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  Goblin Secrets

  ( Zombay - 1 )

  William Alexander

  Rownie is the youngest in a hodgepodge household of stray children collected by Graba the witch. His older brother, Rowan, has vanished after performing in a secret play, and Rownie feels lost without him. Acting is illegal in the city of Zombay. No one may wear a mask and pretend to be someone else. Only goblins may legally perform, for they are the Changed—neither human nor other, belonging nowhere.

  Rownie meets a traveling troupe of goblins who promise to teach him the secrets of mask-craft and entice him with the hope of finding Rowan. But Graba does not give up her own easily and hunts for them both. As Rownie searches for his brother, the true power of the masks--and those who wear them—is revealed. Are the goblins what they seem to be? What fateful magic lies hidden in the heart of Zombay?

  Mystery and adventure are woven through with charm and humor in this beguiling exploration of family, love, identity, and the power of words to shape what is real.

  Goblin Secrets

  by William Alexander

  for Liam

  ACT I

  Scene I

  ROWNIE WOKE WHEN GRABA knocked on the ceiling from the other side. Plaster dust drifted down from the knocking. Graba knocked again. Baskets hung on chains from the rafters, and they shook when she knocked.

  Rownie sat up and tried to blink sleep-sand and plaster dust from one eye. The whole floor was covered by a bed made up of straw, stolen clothes sewn into blankets, and sleeping siblings. Two of his brothers crawled up out of the straw, Blotches and Stubble. Blotches had orange hair, orange freckles, and orange teeth. Stubble was the oldest and the tallest, and he liked to say that he had a beard. He didn’t. He had stray hairs on the tip of his chin and on his cheeks near his ears.

  Their sister Vass came in from the girls’ room, which was really the same room with a blanket hung across the middle. Vass had been her name before she came to live with Graba. Sometimes Graba’s grandchildren kept the names they had before. Sometimes they made up names for themselves. Blotches and Stubble had made up their own names.

  “Hurry,” Vass snapped.

  Rownie got to his feet, combed the straw out of his hair with his fingers, and stumbled away from the middle of the room. He stood with Vass and Blotches while Stubble pulled the rope that lowered the stairway down from the ceiling. The musty smell of Graba’s loft came down with it.

  Vass went upstairs. The others followed her. Rownie came last.

  There were birds everywhere in Graba’s loft. Most were pigeons, gray and mangy. Some were chickens. A few larger, stranger birds perched in dark corners, watchful.

  Graba perched on a stool near the iron stove, her legs hidden underneath the bulk of her gray skirts.

  “Four grandchildren,” she said. “Today I have four of you. Enough for what I have in mind now.”

  The word “grandmother” did not mean “mother’s mother” or “father’s mother” to Rownie, or to the various other children who sometimes lived in Graba’s shack. Neither mothers nor fathers were part of this household, and the word “grandmother” simply meant “Graba.”

  The four children lined up in front of the stool, waiting. Two chickens pecked at the floorboards nearby, looking for seeds.

  “I’ll need eggs carried to Haggot’s market stall,” said Graba. She pointed to Stubble and Blotches, but she did not say their names. She probably did not know their names. “He’ll be at the Northside market today. Trade the eggs for feed-grain, the best chicken feed you can find. Bring it back to me. Will you do that, now?”

  “Yes, Graba.” Stubble picked up a wooden crate filled with straw and eggs. All four siblings turned to go.

  “Don’t be going yet,” Graba said. She took a small leather bag from around her neck and held it out to Vass. “Hang this over the chains on the Clock Tower door. Sing the charm I was teaching you last night, and stand back when you do. Take care with this, now. It is a present of welcoming home, and it’s almost ripe.”

  Vass took the bag carefully. “What’s in it?” she asked.

  “A bird skull, stuffed with other things. Do this well, and I might be teaching you the making of it.”

  “Yes, Graba,” said Vass.

  “Go,” Graba said. “All of you but the runt, the smallest one. Rownie should wait here with me.”

  Rownie waited. He wondered why Graba knew his name. She knew the names of those she kept an eye on, and it was not always a good thing to have Graba’s eye on you.

  He listened to Vass, Stubble, and Blotches clamber down the stairs.

  “Yes, Graba?” Rownie asked.

  “My leg bones have run down,” she told him. “Wind them for me now.” She extended a gearwork leg from under her stool. It was bird-shaped, with three long talon-toes in front and one in back, at the heel. The whole limb had been made out of copper and wood.

  Rownie pried the crank out from her shin and wound it up, watching gears turn against chains and springs inside.

  Graba always said that Mr. Scrud, the local gearworker, hadn’t enough skill to make legs into human shapes. Vass whispered that Graba needed the chicken legs to hold up her hugeness, that nothing smaller would suffice, and that Graba wouldn’t be able to walk today if she hadn’t lost the ordinary legs she’d been born with.

  Stubble said that Graba used to be a sailor, or a boat-witch, and that she’d lost her legs in a pirate attack. He said Graba killed some of the pirates with a look and a laugh and a lock of her hair before they cut off her legs with rusty swords. He always drew out the word “rusty” when he told the story. “Rrrrrrrrusty swords. Ha!” Then he’d hit Rownie behind the knee with a stick to buckle him over.

  Stubble told this story often. Rownie had cried the first time, and the rest of Graba’s grandchildren had laughed. On the second telling Rownie had glared up at Stubble from the ground. The third time Stubble told the tale Rownie had fallen backward on purpose, throwing up his hands and imitating Graba’s rusty voice. “Curse you, Pirate King!” (The story had grown by then, and the ordinary river pirates had become a full barge captained by the King of All Pirates.)

  Everybody had laughed. Stubble had helped him up, and after that he didn’t hit Rownie so hard while telling the pirate story, because Rownie couldn’t say his line if he was gasping in pain and holding his leg. It still hurt, but not as much.

  Now the story was almost a play. This was dangerous. Performances were outlawed in Zombay.

  Rownie finished turning the left crank as far as it would go and folded it into the shin. Graba pulled back her left leg and then extended her right. Rownie pried out the crank and turned it once. The joint gave a loud, shrill creaking. Graba waved her hands and scowled.

  “Needs oil,” she said. She reached up into the rafters and into one of the nests. She plucked out a small brown egg and popped it into her mouth. It crunched. “I haven’t any gear oil left,” she said around the cracking eggshell. “Get to Scrud’s shop for a small flask, now. I’ve overpaid him for leg repair, and he owes me for it. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

  “Yes, Graba,” Rownie said. He folded back the crank, dodged around a chicken, and ran down the stairs.

  He grabbed his coat, even though it was a little too warm outside for coats, and tried to leave through the door. The door wouldn’t budge. Rownie remembered that it couldn’t budge. Graba moved her house around sometimes. She would send everyone out, lift up the shack, and go somewhere else. Then she would let everyone back in after they found her, if they ever did find her. The last time Graba moved her house, she set the front door against a neighboring wall. “Just use a window,” she had said when Vass complained. “I like my view better this way.�
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  Rownie climbed through the window and dropped down to the street.

  Scene II

  THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE CITY was dusty. Rownie tried not to step in any of the dust piles that littered the street. Every morning sweepers swept their houses, and they left large, brown piles outside their doorsteps. Every day the dust came slowly back inside and covered the floors. There was a kind of fish that swam in Southside dust, and a kind of bird that fished with their long beaks in the dust dunes. The lives of sweepers became interesting during dustfish spawning season.

  Rownie pulled on his coat, which was very much too big for him. It was dust colored, or else so covered with dust that the coat couldn’t remember any other color. He wished that Graba had sent him to the market with the others rather than to Mr. Scrud’s gear shop. He was hungry. Graba never fed her household, but she usually sent them on food-errands. The others would buy bread and pastries for themselves, as well as the chicken feed, and eat on their way home. They probably wouldn’t save him any, and Rownie couldn’t sip gear oil on his own way home. This errand wouldn’t feed him.

  He kicked over a dust pile beside the rusting gate to the old rail station, and then coughed and wished he hadn’t.

  The street Rownie picked his way down did not run in a straight line. He walked underneath houses built on top of each other, with newer rooms and houses added on stilts or jutting out sideways and held in place by thick lengths of chain. Tin roofs, thatched roofs, and wooden shingles leaned over his head, almost touching across the width of the road.

  Rownie was not very tall, but others on the street made way for him. People always made way for those who were Graba’s.

  He came to the Fiddleway Bridge.

  Two fiddlers stood at either side of the entrance. They played dueling tunes at each other. Hats rested on the stones in front of them, and both hats were half full of coins.

  Rownie scooped up a pebble from the ground, just like he always did when he crossed the Fiddleway. This one was gray, with an orange line running through the middle of it. He carried it with him through the entranceway, through the crossfire of dueling music, and onto the bridge.

  The Fiddleway was wide, and long enough to disappear into the fog of a foggy day. The central avenue had been cobbled together several times out of old stone and new ironworks. Small shops and apartments stood on both sides, separated by alleyways that looked out over the expanse of the Zombay River.

  Rownie passed musicians of several sorts, and empty hats reserving spots for musicians who were not yet there. He passed piles of horse dung and cow dung and other kinds of dung that he wasn’t sure about, but the smell wasn’t so bad as on the Southside roads. River winds kept the air clean on the bridge. He made sure his coat didn’t drag in any of the dung piles.

  Several members of the Guard came marching toward Rownie, with their Captain in the lead. Rownie could tell that the Guard Captain had decided not to notice him, but he waited longer than he should have before moving aside. He knew they couldn’t detain him here on the Fiddleway. The bridge was a sanctuary. No one ever got arrested while still on the bridge. Rownie figured that most of the houses here had been built by smugglers and other sorts of people who couldn’t set foot in the city, on either side.

  The Guard Captain tried to glare at Rownie and ignore him at the same time. He had an impressive glare. Every member of the Guard had gearworked legs, and some of them also had gearworked arms, but only the Captain had eyes made of tiny glass gears with dark stained-glass irises. Each iris was gear-shaped. They rotated slowly within the workings of his eyes.

  Boots struck the bridge at perfectly regular intervals as they marched. The Guard always marched. The way their legs were made, they had no other option but to march.

  “May your feet fall off,” Rownie whispered to the backs of them, once they had all passed. “May your breath smell like pigeon feathers.” He tried to chant the words, to make them into a proper curse, to make them stick. He wished he knew how to curse better. Graba knew excellent curses, of course, but she only shared their secrets with Vass.

  In the very center of the bridge stood the Clock Tower of Zombay. A stained-glass sun climbed up the stained-glass sky of the clock face, high above the etched glass horizon of the cityscape. The face glinted, bright with reflected sunlight. When the real sun set overhead, the glass sun in the clock would set behind the glass horizon. Then, at nightfall, lanterns would light up behind the clock face and the miniature glass moon as it ticked its way across the sky.

  The whole of Zombay was very proud of its clock, though the tower was said to be haunted by clockmaker ghosts. The big front doors were latched, locked, and chained shut. No one ever went inside.

  Vass stood by the tower doors with her back to the road, chanting over Graba’s charm bag. Rownie did not interrupt her, though he did wonder why Graba would want to tie a gift of welcoming home to the Clock Tower. No one lived in the Clock Tower.

  He continued on his way, looking for one particular stretch of low stone wall, and there he found Stubble and Blotches. They had the crate of eggs with them. They were sitting exactly where Rownie always threw pebbles over the wall’s side. Rownie didn’t want them to be there, but there they were.

  They saw him. Blotches took an egg from the crate and offered it to him. Rownie reached for it, because he was hungry, even though he knew that Blotches never gave anybody anything.

  Blotches snatched the egg back and tossed it into the River.

  Rownie cried out.

  Stubble smacked Blotches on the top of his head. “Don’t waste food,” he said. “Not ever.” He looked over at Rownie. Rownie hoped that he’d offer another egg, but he didn’t. “Did you wind up her ankle?” Stubble asked. Rownie started to answer, but Blotches talked right over him. Blotches had large ears, round and ruddy, but he never used them for much.

  “You missed the goblins,” Blotches said.

  “What goblins?” Rownie asked.

  “They came by in a tinker’s-wagon,” said Stubble.

  “One of them had long, metal teeth, sticking out all over,” said Blotches.

  “Did not,” said Stubble.

  “Did so. I threw an egg at that one.”

  “She caught the egg and threw it back at you. And those weren’t metal teeth. Those were nails. She used one to hang up a sign.”

  “Did not.”

  “She did. She was just holding the nails in her mouth to keep both hands free.”

  “Maybe they use metal teeth for nails,” said Blotches. “Maybe they grow them back as fast as they can pluck them out.”

  “You’re a kack,” said Stubble.

  “What did the sign say?” Rownie asked, but they ignored him. They probably didn’t know.

  “Vass should be done with the door by now,” Stubble said, changing the subject, but Rownie didn’t want to change the subject.

  “I didn’t know goblins could come out in daylight,” Rownie said.

  “They have to keep moving if they do,” said Blotches. “Goblins never have a home, any of them. That’s why they live in wagons. The sun finds them out and burns up any building they stay in for longer than a day and a night. That’s why they’re never goldsmiths, too, because it’s sun-metal. They’re only tinsmiths. And iron burns them.”

  “Liar,” said Stubble. “They don’t work with iron because it’s too hard and heavy. Tin’s easier.”

  “And they’re thieves,” said Blotches, as though the other one had just agreed with him.

  “Obviously,” said Stubble.

  “What do they steal?” Rownie asked.

  “Everything,” said Blotches.

  “The smallest child in every family,” added Stubble. “That’s why Graba only sends the oldest of us with tin pots for mending. No one ever sends a small child to the wagons unless they don’t mean for them to come back.” He snickered, three quick snorts of laughter forced out of his nose instead of his mouth.

  “Liar
,” Rownie said.

  “It’s true,” said Blotches. “And they eat the children they steal.”

  He started singing a song about thieving goblins. Rownie turned away and looked at the pebble in his hand. “Hello,” he said, whispering low so the other two couldn’t hear him, and then he threw it as far as he could. The rock made a small splash when it hit the River, but the waters did not otherwise react.

  Stubble stopped singing and smacked the side of Rownie’s head. “Don’t get the River’s attention,” he said. “The floods will come for you.”

  Rownie rubbed his head with one hand. He didn’t look up. He watched the River. It was vast, and Rownie couldn’t look at it for long. There was too much of it to take in. He watched until he had to look away, and then he looked at the ravine walls to either side of the River, and after that he looked at the stones in front of him.

  Rownie had a brother older than any of the siblings who shared Graba’s shack, an actual birth-brother. They looked alike, both of them dark with dark eyes—eyes you couldn’t easily see the bottom of. Everyone called the brothers Rowan and Little Rowan. After a while “Little Rowan” shortened into “Rownie.” Rownie had never had a name of his own. Their mother drowned before she’d had a chance to name him.

  He also didn’t know how old he was. Vass kept saying that Rownie was eight years old. She remembered everyone’s birthday, but she didn’t always tell the truth about birthdays, and Rownie suspected that she was lying about his. He was sure he was closer to ten.

  Rownie and Rowan used to throw pebbles together, right on this spot on the Fiddleway Bridge. They would listen to the musicians, and Rowan would tell stories about the River and about their mother; how she had skippered a barge and gone down with it just underneath the Fiddleway. Only Rowan was able to swim to shore. He carried Rownie with him.