The Blade

Chapter 21

"Lithen, old man.  I know that'th my carriage, becauth it wath my crew what nicked it in the firtht plathe.  Tho you can jutht thut-up up about mithunderthtandingth and thertificateth of ownerthip and all that kind of thit.  Now pith off, before I put a bolt through your young friend'th head—I wouldn't wathte one on the liketh of you."

Although George  was finding his fang-induced lisp a little hard to understand, the message conveyed by the crossbow the gnoblin-leader was pointing at him was all too clear.  "Uh, Grandpa...?"

"Quiet, boy.  The grown-ups are talking.  Look, fang-face, you and I both know you're not going to shoot some kid in the middle of the road, in broad daylight."  He gestured at the rows of double-storey wooden dwellings that lined the street.  "Too many witnesses.  Somebody would call the Watch."

"The Watch?"  Muckflap grinned happily.  "Not from around here, are you, old-timer?

"You'd be surprised," muttered Grandpa.

The gnoblin gave no sign of having heard him.  "Trutht me," he continued, "the Watch ith of no conthern to the Nithe Boyth.  They mind their own buthiness and we mind ourth.  And ath for witnetheth?"  He glanced around at the windows that opened onto the street, before bellowing, "Any witnetheth here?"

With impressive coordination, and even more impressive speed, every window slammed shut.

Muckflap turned back to Grandpa, with a sad shake of his head.  "Thocking, ithn't it, the lack of thivil conthern in thociety, thethe dayth?  Now, I believe you and your grandthon"—George did not like the emphasis the gnoblin gave the word (or the spray of saliva that accompanied it)—"were jutht about to pith off."

Grandpa sighed the sigh of a pet-owner confronted with a particularly recalcitrant puppy, who absolutely refuses to whizz anywhere but on the kitchen floor.  "Fine, have it your way.  I've got better things to do than waste my time standing in the street arguing with a thick-headed gnoblin gangster.  We'll just collect our gnomes and be on our way."

"Your gnometh?  I don't think tho, popth.  It wath one of them little baththardth who thtole my property.  He'th gotta pay the prithe."

From the vicinity of the carriage, a faint, "Stole?  Stole?  I procured.  I appropriated.  I attained.  I—" could be heard.

Grandpa considered for a moment.  "Fine, whatever.  In that case, we'll just collect our gnome and be on our way."

"Grandpa!" protested George, "we have to—"

"Shut it, boy," barked Muckflap, reinforcing the instruction with a threatening waggle of his crossbow.  "No gnometh are going anywhere.  It was Pubeflange what thaw the nicking, but given them two little buggerth look pretty much the thame, he'th not actually thure which one it wath.  Tho they'll both be getting the treatment, alright?  Now, for the latht time, pith off!"

Grandpa shrugged.  "Fair enough.  C'mon, Georgie—you can't say I didn't try.  Let's get out of here."

"What?  No!  Grandpa, we can't."

"We can and we will.  Look, boy, sometimes you have to know when you're licked.  You have to know which battles are worth picking—and this one isn't.  So, shut your face, and move."

"You heard grampth, runt.  Off you go."  A leering Muckflap pointed the way with his crossbow.  "Move fatht enough and maybe you won't hear the thcreamth."

George cast a desperate glance at his grandfather, but the old man was already walking away.  He turned to the gnoblin, but one look at that face was enough to convince him any pleas for mercy would be nothing more than so much hot air.  Finally, he looked back at the carriage, to see two diminutive, solemn (and in one case, slightly outraged) faces peering back at him through the windscreen.  Squaring his shoulders, he swallowed, and took a deep breath.