The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(66)

Nightshade was perched behind her, her sharp eyes noting everything. Noting how the Pigeon family had only the smallest plot of land, with soil so poor it was a wonder they got a crop out of it at all, their fortunes depending mostly on the little flock of sheep they had in their field by the stream.

Sid Pigeon, the youngest son, was there, looking much smaller somehow without his shiny railway uniform. To Tiffany’s surprise, he had brought a new work friend home with him.

Nightshade recoiled. ‘A goblin! In their house. Stinking . . .’ she said with distaste.

Tiffany felt like kicking her. ‘A very respectable goblin,’ she said smartly, though it was true that she could smell the goblin as soon as she went into the house, even over the layers of other smells happily living in that very dirty home. She nodded to the goblin, who was sitting with his feet up on the table, eating what looked like a chicken leg that others – possibly the cats – had had a go at before him. ‘Sid’s friend.’

‘Of Piston the Steam, mistresss,’ the goblin said cheerfully. ‘Works with the iron and steel, I doess—’

‘Tiffany,’ Sid said urgently, ‘have you come to see Granny? She’s in bed upstairs.’

Old Mrs Pigeon was indeed in her bed, and it didn’t look to Tiffany as if she was likely to be getting out of it ever again. The old lady was little more than a wrinkled set of bones, her twiglike fingers clutching at the edges of a faded patchwork quilt. Tiffany reached out and held one of her hands and . . . did what she could for the old lady, calling the pain out of the shrunken body—

And all hell broke loose downstairs.

‘Sid! Them pesky fairies or whatever – they’ve only gone and fouled the stream. It’s all yeller! And there’s dead fish floatin’ in it! We’ve got to move the sheep – now!’ Mr Pigeon sounded desperate as he called to his son.

As a thunder of boots left the house, Tiffany held her concentration, drew more pain from old Mrs Pigeon. And then Nightshade was at her side.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That . . . goblin went with the humans.’

‘It’s called helping,’ Tiffany said smartly, still trying to hold on to the pain she had taken from old Mrs Pigeon. ‘Remember?’

‘But goblins and humans don’t like each other,’ Nightshade continued, puzzled.

‘I told you, Of Piston the Steam is Sid’s friend. But this isn’t about liking,’ Tiffany said. ‘It’s about helping each other out. If the goblin camp was on fire or something, the humans would help them.’ She looked down at Mrs Pigeon; the old lady was falling into a sleep now. ‘Look, I need to go outside for a minute,’ she said. ‘Stay with Mrs Pigeon, would you? Let me know if she wakes again.’

Nightshade was horrified. ‘But I can’t – I’m an elf! I’ve already carried that basket. I can’t . . . help another human.’

‘Why not?’ said Tiffany sharply. ‘Of Piston the Steam just did. Are elves less than goblins?’ But she had no time to waste, so she headed downstairs and threw the pain out into a pile of stones laid ready for building into a wall.

It made a rather unfortunate loud bang – there had been quite a lot of pain – which is probably why, when she got back upstairs, Mrs Pigeon had woken up. Woken up and asked for a cup of water.

The old granny was staring up at Nightshade, a smile on her gummy face as she reached out for the cup. ‘You’re a good girl, you are,’ she was saying weakly. ‘A good girl . . .’

A good girl? A good elf?

Nightshade put her hands to her stomach. ‘I think it is beginning . . .’ she said softly, looking up at Tiffany. ‘I feel a sort of warm spot. Here, in my stomach. A little glow.’

Tiffany smiled, laid a gentling hand on Mrs Pigeon, and then took Nightshade by the arm. ‘I need your help,’ she said. ‘Elves have put this glamour on the stream and it runs past several farms . . . can you put it right?’ She paused. ‘As your friend, Nightshade, I am asking for your help. The Feegles can help with the sheep, but to remove the glamour? This is something only one of your kind can do.’

Nightshade stood up. ‘A glamour from Peaseblossom?’ she said. ‘This will be no trouble to remove. That elf is weak. And yes, I will help you, Tiffany. You are my . . . friend.’ The word sounded odd in her voice, but there was no doubt that she meant it.

So she went down into the fields with Tiffany, past the skittish sheep in the yard – some of whom, courtesy of the ever-present Feegles, had just broken the county record for stream-to-yard time, one young lamb actually doing so on one leg – and down to the boiling water.

Where she did indeed put it right.

And the tiny little glow inside began to smoulder . . .

The old barn behind Mr Sideways’s shed was full of miscellaneous weaponry, souvenirs from many conflicts, lovingly oiled and meticulously labelled.

‘I’ve been collecting them,’ Mr Sideways said proudly. ‘Every campaign I bin in and more besides. You should always keep your weapons handy. I mean, I don’t say anything bad about the trolls and the dwarfs, but we fought them more’n once and so I say, you always have to make sure. Somebody says something and before you know it, we’re knee-deep in dwarfs. They give you the up and under. You can’t trust ’em with the up and under.’