The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(26)

“You know we’re with you, too, sir,” I said. Charlie nodded.

“It’s only recently I’ve been able to go out into the world again,” said Jenny. “I’m certainly not letting somebody go destroying that world before I’ve had a chance to enjoy it.”

“What about you?” Jackaby turned to Nudd.

“My horde’s got one foot in this world, t’other foot in th’ Annwyn. Bin feelin’ th’ tremors shakin’ both sides fer a long time noo.”

“But your horde is seeded hundreds of miles away. Spade wasn’t about to find you any time soon, and even if he had, as you say, you’ve got one foot in the Annwyn. You could always escape to the other side long before he posed any threat. Even if the worst came to pass, even if the earth and the Annwyn tore each other apart—you owe no allegiance to either faction. You could stand to the side until the dust cleared. So why seek me out? There’s no profit in joining the fray.”

“Nae. An’ it wouldn’ae be our firs’ time pickin’ o’er the dead after a battle. I’ll take no shame in it iffin’ it comes tae tha’, neither, but there’s profit in protectin’ an investment. We’s invested.”

Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “Invested in New Fiddleham? Brigand or not, you sound almost sentimental.”

Nudd gave a barking laugh. “Gotta lotta contacts in this city, t’ be sure—but it’s nae New Fiddleham we’s invested in.”

Jackaby looked confused.

“I believe he means you, sir,” I said. “Everyone in this room is invested in you.”

Jackaby looked deeply uncomfortable as the room quieted, heads nodding in agreement.

“Even him?” Hudson broke the hush. He pointed up to the shelf behind Jackaby. A man not more than six inches tall, his body covered in dust brown, woolly fur, sat at the top, dangling his feet casually off the shelf. He looked a bit like a mild-mannered chipmunk and an accountant fused into a single body. His face was round and rosy, bordered by downy tufts of hair around his ears and a stubbly beard that circled his chin.

“Ah,” said Jackaby. “That little fellow is an . . . actually, I don’t know.” He turned his head this way and that. “I don’t know you,” he told the creature.

“Humans don’t,” it said. Its voice was small and unassuming.

“No, I mean, I don’t believe I’ve even read about you, which is—I must say—rather uncommon. You have an exceptional aura, though, has anyone ever told you? Unrestrainedly brilliant. A rather zoetic bluish-red. But not really red, though, is it? Nor blue. What are you?”

“Half of what I once was,” said the creature humbly. “More than you will ever be,” it added quietly.

“Ach, watch yerself. ’Tis a twain,” Nudd interjected. “Powerful strong magic, th’ twain, but beholden tae none but they’s own. Unseelie as they come.”

“It’s an Unseelie fairy?” I said, taking an involuntary step backward—directly into Hudson. He steadied me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Unseelie. Seelie. Old words,” said the twain, softly. “They don’t mean as much as they once did. War changes things.”

“Some things don’t change,” said Jackaby. “And this isn’t a war! Not yet. Not if we can help it.”

“You’re hesitant,” said the twain. “Good. But this war began a long time ago. You have already seen new casualties, housed the refugees, met the generals on the front lines.”

Jackaby’s brow knit. His hands were clenched at his sides.

“I’m curious,” the twain replied. “When you finally decide to join the fight, will you know what you are fighting for? Choose carefully. The spear grips the hand, as the saying goes. How will you plan mankind’s victory against the otherworld when you’re asking for advice from the undead and goblins?”

“Oi!” Nudd cut in. “’Tis nae goblins tha’ drove all these twallies outta their holes an’ inta this’n. It’s humans ye need tae watch out for. Goblins ye can trust.”

“With all things save one’s coin purse,” the twain said, evenly.

“Oi! Mind yer gob. Goblins pay their debts. We’re nae the cheats, here. Humanfolk, now there’s a den o’ snakes.”

“Izzat so?” Hudson raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Aye. My horde built a tower once. Human with big fat pockets wants a tower right in the center of New Fiddleham, right? Wants it a hundred stories tall from ground tae gables—a hundred human stories, mind ya, nae goblin stories. Tha’s twice as big! But we built it, all the same. Done! Greasy munter refused to pay!”

“You built a tower in the middle of New Fiddleham?” Hudson asked. “A hundred stories high?”

“Oh, aye. Fine bit o’ craftsmanship, too.”

“I been to every corner of New Fiddleham,” said Hudson. “There ain’t no hundred-story towers around here.”

“Ach, ya daft humanfolk na’er use yer nappers. Got ta think like a goblin. Couldn’ae build a tower what rose up into th’ sky in th’ middle o’ a big city wi’out raising all kind o’ unwanted attention—so we just flipped th’ plans. Goblins is clever folk. Ground is still ground, gables is still gables, we just built th’ thing down instead o’ up.”