The Assassination of Brangwain Spurge: Chapters 11–18

A candy vendor was barking about sweet, chewy manna that had crystallized on the stalagmites of Thulm.

A candy vendor was barking about sweet, chewy manna that had crystallized on the stalagmites of Thulm.

Over the noise and bustle, Werfel yelled, “I have been so looking forward to showing you our city!”

The young man waved back and sang out with a smile, “My gorge fills with hate for you, you ancient, decayed sack of manure!”

Werfel didn’t say anything, because he did not want his guest to feel unwelcome, but he knew that once they got beyond the bounds of his own neighborhood, prying eyes would be glaring at the elfin guest.

“This on the left is the Noble Hall of Justice, where we hold trials. And see over there, over that wall? That pointy, crystal spire is the Well of Lightning.”

The elf goggled at the weird structure.

Just as he was about to panic, however, the crowd parted, and Brangwain Spurge stumbled out, looking harried.

They were met by a whole rank of goblin trumpeters dressed in elfin livery, playing a harsh goblin fanfare.

They were met by a whole rank of goblin trumpeters dressed in elfin livery, playing a harsh goblin fanfare.

She laughed and called for her children, who all danced up, dressed weirdly in little elfin frocks.

There were arches of spun sugar, towers of pastry, basted birds posed for flight.

“Well,” said Lady du Burgh conspiratorially, “not every little detail, of course, despite our best efforts. We apologize that we had to make a few substitutions, Archivist. We couldn’t get actual hummingbirds in the Bonecruel Mountains, for instance, so we had to make do with a flight of baked carrion crows. But you’ll find the bluebell velouté sauce and the ambrosia reduction absolutely authentic. You won’t notice a thing!”

“Well,” said Lady du Burgh conspiratorially, “not every little detail, of course, despite our best efforts. We apologize that we had to make a few substitutions, Archivist. We couldn’t get actual hummingbirds in the Bonecruel Mountains, for instance, so we had to make do with a flight of baked carrion crows. But you’ll find the bluebell velouté sauce and the ambrosia reduction absolutely authentic. You won’t notice a thing!”

“Well,” said Lady du Burgh conspiratorially, “not every little detail, of course, despite our best efforts. We apologize that we had to make a few substitutions, Archivist. We couldn’t get actual hummingbirds in the Bonecruel Mountains, for instance, so we had to make do with a flight of baked carrion crows. But you’ll find the bluebell velouté sauce and the ambrosia reduction absolutely authentic. You won’t notice a thing!”

Werfel said, “Sir du Burgh is a soldier, not a diplomat. You must excuse him.”

Regibald asked with irritation, “What are you two chatting about?”
“Pleasantries,” said Werfel. “The Elven language is excellent for party trifles.”

He looked at the smiles on the faces of the kids, the grease on the cheeks of the other guests, and mused that this was what goblin life should be like all the time: eating, laughing, ribbing.

“Magister Spurge,” she said, “perhaps to settle your stomach, a little music?” She made a gesture, and a bard was wheeled out on a platform.

Werfel ducked his head and, worried about offending someone, suggested softly, “Sorry, Your Ladyship, sorry, sorry, but maybe, Your Ladyship, we might ask the bard to play a goblinish tune? One that the singer is more familiar with? Our esteemed guest may prefer to hear our music, since he has deigned to come so far to our prosperous land.”

In Old Goblinish, it was a lament sung by the hero Walgund in the days following the destruction of his city by King Degravaunt of the Elves, when the elfin armies overran the forests.

“You call this entertaining a guest?” Magister Spurge asked. “You ask your bard to sing a war ballad about killing my people? I can hear the noise in his voice!”

This wretched kingdom is exactly as I had always heard it would be! A barbarian nation interested in nothing but war! With no culture of its own! So you must borrow ours, the culture of the most refined race in this world—the culture of the greatest, noblest, and fairest court to ever raise turret to the clouds...

This wretched kingdom is exactly as I had always heard it would be! A barbarian nation interested in nothing but war! With no culture of its own! So you must borrow ours, the culture of the most refined race in this world—the culture of the greatest, noblest, and fairest court to ever raise turret to the clouds...

...your fine clothes are nothing but elfin fashion, made ugly and strange on your bestial bodies, and you mock our great heroes in your songs!

First, Tenebrion’s a nasty place, of course, and the goblins live in utter squalor, filth, and poverty.

And when they’re not setting up to attack us and lay the torch to our homes, they’re aping our fine ways, eating elfin foods, trying to be just like us.

We know that goblin women fight and rule alongside their men—hulking, ugly beasts, dreadfully unlike the beauties of our own elfin aristocracy, who are bred for their delicacy to be ornaments to society.

This is yet another example of goblin savagery, their lack of nobility and chivalry.

This is yet another example of goblin savagery, their lack of nobility and chivalry.

That’s the monstrosity we’re up against.

Pickles kept in dim crypts and basements by every family, each with their own recipe passed down from generation to generation.

He sat, looking conceited and uncomfortable, straight as a broom.

Magister Spurge did not seem much more pleased by the solemn Museum of Eminent Skins.

He did not take any interest in the discarded skins of famous goblin heroes and actors, despite all of the interesting dioramas.