Page 4 of The Goblin and The Dancer
He passed through the turnstile and then into the circular hub that allowed the flow of arriving goblins to sort themselves out into the tunnels that led to the goblinways of their choice.
Grik chose the right tunnel and padded down the narrow hallway that was lit with luminous mica and then stepped into the narrow atrium, where the platform for the route to Stone Town lay.
There were three other commuters waiting there—other goblins who worked in La Caen. Grik glanced at them out of the corner of his eye and wondered if they felt as unhappy as he did. But they didn’t look unhappy, only tired and hungry. And yet, if they worked amongst elves, they must surely love it there, just like he did . . . surely he wasn’t the only person in the whole world who felt this way. Was he?
The glass tube that each goblin rode in was sent rushing back with a whoosh of air, and the subsequent buzz from the bell above them confirmed that the track ahead was clear.
The pneumatic tube was sent away and back again three times before Grik could catch his ride, a wait of perhaps fifteen minutes in which he was left with nothing but his miserable thoughts as he shifted from foot to foot. Finally, it was his turn, and he had the wild rush of the tube ride to distract him as it sent him hurtling through darkness and then jerked to a halt a few minutes later.
He filed mechanically out onto the platform, wiggled through yet another atrium, and he was home. This particular route led directly into Stone Town’s local square, and he was immediately plunged into the bustle of the underworld.
Goblin town squares might be in the middle of a village, but they were never built in the middle of a cavern. Goblins didn’t like open spaces; they liked walls and edges. Consequently, this square, like many others, was a semicircle against the north side of the immense cavern, built around a long, silver waterfall that tumbled into a long pool surrounded by an iron fence to keep little goblins from tumbling in and ringed with stone benches for citizens to enjoy the view.
It wasn’t a bad view. But he liked the river view in the city above just as much. Maybe—guiltily—a little more.
There were small booths of shopkeepers selling food and snacks to travelers. Other booths sold handheld gas lamps and small weapons, in case goblins had to fight off whatever else might be using these subterranean tunnels. One could buy flowers or treats to bring home to the wife or lady and toys to distract the children on their way to goblin school. There was a post office, where all the mail was sorted and picked up every morning, and even a constable to keep order, though there were rarely any scuffles to break up. Goblins were not warlike people.
There was a large display in the center of the chamber with a freshly updated schematic of the goblinways, but there were always hawkers making their way about the place with their own maps that allegedly showed alternative and secret routes—not all of them accurate.
Grik shuffled up to Beck’s booth—a grizzled, old goblin whose booth was open twenty-four hours and always served hot food. Grik cast a dismal eye over the board that advertised the day’s specials, but nothing looked appetizing. He found himself thinking of one of those powdered sugar pastries that the elves sold in street booths up above.
The goblin in front of him collected his paper bag of food and shuffled off and Beck turned to Grik with a snaggletoothed grin.
“Hey, Grik! How’s the elf world?”
“It’s beautiful,” Grik mumbled.
Beck cocked a hairy eyebrow as if he hadn’t heard right. “Eh? What was that?”
“Uh, I mean, it’s . . . the same as always.”
Beck nodded, his face clearing. “That’s right, same old elf world, not for us goblins, eh? I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I don’t know how I stand it either,” Grik muttered. But he wasn’t talking about the world above.
“All that crawling about on the surface.”
. . . free as a bird, with nothing weighing you down,Grik thought.
“No nice, cozy cocoon of rock to make you feel safe. Not to mention all those nasty smells of fresh air—a goblin can’t breathe.”
I can,thought Grik.I can breathe better there than I can here. Up there, it’s like I’m breathing for the first time.
“Ugh, it doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s so . . .
Don’t say it.
“. . . different.”
For a moment, Grik was tempted to pick up one of the sandwiches and slam it into the seller's face. He would even pay to do it.
But, deep down, he didn’t want to hit anyone in the face with a sandwich. He simply wanted to be different without being wrong.
He wanted something he could never have.
Beck gave a little shudder and then brushed the subject away with the gesture that he might have used to push away an invasive slug. “Now then, what did you want for your dinner?”
“I’ll have—”
