The Islands of the Blessed by Nancy Farmer Page B

the top of the cliff. “It’s lasted well, but then, the man who built it was an excellent architect.”
    â€œYou know who built it?” asked Jack, who recalled that until recently the hobgoblins had scarcely aged at all. The Bugaboo could be very old indeed.
    â€œI
saw
who built it,” the hobgoblin king said. “He was a poet exiled for writing rude poetry about his emperor. He painted the walls to resemble a Roman garden to cheer up his wife. There used to be a bathhouse over there before part of the cliff crumbled into the sea.”
    â€œHe had a pair of brats who threw stones at me when I surprised them in the woods,” the Nemesis said, grinning wickedly.
    Jack felt a chill that was something like being in the presence of a
draugr,
but not as deep or dire. It was more of a passing sadness, a faint memory of a beloved dwelling, now lost in time.
    The Nemesis put the Bard down and steadied him as the old man found his feet. “Thanks, old friend,” the Bard said. “Magic tires me out more than it used to.”
    â€œStuff and nonsense,” the hobgoblin said gruffly. “Fighting monsters always takes it out of you, no matter how old you are.” Jack was surprised by how respectful the Nemesis was.
    Hazel darted past them. “Da! It’s the ugly mud woman,” she called. “Where’s the pretty one?”
    â€œIf you touch those baskets, I’ll kill you,” came Thorgil’s voice from inside.
    Hazel laughed like a hobgoblin; the sound resembled someone choking on a piece of gristle.
Dear God,
thought Jack.
What are Mother and Father going to think of her?
    Mr. Blewit hurried inside and snatched up the little girl before she could get into trouble.
    Jack saw to his consternation that Thorgil had gone hunting and made a stew with the results. She usually avoided such work, but her good mood must have impelled her to cook. She could no longer use a bow and arrow, but her skill with a spear or a sling was excellent. The shield maiden’s cooking methods were basic, however, and she tended to leave shreds of fur in the mix. Jack saw what looked like squirrels bobbing around.
    â€œSmells interesting,” said the Bugaboo, opening his nostrils very wide. “Perhaps it would benefit from a few mushrooms—”
    â€œThere you go, criticizing the cook before you’ve properly greeted her,” the Nemesis complained. “I apologize for my rude companion, Thorgil, and for dropping in on you so unexpectedly—great toadstools!” The hobgoblin leaped out of the way as Seafarer made a stab at him. Jack had forgotten how very nimble hobgoblins could be. The Nemesis clung to the ceiling by his sticky toes and fingers.
    Thorgil laughed merrily. She said something in Bird to the albatross, and he slouched off to the alcove. “I, at least, welcome you,” she said. “Seafarer has never seen anything like you before.”
    â€œI’ve never seen anything like him either,” said the Nemesis, dropping down. “Is he a troll-seagull or what?”
    â€œAn albatross from the far south. Seafarer says there are thousands of his kind there.”
    â€œLet’s hope they stay there,” muttered the Nemesis.
    â€œGreetings, noble shield maiden,” the Bugaboo said, bowing deeply. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
    They sat around the fire with bowls of stew, which wasn’t as bad as Jack had feared. Fortunately, there was a good supply of bread, for the hobgoblins ate ravenously. Hazel licked out her bowl and clamored for more. After they had finished, the Bard explained about the trading journey to Bebba’s Town.
    â€œYou’re low on food! You should have told us,” exclaimed the Bugaboo. “The Nemesis and I will go fishing. There’s nothing like hobgoblin toes to attract a fat fish.” He held out his foot, wriggling the long toes temptingly in different directions. Hazel