Page 7 of The Goblin and The Dancer
Grik slipped into the chamber and sealed himself in, clicking the copper latch in place. He suddenly remembered that he hadn’t checked the morning’s report on the state of the tunnels, but he shoved the thought from his mind. He was sure it was fine.
He pushed his foot down through the open floor of the tube until his toes could kick at the valve beneath the tube runners that would release the jet of air and propel him forward. He kicked the valve and was thrust back into his seat as the tube shot forward at a terrific rate, speeding through the tunnel with the swiftness of a bullet and sending Grik flying forward beneath the feet of the city folk above him.
As his pulse raced from the sudden motion, Grik felt a mild rush of pride. Goblins might be ugly and boring, but they certainly could build.
Within a few minutes, the tube began to slow and arrived at the end of the line with a slight sigh of decompressed air. Grik unlocked the tube and reached out into the tunnel to find the control to open another secret door that opened into yet another chamber. It was but the first of many. He had to clamber out of a variety of tunnels and scuttle through a myriad of different crypts and cellars to reach the next tunnel switchback.
Although he had to rush from line to line, Grik still reached the district he desired within fifteen minutes. He wiggled through the cellar of a tailor’s shop and popped out into an alleyway, making his way nimbly to the main thoroughfare and into the grey glare of the day.
He was in the northern outskirts of the city, where the Mont-Marsan river ran straight through the city as if it were a main boulevard.The townhouses here were built directly on the riverbanks, and all shared a common retaining wall that separated the buildings from a few feet of riverbank and the water beyond.
The townhouses were flat-roofed, doubling as balconies for the families within, with low walls creating some privacy for each home. At the back of the townhouse roof was a slightly taller wall, separating the last few feet of roof from the individual balconies and thereby creating a communal walkway that ran the length of the townhouse. This walkway could be accessed by pedestrians who didn’t live on the riverbank by flights of stairs on either side of the townhouses, but it was mostly quickly accessed by the river residents. Each private balcony had a little door that opened onto the walkway that was used as a public “road” by those wishing to access the river. Intermittent rows of stone steps led straight down from the walkway to the riverbank and various jetties, where individuals could take water taxis or their own small boats up and down the river.
But no one was sailing or rowing today. The Mont-Marsan was churning today with frightening ferocity. An unusually warm week had caused floods to pour down into the valley. The banks oozed with mud, and half-buried tree roots writhed along the shore like eerie tentacles.
Grik looked down at the black rushing water and shuddered. He would hate to be in that river on any day, let alone a day like this. One would be swept away forever.
No one was out on the rooftop walkway today, so no one delayed or intercepted Grik as he made his way up a public entrance to the roof and began working his way across the townhouse “road” towards the Bridge of Cobbles.
A beautiful arched bridge crossed the river at the very middle of Mont-Marsan, connecting the two halves of the city that were separated by water. It was broad enough for four or five carriages to pass over it at once. On either side of the bridge were wide pedestrian walkways and overlooks. It was a popular place for picnickers . . . or lovers.
The bridge was covered by a raised wooden roof supported by decorative columns that rose from the rails of the bridge, providing protection from the falling rain.
Grik took shelter at the far end. There wasn’t a great deal he could do about his appearance—not that he could ever do much for his appearance—but he brushed the puddles of coalesced rainwater off his shoulders and smoothed his prickly hair down as best as he could.
He peered around the column he had ducked behind, glancing down the bridge and spotting the carriage midway down the bridge and Rosanna and Paul standing a few feet away, leaning against the rail.
They were looking over the river. Rosanna was pointing at a bank of clouds, and Paul made some light acknowledgement. Grik noted that the elf soldier was holding on to Rosanna’s elbow possessively with the same grip that he used on his cane, as if she were the only thing holding him up.
Grik’s blood boiled, and he heard his breath whistling in his ears with short, angry jerks.He couldn’t bear to see that horrible man touching her; he couldn’t stand to see Paul standing where he wanted to be—by Rosanna’s side.
And yet—the realization made him feel nearly sick—they looked right together from here. They were two sides of the same beautiful coin, on the exterior. But Paul wasn’t nearly good enough for Rosanna! He didn’t deserve her.
But did Grik?
His racing heart paused, stuttering to a stop as he shied away from that thought.
He nervously adjusted the bright bow on the box of rock candy and smoothed his hair one more time.
If he really wanted to win Rosanna’s heart, he had to actually start trying. He quailed at the thought of approaching her at the same time Paul was there—when she could literally look from one to the other and compare the knobby janitor with the handsome soldier.
Perhaps he should wait until he could get her alone. If this was his one and only chance, he should at least make his best effort and try to present himself in the most appealing light possible.
He looked back down the bridge, and he thought he saw Rosanna smiling. He paused in mid-step. He couldn’t do it—not now; not while he was here. He nearly turned and ran away.
But he couldn’t walk away while they were standing together—it felt too much like defeat, as if he were giving up before he had even begun.
If he thought about it one second longer, he would lose his nerve.
He sighed and whispered encouragement to himself. “Come on, Grik. Now or never.”
He crept down the bridge towards the two taller figures, but they never turned towards him; they were too absorbed in one another to see him. Shame choked him: he was too small, too insignificant to even be noticed by these two—he had never felt uglier or more out of place and unwanted in his life.
He waited until he was a few feet away. They still hadn’t noticed him. He was too invisible. It was all he could do to scrape up enough nerve to clear his throat.
Rosanna turned, and she smiled at him, melting away some of his misery.
“Why, Grik! What are you doing here?”
