Page 23 of The Goblin and The Dancer
“This is all they had on ’em, boss,'' one of the goblins said, dropping a handful of coins into Ratiga’s hand. Paul had been the only one carrying money, and Ratiga’s men had divested him of it earlier.
Ratiga peered at her palm. “Oh dear, I’m afraid this isn’t nearly enough.”
“Then maybe you should go ahead and give it back to me!” Paul retorted.
Ratiga shot him a stern look. “Watch your mouth, mister medals.” She snickered at her joke and sat back on her throne, crossing her legs. “So let me see. What have my men brought me today? A simpleton soldier, a common goblin, and a useless girl.” Ratiga gave Rosanna a hostile look. Her searching look for Grik and Paul had not been friendly, but it was Rosanna she looked at with intense dislike, the expression of a vain woman who couldn’t bear to have anyone prettier than herself in the room.
“My, my, what a dainty little thing.” Somehow, she made it sound like an insult.
Rosanna flushed, and Grik fumed inwardly. Rosanna was so much more than her outward appearance. It was the beauty shining from within that made him love her: her kindness, gentleness, and grace. With just a few words, Ratiga had reduced Rosanna to a mere bauble.
Ratiga examined her fingernails. “Well, poppets, whoever you are, you’re in big trouble. If you are very lucky—and you don’t look like the lucky sorts—you’ll get out of here with your lives more or less intact and your pockets a little emptier.”
“A toll?” Paul cut in. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Ratiga glowered at him. “You’re new here, but I should think even a fool would realize that you do not interrupt when I am speaking. What part of ‘toll’ do you not understand? All who wish to pass through my domain safely must pay the price.”
“That’s outrageous!” Paul spluttered. “We may be underground, but we are still in Auverne, and as such, you are subject to the laws of your sovereign queen.”
Ratiga leaped to her feet. “Down here, I am queen. I am the mistress of this realm, and no pink young puppy is going to tell me what I can and cannot do.” She sat back down, waving away a bottle that a goblin was pushing at her that was marked in all capitals:for digestion. “You’ll find that the long arm of the law does not reach us down here.”
Paul drew himself up. “Perhaps you don’t realize who you are dealing with. I am an officer of Her Majesty’s army, thrice decorated for my service, and a personal friend of—”
“No one!” Rosanna suddenly broke in.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“He’s a batman,” Rosanna hurried on. “He only pretends to be an officer to impress people. He stole those medals.”
“Rosanna!” Paul gasped, almost reeling. “How could you?”
“I’m just a poor dancer on scholarship,” Rosanna went on hurriedly, carefully omitting the fact that she was the Metropolitan’s star attraction and quite valuable to the company. “And Grik is just . . . a janitor.” She darted Grik an apologetic look, as if to assure him she didn’t really mean it.
But Grik had already guessed what Rosanna was trying to do: she was hoping that Ratiga would think they weren’t worth her time and that she would let them go.
Grik had also guessed that such an attempt would never work. He had seen enough of the rougher parts of Auverne to know that people like this never simply let you go.
He was the one that had put Rosanna and Paul in danger, and it was up to him to save them. When he caused Paul to fall off that bridge, he knew he had lost every right to fight for Rosanna’s heart. Even if Rosanna could have cared for a goblin, she could never care for a sinner. He had to accept that he had lost his chance to win her.
He heard himself speak as if from very far away, but his whisper still cut through the clamor around him like the sudden ringing of a bell.
“I’ll be the toll.”
Through the pounding in his head and heart, Grik was aware of Rosanna and Paul staring at him in astonishment.
“You?” Ratiga gave a little trill of laughter. “Are you so valuable, then?”
Grik puffed out his chest and tried to look hardy, even though his heart felt as if it were melting inside him. “I’m strong—I can work hard for you. Let me be your slave and let the others go.”
Ratiga examined her hands with a bored expression, then snapped her fingers. One of the goblins handed her a nail file. She rapped him on the head with it after she took it, seemingly by mere habit. He stepped back into his alcove, glaring and rubbing his head.
“Why should I keep only one when I could have all three? As a businesswoman, I can’t let potential profit slip through my fingers. That would be . . .” She looked around. “What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Irregular?” an elf guard suggested.
“Shortsighted?” another dared.
“Stupid?” the goblin who had been hit earlier by the nail file mumbled.
