“And what on earth is the Lover’s Maxim?” asked Max, feeling very uninformed.
The smee cleared his throat. “If you can’t be handsome, be rich. If you can’t be rich, be strong. If you can’t be strong, be witty.”
“But what if you can’t be witty?” Max wondered.
“Learn the guitar.”
David snorted with laughter, but Max did not. He considered these words and the unexpectedly sage marmot sitting beside him, casually grooming his coat.
“I suppose you’ve had a slew of relationships,” Max ventured.
“Indeed,” purred Toby with dreamy nostalgia. “Some lasted years; others were no more than a delightful afternoon. But all were torrid, mind you. The blood of a smee runs hot!”
“Okaaay,” said Max weakly, regretting this last inquiry. He returned to his own wagon before the creature delved into details; the very idea of a lothario smee was quite enough after such a harrowing night. Skeedle had finished tending after the mules and was squinting up at the pale blue sky.
“Fair weather,” he remarked. “Or fair enough. How’d the wagon handle?”
“Super,” Max deadpanned, squeezing back in next to Kolbyt who was now draped across the seat and snoring to wake the dead. “How much longer do you think he’ll sleep?”
“Hopefully till we’re on the Ravenswood Spur,” said Skeedle. “By then, he’ll have to give in and go all the way to Piter’s Folly. If he starts belly growling and gnawing on his lip, it means he’s getting hungry. If that happens, just stuff some of this faun tripe into his mouth so he doesn’t wake up.”
“It just gets better,” sighed Max, frowning at the dented tins Skeedle dropped onto the seat.
They drove on for the better part of two days, crossing a broad expanse of foothills and valleys. Whenever Skeedle grew too tired, they pulled the wagons over and secured the mules while David or Toby kept watch from inside via an ingenious device the Broadbrims installed in their best wagons. From the outside, what appeared to be nothing more than a small skylight was actually a sort of periscope whose system of mirrors granted those within an excellent view of their surroundings. With its surveillance, armored plating, and a plethora of hidden murder holes, the wagons were like miniature fortresses rolling their way over hills and hollows.
Thus far, however, they’d had little need of defenses. But for the occasional sight of a distant castle or lonely farmstead, the land was largely uninhabited. The endless road and Kolbyt’s continued slumber provided Max with plenty of time to think. Whenever his seatmate stirred, Max merely opened one of the tins and held his nose while dangling the bulbous strip of pungent tripe above the goblin’s sharp, serrated maw. Like a shark preparing to take bait, the goblin’s jaws distended. With a sudden snap, the creature would snatch the flesh away and mince it about from cheek to cheek. Within seconds of gulping it down, the snoring resumed.
As the mules swallowed up the miles, Max found time to reflect upon Toby’s jibes. Perhaps he had treated Julie poorly. He’d always thought of themselves as victims of circumstance, star-crossed lovers. After all, Mr. Sikes had meddled with their relationship, and his Red Branch duties often required Max to travel far away on long and dangerous missions. He had given up trying to live the life of a typical Rowan student, but perhaps he bore more responsibility for the relationship’s failure. Perhaps he could have been more considerate of Julie’s feelings. Max suspected this was true. But he also had to be honest with himself. When death was near in Prusias’s Arena, his heart had made things abundantly clear. The person he’d longed for, the face that flashed before his dimming eyes had not been Julie’s.…
The wagon gave a sudden jolt and nearly tipped forward as one of the mules stumbled into a ditch. Max pitched off the seat and clung to the rail as empty tins rattled about his head or clattered overboard to go bouncing down the road. Braying irritably, the mule regained its footing and the wagon righted itself. Cursing, Max climbed back into his seat and looked about for the reins.
He found them clutched in the hands of a confused and very angry goblin.
~ 7 ~
Piter's Folly
Cursing, the goblin set to kicking at Max with an iron-soled shoe.
“Skeedle!” Max yelled, absorbing a heavy blow as he scrambled over the driver’s railing. The other wagon continued on, oblivious, as Kolbyt lashed out with a whip that nicked Max’s ear.
“Skeedle!” he cried again, crabbing sideways on the wagon, clinging to walls, until he could swing himself up onto its roof. Startled by the commotion, the mules snorted and trotted faster. Wheels skipped and bounced over the rough road as the wagon closed the distance on the one ahead. When they clattered past Skeedle, the little goblin offered a cheerful wave.
Upon seeing his cousin, Kolbyt tugged furiously on the reins. The wagon lurched wildly, nearly flinging Max from the roof, as the mules stumbled and slowed and finally came to a panting halt. Leaping down, Kolbyt lumbered toward the other wagon.
Skeedle met him in the middle, the two goblins smacking into one another’s stomachs. The impact was such that each staggered back. Resuming the struggle, they bellowed furiously at one another in a flurry of harsh, unintelligible words while each clutched his absurd hat and sought to force the other backward with his belly.
The showdown lasted nearly fifteen minutes. By then, Max had climbed down off the wagon’s roof and joined David and Toby to await the outcome. Max was amazed that Skeedle could hold his own. The little goblin was half his cousin’s size, a mere peanut colliding with a pear. But he was a stubborn peanut and not in the least cowed by his more massive relation.
Occasionally, one of the goblins would jab a stubby finger at their passengers and renew their bellowing, but soon they grew too exhausted for even these demonstrations. The only word Max understood was Yuga, for the older goblin uttered it several times. At times, it appeared that Kolbyt’s saggy bulk would win the day, but Skeedle held firm until the larger goblin tired. The final minutes were little more than the two combatants propping each other up, clutching their brims, and growling.
At last Kolbyt broke away, glowering and wiping his nostrils with a brawny forearm. Muttering something to his cousin, he shook his head disapprovingly and turned to gaze down the road.
“Well,” said Skeedle, coming over and catching his breath, “everything’s all worked out. He’s really a softy at heart and I’ve always been his favorite relative.”
“So he’ll take us to Piter’s Folly?” said David.
“Oh no,” Skeedle chuckled. “He says it’s much too dangerous—not worth anywhere near what I’ll be paying him. But he’ll tell you what he knows about the Great Piter Lady and we’ll drive you close and leave you with one of the wagons. From there you’re on your own.”
“That’s fine,” said Max. “Can I ask you what it’s going to cost you, though? I hope it’s not too much.”
“My trade wagon for one year,” replied Skeedle, readjusting his hat. “A deep bite given wartime profits, but I’ll manage.”
“We’ll see what we can do to compensate you,” Max promised. He knew the journey was already dangerous and didn’t want to bankrupt the little goblin in the bargain.
But Skeedle waved him off. Grinning, the goblin lowered his voice. “Plümpka’s already promised me three more wagons and choicer routes because of the troll. What Kolbyt doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He can have my old wagon; the latest models are equipped with fire spouts!”
Skeedle tittered at the mere thought of his potential wealth. Having checked on the mules, Kolbyt lumbered over. Pointing at the smee, the goblin hooked a thumb and indicated that Toby was to ride with him.