A male voice invaded the room on a wave of background noise. ‘Hi sis. Just ringing to wish you a Happy New Year. I think we’re in Ulan Bator but I’m not quite sure: the fermented mare’s milk tends to cloud my geography. Anyway, we’re in a yurt somewhere and a wizened rustic is strumming his souzouki…’
‘Bouzouki,’ murmured Fern. ‘Which is Greek, not Mongolian. Idiot.’ What music they could hear was pure disco, Eastern-Eurostyle.
‘Shine jiliin bayar hurgeye, as they say over here,’ her brother concluded. ‘Be seeing you.’ Bleep.
‘Shin jillian what?’ echoed Gaynor.
‘God knows,’ said Fern. ‘He’s probably showing off. Still,’ she added rather too pointedly, ‘he hasn’t any hang-ups.’
‘I know,’ said Gaynor, reminded uncomfortably of her abortive non-affair with Fern’s younger brother. ‘That’s what scared me. It gave me nothing to hold on to. Anyhow, he’s obviously airbrushed me from his memory. You said you told him I was staying here, but…well, he didn’t even mention my name.’
‘He doesn’t have to,’ Fern responded. ‘He wouldn’t normally bother to phone just to wish me Happy New Year. I suspect he called for your benefit, not mine.’
‘We never even slept together,’ Gaynor said. ‘Just one kiss…’
‘Exactly,’ said Fern. ‘You’re the one that got away. A career angler like Will could never get over that. You couldn’t have done better if you’d tried.’ Gaynor flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fern resumed. ‘I know you weren’t trying. Look…there’s a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge. Let’s have our own celebration.’
They discarded coat and wrap, kicked off their shoes. Fern deposited her jewellery on a low table, took a couple of glasses from a cabinet, and fetched the champagne. After a cautious interval, the cork gave a satisfactory pop. ‘Happy New Year!’ Fern curled up in a big armchair, tucking her legs under her.
Gaynor, on the sofa, sat knees together, feet apart. ‘Happy New Century. It’s got to be better than the old one.’
‘It doesn’t start quite yet,’ her friend pointed out. ‘2001 is the first year of the century. This is the in-between year, millennium year. The year everything can change.’
‘Will it?’ asked Gaynor. ‘Can you see?’
‘I’m a witch, not a seeress. Everything can change any year. Any day. Dates aren’t magical—I think. All the same…’ Her expression suddenly altered, hardening to alertness. She set down her glass. ‘There’s something here. Now. Something…that doesn’t belong.’ Her skin prickled with an unearthly static. The striation of green in her eyes seemed to intensify, until they shone with a feline brilliance between the shadow-painted lids. Her gaze was fixed on the shelving at the far end of the room, where a vase rocked slightly on its base for no visible reason. Without looking, she reached for the switch on the table-lamp. There was a click, and the room was in semi-darkness. In the corner beside the vase there seemed to be a nucleus of shadow deeper than those around it. The light had extinguished it, but in the gloom it had substance and the suggestion of a shape. A very small shape, hunch-shouldered and shrinking from the witch’s stare. The glow of the street-lamps filtering through the curtains tinted the dark with a faint orange glimmer, and as Gaynor’s vision adjusted it appeared to her that the shape was trembling, though that might have been the uncertainty of its materialisation. It began to fade, but Fern moved her hand with a Command hardly louder than a whisper, soft strange words which seemed to travel through the air like a zephyr of power. ‘Vissari! Inbar fiassé…’ The shadow condensed, petrifying into solidity. Fern pressed the light switch.
And there it was, a being perhaps three feet high assembled at random from a collection of mismatched body parts. Overlong arms enwrapped it, the stumpy legs were crooked, mottled fragments of clothing hung like rags of skin from its sides. Slanting eyes, indigo-black from edge to edge, peered between sheltering fingers. A narrow crest of hair bristled on the top of its head and its ears were tufted like those of a lynx. It was a monster in miniature, an aberration, ludicrously out of place in the civilised interior.
Neither girl looked particularly shocked to see it.
‘A goblin,’ said Fern, ‘but not resident. And I didn’t ask anyone to advertise.’
‘How could it come in uninvited?’ asked Gaynor. ‘I thought that was against the Ultimate Law.’
‘Some creatures are too simple or too small for such laws. Like cockroaches, they go everywhere. Still…this is a witch’s flat. Even a cockroach should be more careful.’ She addressed the intruder directly. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’
The goblin mumbled inaudibly.
‘Louder,’ said Fern. ‘Intona!’
‘Not a house-goblin,’ the creature said with evident contempt. ‘I’m a burglar.’
‘What have you stolen?’ asked Fern.
‘Nothing,’ the goblin admitted. ‘Yet.’
‘You know who I am?’
Mumble.
‘Good,’ said Fern. ‘So you came here to steal something specific, from me. I expect you thought I would be out much later on Millennium New Year’s Eve. Who sent you?’
Warty lids flickered briefly over the watchful eyes. ‘No one.’
‘Was it Az—. Was it the Old Spirit?’ said Gaynor.
‘He wouldn’t use an ordinary goblin,’ said Fern. ‘He thinks they’re beneath him.’ She lifted her hand, pointing at the intruder with forked fingers, murmuring words too soft to be heard. A tiny gleam of light played about her fingertips, like the sparkle in a champagne glass. ‘Who sent you?’
The goblin held its breath, flinched, squeezed its eyes tight shut and then opened them very wide. ‘The Queen!’ it squeaked. ‘I steal for the Queen! Not for gods or demons! I’m a royal burglar, I am! I—’
‘Mabb,’ said Fern, relaxing slowly. ‘I see. I suppose she…Of course, I know what she wants. Tell her it isn’t here, and it’s not mine anyway. It’s held in trust, tell her, a sacred trust. It’s not a thing to be stolen or bartered. Say I know she will understand this, because she is a true queen who appreciates the value of honour.’
‘Who’s Mabb?’ asked Gaynor, sotto voce.
‘The queen of the goblins,’ whispered Fern. ‘Not much fairy in her, so I hear.’
‘Does she appreciate the value of honour?’
‘I doubt it, but I’m told she responds to flattery. We’ll see.’ She raised her voice again. ‘What’s your name?’
The goblin pondered the question, evidently considering whether it was safe to answer. ‘Humans call me Skuldunder,’ he conceded eventually.
‘Well, Skuldunder,’ said Fern, ‘since you’re here, and it’s a special occasion, will you have some champagne?’
‘Is it good?’ The goblin scrambled down from the shelf and approached warily, radiating suspicion.
‘Have you never stolen any?’
There was a shrug, as if Skuldunder was reluctant to admit to any shortfall in his criminal activities.
Fern took another glass from the cupboard and half filled it. ‘Try it,’ she said.
The goblin sniffed, sipped, grimaced.
‘We will drink to your queen,’ Fern announced. ‘Queen Mabb!’
They drank, solemnly. When Fern judged