Nine Goblins(52)

And…maybe more than a gesture. She glanced over at Finchbones.

He smiled. “Thinking?”

“Wondering if this is really going to change anything.”

Finchbones nodded slowly. His command of the human language had improved somewhat from use, but it still took him a minute to think through a complicated sentence. (Sings-to-Trees had read him the riot act about not speaking the language of people under his protection, and Finchbones, to his credit, was trying. She suspected that his opinion of her had increased radically when she proved more eloquent than he was.)

“Maybe change,” he said finally. “Don’t know why anything changes. Maybe small thing.”

Nessilka tossed another potato on the pile.

“I think things will change,” said Sings. “It’s a good story. People latch onto stories.” He frowned into the soup he was making. “We’ve got to do something, anyway—can you imagine putting that poor soul in the army?”

Finchbones and Nessilka exchanged glances.

Best place for him, really, Nessilka thought, if your description’s right. He needed structure and someone to tell him what to do. Pity they didn’t get his sister, too, or those people might still be alive.

But you couldn’t say that sort of thing to Sings-to-Trees. There was something very…civilian…about Sings. Nessilka concentrated on her potatoes.

From what they’d been able to piece together—from the old man, and from what Sings had learned from the wizard in the few hours they’d spent together—a picture had emerged. John and Lisabet had indeed been orphans in the village of Elliot’s Cross, until the army had come to recruit John.

Contrary to Lisabet’s complaints, he had gone willingly.

Not like you could draft someone who can simply walk out through a hole in the air…

Lisabet’s talent had been judged both too weak to recruit—which meant that either someone had been incredibly short-sighted, or she had been too cunning to let anyone know the extent of her abilities, or her powers had increased dramatically. There were all kinds of reasons that could happen, from puberty to stress, and there was just no telling.

Frankly, they might have thought that dragging everybody toward you, friend or foe, was more trouble than it was worth…

Now they were on shakier ground, conjecture-wise, but apparently Lisabet had not taken kindly to the people who were taking care of her, and refused to believe that her brother would go off without her. She had presumably decided that the problem was the village, and if everybody in the village was gone, they would have to bring John back to take care of her.

It was the sort of plan a child would come up with—simple, self-centered, and utterly heartless.

And there were over forty dead humans and a great many dead animals as a result.

Nessilka pitched another potato in the pile.

The rest, of course, was fate. When the Nineteenth had charged the wizard, he had panicked and tried to run. Possibly if they hadn’t all piled through, he might had made it back to Elliot’s Cross, but the shock had been too much and dropped them only partway to the goal.

We’re probably all lucky we didn’t just vanish in some weird blue space between worlds.

Finchbones was livid knowing that there was a psychotic wizard on the loose, but they had no leads at all for where the pair might have gone. Nessilka was of the opinion that they had gone very far away indeed. Something about the view through the hole had seemed…remote. Hopefully John could control his sister. Despite having faced him over a battlefield, Nessilka wished him well.

Someone yanked the door open, and eight goblins piled into Sings-to-Trees’ kitchen. Two elves followed, slightly more decorously…or as decorous as anyone can look with an armful of zucchini.

“Sarge!”

“Sarge!”

“Sarge, the bear says—”

“Sarge, I get to take Wiggles back to Goblinhome, right?”

“I’ve been checking our maps, Sarge, against the elven ones, and our route takes us past a couple of human villages—”

“Sarge, Mishkin hit me!”

“Mushkin hit me first, Sarge!”

“I can’t leave Wiggles, Sarge! He’ll pine!”

“—and I was hoping we might be able to purchase a couple of lenses for the looky-tube thing—”

“He took my zucchini!”

“It was my zucchini first!”

Nessilka put her hand over her eyes. Finchbones grinned down at the potatoes. Weasel hooked her finger into the raccoon’s cage and stroked the top of its head.

She dealt with things in order of importance. “Wiggles goes with us. No kitten left behind. Murray, we’ll see how it goes. Blanchett, have the bear prepare a full report after dinner. Mishkin, Mushkin, I don’t care who started it, it’s my zucchini now, and you will both be washing dishes after dinner!”