The lane ended in an impeccably manicured lawn that sloped deeply down to the lake and a small boathouse. Several groundskeepers were already at work, picking up broken branches and twigs and retying oilcloth covers that protected the rosebushes. They glanced up at the visitors with only mild interest. Apparently goblin caravans were nothing new.
It was almost a minute before Max observed the heads.
There were seven of them in total, each spitted on tall poles placed throughout the gardens. They were in various states of decomposition, some little more than skulls while others were jarringly fresh. Four of the heads had belonged to goblins, two were human, and the last possessed the feral, wolfish face of a vye. When Toby finally noticed them, he nearly fainted.
“Here’s your wine,” said a voice behind them.
The three turned to see the girl bearing a silver tray with three goblets of red wine. Setting it on a small table near the roses, she whispered something to the nearest gardener before turning to stare at them.
“My mother’s secretary will be out shortly,” she announced. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
And with a strange little smile, she hurried back to the house, skipping over the shallow steps of the back patio to slip inside the door.
“Something isn’t right,” hissed Toby. “They know something. We should go!”
“Try to relax,” whispered David. “Let’s drink the wine and wait for our hosts.”
“D-didn’t you see the heads?” stammered the smee.
“Of course I did,” replied David evenly. “Take a deep breath. You’re going to be perfect. You know what to say?”
Nodding weakly, Toby climbed down from the wagon. Taking seats around the table, the trio sipped the strong red wine while the wind blew wisps of cool mist off the lake. They sat in silence, each watching the house and trying to ignore the seven grisly shadows on the lawn.
Almost an hour had passed when the back door opened. A young man emerged, fine-featured with a slight build and black hair that was combed back from a widow’s peak. He wore an embroidered waistcoat over a black shirt and plum-colored pants that were tucked into Hessian boots. His smile was prim, his manner formal as he came to a halt before them.
“I am Dmitri,” he said. “Madam Petra’s secretary. And who are you?”
Toby stood and bowed. “Kolbyt of the Broadbrim clan,” he announced. “I have traded with Madam Petra before.”
“Yes,” mused the man, plucking at his goatee. “I seem to recall your face … and who are the others? We do not like strangers unless they bring us very pretty things.”
“My kinsman Skeedle and our servant, Hrunta,” replied the smee, gesturing at each in turn. “We have brought oil and iron, coffee and sugar to please the Great Piter Lady and beg an audience to discuss a proposal.”
“What is your proposal?” inquired the secretary pointedly. “You may tell it to me and I will relay it to Madam Petra. She is very busy.”
“I am sorry,” said Toby, shrugging. “But my news is for Madam Petra’s ears alone—the great Plümpka would have my skin if we should tell anyone else.”
This did not please the secretary. His eyes grew hard. “Plümpka might take your skin, but Madam Petra will have your head should you waste her time. Look about you, goblin. Better that you tell me your proposal and let me decide whether it is worth intruding upon my lady.”
“Kolbyt must humbly refuse,” said Toby, bowing low and offering the man a handful of silver.
“How crude,” the secretary muttered, pocketing the coins nonetheless. “And why did Plümpka not come? If the proposal is so valuable, surely the chief of the Broadbrims would make the journey himself.”
“He is unwell,” explained the smee, bowing another apology. “And the Ravenswood Spur has grown very dangerous. A mighty battle was fought not two days’ journey from here.”
“Yes,” mused Dmitri, frowning. “Lord Kargen’s lands. He shall host no more parties, I hear. A pity, but so be it. You may see many more battles ere long. King Aamon’s armies are swift.” The man squinted past them at the broad lake where the sun was peeking through the haze. “Very well, you and I will continue our conversation inside. Your companions must wait here. I make no promises, but if you are who you say you are, I may be able to secure a brief audience.” Gesturing for Toby to follow, the secretary flicked a parting glance at Max and David. “If we do not return within the hour, your friend will not be coming.”
The smee’s shoulders drooped as though he were marching to his own funeral. Clearing his throat, he ordered his companions to wait for him before following the secretary up to Madam Petra’s house.
Max squirmed as he watched them go. There was something profoundly unsettling about this immaculate house with its pristine grounds and quiet, watchful servants. It set him on edge more than any of the black markets and seedy dens he’d visited in Zenuvia. Plodding behind the secretary, Toby looked so alone and helpless. Max prayed that he remembered everything Kolbyt had told him; he also prayed the brutish goblin had not played them false.
As Toby disappeared into the house, the groundskeepers set down their tools. They walked single file up the garden path, a silent procession that slipped inside after the secretary. When the last had entered, the door was closed and locked.
~ 8 ~
Madam Petra and the Pinlegs
As the minutes ticked past, Max and David sat outside while the smee tried to bluff their way in to see the smuggler. The waiting was intolerable. Every so often, Max shifted uneasily in his chair and searched the many windows for any signs of activity within the huge yellow house. There were none—only the mocking reflections of the gray lake and the sun rising behind them.
“How long has he been in there?” Max muttered to David, mindful that they were undoubtedly being watched. It seemed ages since Toby had gone inside.
“Thirty minutes,” David whispered, sipping his wine. “Try to relax—Toby’s a professional.”
“In ten minutes, I’m going in.”
“You’ll spoil all our plans.”
“I’m not going to sit by while—”
Max broke off as the back door opened and several gardeners filed out. He craned his neck for a glimpse of Toby and exhaled as the smee emerged, a noticeable bounce to his step as he walked to the wagon with Dmitri and a pair of workers. After instructing them on which cargo to unload, Toby called out to his companions.
“Skeedle. Hrunta. Come. The Great Piter Lady has agreed to hear us.”
Although the secretary was smiling, the man’s eyes were spiteful. Max guessed that he either opposed his lady’s decision or had hoped to wring further bribes before their interview. He did not return their hasty bows as they stepped across the threshold and entered the smuggler’s house.
They followed the man through several exquisite rooms. Nightingales chirped from within gilded cages and flowers abounded: purple orchids, stargazer lilies, brilliant red tulips, and others so exotic and lush that they suggested an underlying magic or technology at work. After weeks of travel in the gray and wintry wild, the house’s color and warmth were almost disorienting.
They found the daughter back at work on her still life, loading her brush with paint as she studied the arrangement.
Dmitri cleared his throat. “Katarina, your mother would like you to sit in on the meeting.”
“I’m busy.”
“She insists,” said Dmitri, beckoning.
“Isn’t that your job?”
A vein throbbed in the man’s temple. “Your mother no doubt intends that you should someday replace me,” he said with a tight smile. “For the young lady to do so, she must learn the family business.”
“Very well,” the girl sighed, wiping her brush on a rag and plunking it into a jar of turpentine. Glaring at the goblins, she swept past them and ran up a grand staircase.