Page 29 of The Goblin and The Dancer
Paul turned a jewel over with his fingers. “With all this, an elf could make a name for himself. Be important again.”
Grik looked over at him. “You’re already important,” he said, puzzled. “You’re an officer.”
Paul glanced away. He looked somehow different, younger, as if some mask he had been wearing had slipped and left a smaller version of himself behind.
Grik cocked his head. “I mean, you’re just on leave. Aren’t you going back to the front lines soon?”
“Of course.” Paul cleared his throat. “But an officer’s pay isn’t that high. That was all I meant.”
Grik held up a mirror and examined himself in it. He stopped immediately. A jewel-encrusted mirror did not improve his appearance one bit.
Paul stood up. “Come on; we didn’t come for this. All I want to find is that crown.”
“No,” Grik admitted. “But a few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. It’s almost like . . . like it was meant for us . . . to make up for everything.” Perhaps gold could make up for his sins. Perhaps this was his way out of the horrible guilt that gnawed at him. After all, if he hadn’t caused Paul to fall off that bridge, the elf would have never been able to line his pockets. Maybe he was meant to knock Paul into the river.
It occurred to some part of his mind that this reasoning didn’t seem strictly correct, but the glitter of gems helped him to ignore the twinge. He wondered to whom this treasure had originally belonged, but he dismissed the thought as unimportant. Goblins were great subscribers to the axiom, “Finders keepers.”
All Grik could think of was stuffing loot into the limited depositories that the clothing of a very small person allowed, so that he could sell it when he got home. Then he would have money—enough money to hire coaches and buy Rosanna a dozen pink roses every night and do all the things that Paul did for her. At long last, things would be fair.
Thinking of the elf, he looked up at Paul.
Paul had gotten a grip on himself and was now examining the cave with detached intensity, apparently searching for the crown. He looked embarrassed now over his momentary eagerness.
Grik, however, wasn’t embarrassed at all. He admired the string of bracelets on his arms and legs and sloshed over to a gilded, full-length mirror to observe the effect.“Look at this!” he whispered to Paul, watching, fascinated, at the prisms of light his body cast in all directions. He tried a few dance steps, setting the prisms to jigging and bobbing on the walls and ceiling.
“Quiet!” Paul hissed. He turned and stared at Grik. “What are you doing?”
Grik stopped wiggling and suddenly felt foolish.“I was thinking . . . I might disguise myself as a monster, and that could be how we escape,” Grik lied lamely. He took another look at Paul’s expression and hastily raised one foot and then the other to let the bracelets slide off his ankles.
“You don’t have to disguise yourself; you already look like one,” Paul said coldly as he turned away.
Grik glared at his retreating back, stung. But, as he stared at Paul, his anger melted away and his stomach twisted with guilt. Paul was proving himself the better man yet again. He was still searching for the crown. He was doing what he could to save them—or at least Rosanna—while Grik was as distracted and greedy as a toddler in a candy shop.
Abashed, Grik got up, cramming a last handful of jewels into his pockets and stringing some pearls about his neck before shuffling over to join Paul.
Paul noted the pearls around Grik’s neck with a raised eyebrow, and Grik squirmed under his judgmental gaze and looked away. As he did, his eye caught on a pile of what appeared to be weapons, and he dove towards it eagerly.
“Look at this, Paul!” He realized it was the first time he had ever used the elf’s name, but he was too relieved to wonder about it too much. At least now they would be armed.
Paul turned around with the silent beginnings of a glare, as if to say that if this were another bauble, Grik was in big trouble. But weapons were clearly his weakness, since his eyes brightened with interest when he saw what Grik was holding, and he came over to examine it.
“A steam-powered rocket launcher,” he whispered to Grik, demonstrating how it should be held to the shoulder to fire. “I’ve used these before in combat. They’re highly effective. But I doubt this one works anymore.” He handed the rocket launcher back to Grik.
“At least now we’ll be armed,” Grik pointed out.
Paul nodded.
Grik picked up something that looked like a silver orb. “What’s this?”
“A flashbang,” said Paul.
Grik put it down quickly.
Paul smirked a little. “It won’t blow you up; it will just make a lot of noise and blind you for a bit.”
Grik didn’t want to be blinded for any length of time. He stepped away from the weapons, while Paul selected a sword and scabbard and strapped them to his waist.He cast a loving eye over the pistols still remaining in the chest and turned away regretfully.
“We’ll check the powder in these guns later,” said the soldier. “Right now we need to find that crown.”
