The speaker was a male troll, bulkier than Shubre, with a wide, blemished-notched face and arms like scarred tree trunks. He sat alone, sipping something viscous and steaming. He twisted around to address us.
“Durik,” he said proudly. “Durik Stonecleave. Last honest troll in the trade routes.”
“That’s not saying much,” Vesper mumbled.
Durik’s grin was all teeth around his tusks, one of which had either been filed down or cut off. “I’d like to offer you a trade,” he said. “I happen to have an invitation to the Spring Jubilee.”
We all went still.
Thistle drummed her fingers against her tankard. “And how did you come by this invitation?”
“A handful are always sent to Drautsmire, but the king never expects any trolls to attend. We find the invitations to be far more useful as bargaining chips.”
“Well then, show us,” Branrir challenged.
Reaching into a grimy canvas pack slung beside his chair, Durik pulled out a handkerchief and unwrapped it. Inside lay an invitation. The parchment shimmered like morning frost. Elegant, scrawling script wove across the page. Violets bloomed and shed their petals across the corners in a slow, mesmerizing loop.
“Hmm,” Branrir leaned closer. “May I?”
Durik handed him the invitation.
Branrir tilted the seal to the light, sniffed the edge of the parchment, and even tested a corner with the tip of his tongue. “It’s authentic,” he declared.
“Of course it is,human,” Durik grumbled, snatching the invitation back.
Mav didn’t miss a beat. “You said you wanted a trade. What is it you’re after?”
The troll leaned back and grinned. “I want my spoon back.”
Thistle nearly spat out her wine. “Your...spoon?”
“That’s right.” He thumped a meaty hand on the table for emphasis. “Family heirloom. Part of a seven-piece antique set. Been in the Stonecleave line for nine generations.” He sniffed. “Filthy little goblin stole it.”
A groan escaped Mav as he shuddered. “Please don’t say the g-word.”
“Goblin,” Durik repeated, enjoying himself far too much. “Plucked it right out of my pack while I was bartering with a Tremor for some cursed dirt.”
“I’m sorry,cursed dirt?” Vesper asked, then held up a paw. “No. You know what—never mind. Continue.”
“Goblin slipped into the crowd,” Durik went on, “Took my spoon straight to Rouzbeh.”
The word landed with a weight I did not understand. All of my companions visibly tensed.
“Of course it’s in Rouzbeh,” Thistle muttered. “Where else would a stolen spoon end up?”
“Rouzbeh?” I asked, looking between them.
“The goblin black market,” Branrir explained. “Nasty place. Illegal trading, cursed objects, bad food, worse company.”
“Is it...new?” I ventured.
Thistle lifted a shoulder. “To you, maybe. Hard to say. It’s been expanding over the last few decades.”
An additional inconvenience of sleeping through centuries was that entire underground economies sprang up.
“And you’resureyour spoon is there?” Mav asked, rubbing at his temple, as if this entire conversation gave him a headache.
“Yes,” Durik grumbled.
