, be sure to snatch it up at once. But Bess soon felt in danger of forgetting this mission entirely, so enchanted was she with the Market. She marvelled anew at her position. Had it truly been only a few days since she had been a lowly housemaid? At this moment, perhaps, she would be preparing somebody’s bed for their night’s rest, or taking a plain meal with the other servants in the kitchens. Instead she was deep in Aylfenhame, free to experience the delights of the Goblin Market, and her future was hers to decide.

She wandered Gorrotop in a state of high enjoyment, frustrating Drig with her eagerness to pause at every stall and examine virtually everything that she saw. A stall selling flowers caught her attention particularly, for though they were clearly living blossoms, their petals looked like fine velvet or glass. More enchantingly still, each one emitted soft motes of light from their centres; the sparks of colour drifted lazily into the air, twinkling like tiny stars. Bess stared so long at these that Drig grew resigned, and offered to buy one for her if it would encourage her to move along.

‘Why, no!’ said Bess, laughing. ‘What would the likes of me do wi’ such a pretty thing? I’d have nowhere to put it.’

Drig shrugged. ‘As you please, but do let us continue. At this rate, it will take us a week to search Gorrotop alone.’

Chastened, Bess could not but admit the justice of his argument. Their progress after that was faster, and Bess became more adept at resisting the allure of sweetmeats and sable-winged songbirds; gowns which looked wrought from cobwebs and starlight; shadowy cloaks with deep hoods, radiating a warmth Bess could feel from the street; pies offering a change of flavour with every mouthful; flourishing miniature gardens contained in glass bell jars; toys of cloth and wood which danced and told jokes; and so many more delights that her head spun with the wonder of it.

It did not seem conceivable that fairy ointment could be absent among such an array, but so it proved. Bess and Drig examined every stall selling salves, ointments or potions of any kind, and made enquiry after enquiry, but to no avail. The Market ran throughout the night, and their errand kept them busily employed until such a late hour that Bess became too weary even to appreciate a stall of hats even more fantastical than Drig’s. And still they failed to discover any trace of fairy ointment.

‘Ah well,’ said Drig heavily, as they made their way with weary steps back to the Motley. ‘Twas too much to hope, I dare say, that it would be so easily found. Otherwise why would his Ma—the Gaustin have to call a Market?’

‘But the Market goes far beyond Gorrotop, no?’ said Bess, trying to ignore the pain in her feet; she had earned herself at least three new blisters this night.

‘Oh, ‘tis across the whole of Gadrahst by now. Tomorrow we will get as far as Hogwend, and see what we can find.’

Bess thought of Grunewald. Was he out somewhere under the bright moon, striding the Market as she was in search of the ointment he needed? Had he yet discovered any? Before the Market had begun, she had not doubted that she would encounter him eventually, if she was out in the streets every day. Now that she had witnessed the crush of shoppers for herself, and heard Drig’s account of the flabbergasting extent of the Market, she was not so sure. How would they contrive to discover Grunewald’s whereabouts at all? And if they did not, how could they know when he had completed his errand?

‘Why is the ointment so rare?’ she asked instead, struck with an alternate thought.

‘Tis twofold, that,’ said Drig. ‘The ingredients are most difficult to find, or some of them are. It’s the mushrooms. Finicky things.’ He paused as the clover-furred creature atop his hat slid over the brim and almost fell off; Drig caught it with a practiced gesture and settled the tiny animal back atop its perch. The creature squeaked in a fashion Bess interpreted as derisive, whisked back inside the hat and shut the door behind itself. ‘The snowfoots only grow in winter, if it snows enough, and the velvet queen parasols – well, they grow wherever the Queen-at-Mirramay has lately trod. And seeing as there’s no Queen-at-Mirramay anymore, those are getting mighty scarce. And then it is no easy task to combine them in the right way. There’s few as can manage it.’

Bess thought back to Grunewald’s request of Isabel, and her failed attempt at the task. If Drig was correct, the ingredients she had been offered had been incomplete after all; Grunewald had given her snowfoot boletes, but Tafferty had been correct to point out that the parasols were also required.

‘What became of the Queen?’

But Drig would not vouchsafe much of an answer to that question. ‘Died,’ was all he said, and curtly. He would not be drawn to elaborate, and soon fell silent altogether.

Bessie let him be. She was weary, and growing eager to be returned to her comfortable room at the Motley for some slumber. The swarming crowds around her blurred into an indistinguishable mass of people and colour, and the noise of the market filled her ears in a roar. She blinked, trying to focus her tired mind; she could not merely drift after Drig, and rely on him to deliver her safely home.

It gradually dawned upon her that the noise had grown distant, and she was no longer surrounded by shoppers. In fact, all about her was darkness, and there was no sign of Drig. Heart thumping, she spun about, thrust into abrupt alertness in her consciousness of sudden peril. She could see nothing, save a haunting wisp-light drifting somewhere above.

'A fine piece of merchandise,' said a low voice from close by.

Something about the tone invoked a sudden, piercing fear in Bessie, and she shivered. 'Who is there?' she said sharply, irritation building along with the fear.

Nobody replied. Bessie waited, in silence as well as darkness, her heart pounding so fiercely she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She could not shake the creeping sensation that the merchandise spoken of was herself…

She roused herself from her stupor of fright with a strong effort of will, and began to walk. The wisp shed no useful light, and she blundered about in near darkness. She found a wall only by dint of walking into it, and quickly changed direction. Another wall, and another. She was enclosed in some tiny space, like a cupboard, but no door could she find.

When the floor disappeared beneath her, she fell with a shriek.

Bess landed heavily upon something painfully solid, and for a moment she lay dazed and blinking in sudden, bright light. 'Take the hair,' somebody ordered. Myriad tiny hands grabbed at her loose locks and pulled, hard. Bessie shrieked again, this time with anger, and shot to her feet.

She was surrounded by goblins, most of them smaller even than Drig. She had fetched up inside some kind of caravan covered over with lengths of torn and tattered fabric. To her horror, the walls were hung with neatly-coiled ropes of hair.

'Yer not havin' me hair!' she shouted, grabbing the length of her tumbling black locks and gripping it tightly. She had few vanities, but her hair was one of them. These little nasties wouldn't get so much as a single lock of it!

She cast a quick look around the caravan, and saw absolutely nothing that she could use as a weapon. Very well; it would have to be flight, then. There was a door, but it was sized for the convenience of the goblins, and Bessie suffered some doubts as to whether she could fit through it.

No way to find out but to try. She laid about with her fists and her feet, knocking away the creatures who attempted to swarm up her skirts, and ran for the door.

She fumbled with the catch. To her irritation, her hands were shaking too much to easily unlatch it, and she was set upon from behind by at least three of the wretched goblins. Hands grabbed at her hair again, and a swift, sharp pain told her that they had succeeded in parting her from some of her hair.

Fury rose in a choking surge, and she abandoned her attempts to open the door by civilised means. She began to kick it instead, and though she sorely hurt her feet, she finally succeeded in breaking the latch.

But the door blew violently open before she had chance to capitalise upon her success. On the other side stood Drig. He had lost all semblance of charming friendliness; his face was dark with malevolent rage, and he positively crackled with a fierce and disturbing energy.

The goblins clinging to Bess's dress fell away at once, babbling something incomprehensible. Drig spoke a single word by way of reply, a revolting syllable evocative of dark places and vile, crawling things, and a chorus of pained shrieks went up behind her.

Drig grabbed Bessie's hand and pulled. Either she shrank for a moment or the door enlarged; she could not tell which, only that she slipped through it easily and found herself restored to the bustling crowds of Gorrotop's market.

She turned, but saw only throngs of shoppers; of the caravan there was no sign.

Drig looked her over in silence, the malevolent look gradually fading from his face.

'Unscathed, I think,' he finally said.

Bessie dusted off her gown, taking a moment to collect herself. She was badly shaken by the experience, though she would never admit to it. Grunewald's attitude might have been cavalier and dictatorial, but he had not been wrong to question her safety.

'All well wi' me,' she said to Drig, once she had properly composed herself.

He flashed her a swift, fierce grin, and she knew that he saw everything she wanted to conceal. But he merely bowed with a tip of his hat, and sauntered off. 'Homeward we go,' he called over his shoulder.

Bessie gladly followed in his wake.

Bessie woke upon the morrow feeling largely refreshed, though she remained a little unnerved. The hair vendors had been disturbing, but she had little doubt that there was worse to be found at the market. It was galling to have to acknowledge, even to herself, that she needed Drig's protection.

When breakfast was over, Drig led Bess out of the rear door of the Motley. Stationed outside was a neat open carriage with space for two passengers. Its seats were upholstered in green velvet and its frame was painted a rich maroon; this looked far too fine to Bess’s eye, but Drig clambered aboard with scarcely a glance at the velvet, and stuck his booted feet up on the seat with blithe unconcern.

The carriage was drawn by a pair of ponies, or something like. They resembled Tatterfoal more than a little, which intrigued Bess more than it alarmed her, for they seemed docile enough. They were barely of a size to carry Bess, had she chosen to ride one; their coats were thundercloud-grey darkening to black, and their manes and tails were bright white. As Bess took her seat in the carriage, one of them tossed its head. At once, a flurry of incorporeal, bone-white moths erupted into the air and flew frantically away. Its mate snorted impatiently and pawed the ground, and a jet of stormy cloud-wisp streamed from its nostrils.

Drig had taken a seat with his back to the horses, but Bess was not left to wonder long how the carriage was to be guided without a driver. As soon as she was settled, Drig called out, ‘Hogwend, dear ponies,’ and the horses stepped instantly into motion. Bess had nothing to do but sit at her ease while the neat vehicle wound its way slowly through the streets of Gorrotop – for though the sun had not yet fully risen, the roads were crowded with carriages and shoppers afoot – and at last cleared the town. The horses picked up their pace as soon as they reached the open countryside, and Bess made the most of her opportunity to see a little more of Gadrahst.

The environs did not appear especially prepossessing, she was forced to admit. In the thin, dawning light, she could not see much. The weather was not disposed to show her the best of the Goblin Lands, for the sky was heavily overcast and the air filled with a sodden mist. On either side of the road, Bess saw fields, bare and dark at this season. The one feature of the landscape which pleased her eager eye was the row of trees lining one side of the wide dirt road they were travelling upon. The trees were as varied as the buildings in Gorrotop, and no two were alike. Some were but a few feet tall, others of a towering height. Though some had shed most of their foliage in the manner of the trees of England, others bore a full crop of leaves, and in rather more colours than the shades of green, russet and yellow Bess would expect to see in the autumn.

She amused herself in examining each tree as closely as she could, for Drig did not seem inclined to talk. He sat sprawled with the party hat over his eyes, sucking idly upon the stem of his bubble pipe. In this fashion the journey to Hogwend passed, and fairly quickly. Bess saw the town on the horizon, a huddle of buildings adding colour and life to the grey sky. It, too, was decked in the glittering streamers which adorned Gorrotop, and Bess’s heart lifted at the sight.

Drig spoke. ‘I have a notion we may be seeing the Gaustin sometime this morning.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’

Drig’s mouth stretched into a lazy grin. ‘Goblins have ways.’

‘I enjoy nothin’ so much as your mysterious pronouncements, I assure you. It adds such a delightful zest to the mornin’.’

Drig snickered. ‘Well, I might have been summoned.’ He tapped one of the jewels that decorated his long ears: a dull grey disc inset with a large purple gem.

‘Aye?’ she said. ‘Somethin’ happens to the jewellery when his Maje—the Gaustin wants you?’

Drig lifted the brim of his hat to look at her, his darkling eyes glinting with amusement. ‘Too quick on the uptake, my dear Bess. Yes, indeed. The gem glows.’

Bess nodded wisely. ‘A glow! Mighty useful. Especially when you are the one wearin’ it, and it happens to be positioned quite out of your sight.’ His ears were long enough that she doubted he could see the gem at all.

Drig blew a stream of blood-coloured bubbles at her. ‘It grows warm, too, if I am slow to answer.’

It occurred to Bess that the flesh around the jewel appeared disordered. She leaned closer to improve her view, and noted signs of blistering. ‘Warm, eh?’

Drig shrugged. ‘I was asleep at the time.’

Clearly the Gaustin was in a hurry. Bess was unsure what to make of this mark of Grunewald’s impatience. ‘We had best get you some salve,’ she said firmly.

Drig laughed at that, and thrust a hand into a deep pocket fixed to the front of his trousers. He withdrew a large ointment-pot, took off the lid and applied some of the pale green contents to his ear. ‘As you see, I am well supplied.’

From this, Bess concluded that the damage to Drig’s ear was by no means unusual. But the carriage drew up and stopped, preventing her from pursuing the topic, and Drig jumped down with a lively energy at odds with the lethargy he had hitherto displayed. ‘He’ll be somewhere about,’ he announced. ‘I can feel it. Not close yet, but soon.’

‘That’s a function of your ear-ring, too?’ said Bess as she descended to the street.

Drig nodded once. ‘And now, to shop!’ he said grandly. ‘For fairy ointment, and mushrooms! The Gaustin will have emptied his supply of the boletes by now, and will also require the parasols.’

Some of Bess’s zeal for shopping had worn off over the course of the previous day, but she fell to her task with largely unimpaired enthusiasm. Hogwend resembled Gorrotop in most particulars, and certainly in the eagerness with which its citizens participated in the Market. After some two hours’ searching, Bess’s thoroughness was rewarded when she spotted a scant handful of the snow-white mushrooms Drig had described, almost buried in the midst of a pile of velvet gloves. They bore the scattering of silver motes which marked them as snowfoot boletes, and Bess was quick in securing them. She tucked them into a pocket of her skirt, handling them with great care, for they were delicate.

She had just completed this transaction when she heard a low, cultured voice speak from directly behind her. ‘I would know that shabby excuse for a cloak anywhere, and the hair ̶ ! The locks of some wild creature, I make no doubt! Come, baggage, turn about.’

Bess turned to find Grunewald standing barely two feet away, his pose nonchalant and his hands buried in his pockets. He was dressed differently from the last time she had seen him: he wore long dark trousers and tall top-boots, his creamy cravat stark against a black shirt. His wine-red velvet coat was of no fashion she had ever seen in England, though it was sumptuous indeed, its hem sweeping the floor. A row of buttons adorned the front, though they insisted upon changing their configuration every few moments; Bess saw gilded buttons shaped to resemble roses, and then half of them adopted the appearance of coiled snakes painted in stripes. They were purple moths, and then white gems; the neat, smoky-hued caps of mushrooms, and then fiery stars. This fascinating changeability threatened to mesmerise Bess; she blinked, and forced herself to look into Grunewald’s face instead.

He stood staring down at her with an amused smile, though she thought she detected signs of annoyance as well. ‘Good mornin’, your Maj—I mean, Gaustin,’ she said, and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mr. Drig said nothin’ about me?’

‘Mr. Drig appears to have said very little to the purpose,’ he said coolly. His eyes narrowed. ‘At least to me. But he appears to be keeping you remarkably well informed.’

‘Not at all!’ said Bess brightly. ‘Nothin’ could be more mysterious. I beg you will not trouble yerself with the idea that he might be tellin’ me anythin’ useful. Besides, there was nothin’ much to be said. An infant could ha’ put the pieces together.’

‘You underrate yourself, baggage,’ said Grunewald – or the King of the Goblins, as she was now certain was his true title. ‘Most people are frighteningly self-absorbed.’

‘How cynical.’

‘No doubt. I am entitled to a little cynicism, however. Do you have any notion at all what manner of life it is? See these energetic shoppers, now.’ He nodded at the streams of people passing them by upon either side. ‘This guise is well enough known, and if any of them were paying the smallest attention they would know that their liege-lord walks amongst them. But see how they pass me by!’

Even this speech failed to attract the attention of any among the crowds. Bess watched as several goblins, a pair of brownies, an Aylir and other creatures she could not name swept past without pausing. ‘You are disappointed to be denied your fair share of worship!’ she said, struck with a keen sense of the tragedy of his plight. ‘I can understand it! It must be terrible to stand for three minutes together without bein’ so much as bowed to. Here, I will do my little part.’ She offered him a low curtsey, her head lowered with becoming humility.

Grunewald tangled a hand in her hair as she rose and pulled back her head, gently but firmly. He scrutinised her face, his expression unreadable. ‘You are impertinent. And disobedient.’

‘No, no,’ Bess demurred. ‘Well, perhaps a mite. Shall it be another curtsey, to make up for it?’ She could not have said what moved her to speak so to him; only that if king he was, he contrived to be the strangest monarch she had ever heard of. There was naught of majesty about him, naught of grandeur, and nothing of superiority either. Irritable he might sometimes be, but he spoke to her as an equal, and had done so since the moment he had taken her up in his carriage.

‘Heavens preserve us! No,’ he said, releasing her hair. ‘I have scarce seen such a graceless curtsey in the whole course of my life.’

‘Tis these cursed garments. ‘Tis hard to be a lady in grace, when I am weighed about wi’ such rags! Your Gentship has the right of it.’

‘Put you in silks and jewels and you would still be an infernal baggage. Indeed, it has been soundly proved already. What made you decide to discount all my warnings?’

Bess inclined her head. ‘Tis an honour to be thought so. And, as you see, I am still all in one piece.’

Grunewald’s head tilted. ‘I think you are displeased with me.’

That surprised Bess. He gave off an appearance of lazy inattention, not unlike Drig’s; she had not thought he could discern so much of the feelings she had not consciously displayed. ‘A little,’ she admitted.

‘It is because I would not bring you with me? You appear to have contrived marvellously in spite of my churlishness.’

‘Tis not that. I would have asked Mrs. Aylfendeane, if Drig had not found me. One way or another I was comin’ here.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘You’ve hurt Drig’s ear. More’n once.’

Grunewald’s eyes narrowed once more. ‘He has complained of it, has he?’

‘Not in the least! Nothin’ could exceed his nonchalance in walkin’ about wi’ a blistered ear. He is quite used to it. I am to imagine he’s left in such a state tolerably often.’

Grunewald’s eyebrows rose. ‘If Idriggal does not feel himself to be ill-used, why should it trouble you?’

‘Drig’s feelin’s change nothin’ about right and wrong,’ said Bess firmly. ‘Speakin’ as one who is used to a fair amount of ill treatment meself, I cannot help standin’ up for your retainers.’

Grunewald folded his arms and stared at her, his eyes hard. Bess could not but admit that the effect was intimidating, but she refused to be cowed. She folded her own arms and drew herself up, giving him stare for stare until he finally spoke.

‘If you mean to class me with the likes of that family…!’

By that family, she supposed he meant the Adairs. ‘Not so much,’ she said, obliged to be fair. ‘But I ain’t lookin’ forward to the day when I find out that you are of a type wi’ them after all.’

She allowed that to sink in, watching his face closely. His expression did not change. She judged she had pushed her luck as far as was reasonable, and sought another subject. Delving into her skirt pocket, she produced the bundle of mushrooms and held them out to him.

His eyes lit up. ‘You have found it?’

‘Not the ointment,’ she cautioned. ‘Just a few mushrooms.’

He unwrapped the bundle enough to observe the frail, dried boletes that lay within, and nodded. ‘Thank you, baggage. That is of some little use to me.’

‘We’d best get on, if we have the whole of Gadrahst to search.’

One of his brows went up at that. ‘We?’

‘Aye. Seein’ as I am not urgently occupied at the moment, I can offer you my services as shoppin’ assistant.’

His mouth twitched, but he did not smile. ‘We do not, in fact, have to search every corner of Gadrahst. That has been done.’

She blinked. ‘Already?’

‘Do you imagine I have naught but Drig to assist me?’

Bess imagined no such thing; the Goblin King must have retainers without number. ‘Well then, I will be on my way,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It was nice seein’ you, my Gent.’ She curtseyed.

Grunewald’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Not just yet, baggage. You’ll come with me a while.’

‘You do have work for me! And no wonder. Retainers I am sure you have aplenty, but none of them are quite like me after all.’

His eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I am increasingly persuaded that there is no creature alive quite like you. Come.’

Bess allowed herself to be led. She resented the grip Grunewald retained on her wrist, for a little while, but the crush of the crowds was such that she soon adjusted her ideas. If he had not maintained a link with her, she would in all likelihood have been swept away in the rush of market-goers.

Drig joined them, looking cross. His face registered a flicker of alarm upon seeing Grunewald with Bess, but he quickly hid it. He offered no word of greeting to his master; instead he held up his bubble pipe in his hands, in two pieces. ‘Smashed,’ he grumbled as he fell into step beside them. ‘Some great, lumbering oaf of an ogre. Impossible to avoid! So trying!’

Grunewald let go of Bess long enough to snatch the pieces from Drig’s hands. She could not see what it was that he did to the chunks of glass, but moments later he was able to restore the pipe to his retainer, whole once more. If he was angry with Drig for conveying Bessie into Gadrahst, he said naught of it.

All of this apparently surprised Drig as much as it astonished Bess, for he gaped at his healed pipe in amazement before he remembered to thank his liege lord. Grunewald’s hand immediately closed around Bess’s wrist once more, and she was obliged to trot to keep up as he strode faster through the crush, people melting out of his path. His posture was rigid, and he made no reply to Drig’s gratitude. It was as though he was annoyed by the kindness of his own gesture, and wished to have it forgotten as speedily as possible.

‘Here we are,’ he said some little time later, and halted before a particularly large stall selling, as far as Bess could tell, nothing but jars. Great, weighty things they were, wide at the base and securely stoppered with wedges of dull grey metal. But as she looked, something shifted in the nearest jar, and she discerned coils of roiling mist contained within the clear glass. A moment’s scrutiny revealed that every jar contained a similar complement of vapour. It was fog, she swiftly realised, for she had seen more than enough of late to recognise it. Some of the jars contained the thick, white fog with which she was familiar; others housed mists in shades of rain, storm and wind, and even in rainbow.

All of this was fascinating, but Bess could imagine no reason whatsoever why Grunewald would desire to bring her here.

But he had not. He had stopped not in front of the fog vendor, but a little to the left. In between the jars of fog and another stall selling, according to the impressions of Bessie’s nose, scents, there was another stall. It was tiny, barely four feet in width; wedged as it was in between two such large, dominating shop fronts, Bessie had missed it altogether. It was covered over with an awning of patchwork leather in shades of fenberry and moss, which looked handsome indeed, but it did not appear to house any goods. Bess looked an enquiry at Grunewald.

He ignored her, instead addressing the stallholder. ‘Attend to the lady,’ was all that he said.

The stall was minded by a goblin rather taller than Drig, his skin almost black in hue. He had a shock of night-dark hair and large eyes the colour of amber stones. His garments were made from the same patchwork leathers as his awning, and over his tunic and leggings he wore a sturdy apron. He bowed to Grunewald, suggesting that he at least recognised the red-haired gentleman as his monarch. But his manner lacked the deference Bess might expect; he flashed Grunewald a cheery smile and said, ‘Right ye are, Lordship,’ and turned to Bess.

Goblin society was odd indeed, she thought. Their king acted nothing like a ruler, and his subjects barely remembered to show him even common deference. But in spite of that, Drig’s loyalty to Grunewald was above question, no matter how many times his ears sprouted blisters in response to his lord’s importunate summons. It was a curious puzzle.

As was Grunewald’s intentions in bringing Bess to this stall. ‘You must forgive me,’ she said to the stallholder. ‘My powers of readin’ minds have unaccountably failed this mornin’, and I have no notion what my Gent is fixin’ to achieve wi’ this.’

She received a grin in response, and the goblin pointed at Bess’s feet. ‘Off wi’ those,’ he said.

Bess supposed that he meant her shoes. They were gone in a trice; so worn and stretched were they that they slipped off easily. The goblin wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked at the tattered old shoes, even their colour now indeterminate. He made a faint gesture with one hand, and the shoes promptly disappeared.

‘How’s that?’ he said then.

Bess blinked. She could hardly suppose that Grunewald had intended to vanish her shoes and leave her in stocking feet; but as she opened her mouth to express her confusion, it occurred to her that this was not, in fact, the case. She looked down.

Her feet were clad in boots so fine she was struck speechless. Wrought from cherry-red leather, they were strong and sturdy in make and yet an experimental flex of her feet proved them to be soft and comfortable as well. The toes were a little pointed, and she felt small heels underneath. They rose over her ankles and laced with mossy green ribbon, each one bearing a bunch of hawthorn berries at its end – apparently real, though surely they were not.

On top of all of this, the boots were warm. A chill morning in early November, and she was not obliged to bear the discomfort of cold feet! And she could no longer feel her blisters; had they healed?

Bess could not speak.

Grunewald observed her reaction, and nodded once at the stall-keeper. ‘Thank you, Hastival.’

The goblin tugged his forelock to Grunewald, and winked at Bess. Then he turned to another customer, and Grunewald walked away. He did not trouble to collect Bess beforehand, and she was left standing in shock.

Drig grinned at her. ‘Oh, you have impressed my Gent, right enough.’

Shaking herself, Bess hastened to catch up with Grunewald. ‘I don’t understand,’ she called after him.

Grunewald glanced sidelong at her as she drew alongside. ‘I am desolate at having confused you.’

‘What was that about?’

‘Your attire is a disgrace. I am ashamed to be seen with you.’

This reply was flippant, and Bess was persuaded it was nothing to the purpose at all. But Grunewald said nothing more.

‘Hastival is the best shoe-maker in Gadrahst,’ said Drig, trotting beside her. ‘He fits the shoe to the customer.’

‘Don’t every shoemaker do that?’

‘Not like Hastival. Those are your shoes. They are perfect for you in every way. They’ll do everything you need, whatever the occasion. You will probably never need to buy another pair.’

‘Ever again?’

‘Never, and not ever. You’ll see what I mean.’ He waved his pipe at the crowds, sending a stream of cheerful green bubbles flying, and added, ‘Any one of these people would give their first-born child for a pair of Hastival’s boots. And you are wearing the very best that he can make.’

Bess tried to thank Grunewald, but he ignored her attempts and strode on oblivious. In truth, she hardly knew how to express her thoughts, for she felt that the gift held significance beyond the merely practical. I would stop walking around in someone else’s shoes, he had said not long before. Now she had her own, and there could be no doubt that they would take her wherever she wanted to go.

Well, and well. If he would not listen to her thanks, she would find some other way to express her gratitude. There must be some fashion in which she could be of use to him; at the very least, she could bend all of her efforts towards finding the fairy ointment he sought, or discovering some other means of identifying the imposter whose actions disturbed his peace.