They carried short, stout dirks in skarkskin sheaths.

“That’s their chief,” whispered the schoolmaster. “A woman named Sakkali Oafish.”

A troll woman in leather leggings and a grey scarf rubbed the belly of her pregnant companion and scowled around her.

“She’s just got wind of the scam-I mean the scheme,” said the clerk. “Oooh, dark night, alley, that carving knife: not for me.”

“When their babies want to suck, the Glikkuns offer the knife instead of the tit,” said the goodwife. “Puts ‘em off milk at once and stunts their growth, making ‘em more Glikkuny than ever.”

“The Wizard of Oz wants emeralds, he gets emeralds,” said the schoolteacher. “The Wizard of Oz makes the laws. In this case, the law of supply and demand. He demands it, they supply it. End of discussion.”

“The Wizard of Oz,” said the Lion, remembering the question of the Ozmists. He wished he had the nerve to say “The WOO” in a superior, derogatory tone, but he didn’t trust himself to be able to carry it off.

“The Wizard of Oz, yes. You just crawl out from under some rock?-the chief potentate, if self-proclaimed, of the whole beloved country, thank you very much. He has recently kicked off a schedule of public works in the Emerald City that requires a goblin-hoard of emeralds. A fourfold increase from the usual amount requisitioned. The Glikkuns have stepped up production in their mines and arranged for transport of the emeralds to Traum. Here they collect their fees in cash and grain and medicine.”

“And vermouth,” intoned the clerk, knowingly.

“You serve trolls in here, don’t you,” said the goodwife.

“Their coin weighs the same as yours,” said the clerk. “Madame.”

“The economy of Traum relies on the trolls,” said the schoolmaster. “And I don’t know why they should be complaining. Business has never been so brisk for them. Ever. But, my dear boy,” he continued to the clerk, “I do think you could make a legitimate argument for barring the door against an angry mob.”

If the seven-person family group outside constituted a mob, it wasn’t entirely angry. The Glikkun baby chortled as it sucked on a sugar stick.

“What’s their gripe?” asked Brrr, going toward the back of the shop, pretending to inspect the wares displayed there-a line of women’s foundation garments. Camisoles, bustiers, smocks, and pantaloons.

“Close the door up, mercy on us,” hissed the goodwife to the clerk.

The schoolmaster rooted through his purse to pay for his snuff. “Sakkali Oafish has just gotten wind of an…an irregularity, shall we say, in the arrangements. The Traum merchants are paying the Glikkuns the going rate for emeralds, fair and square and in conformance with trade agreements-but our merchants are transporting the crop of jewels by rail down to Shiz, and they have begun to mark up the wares fourfold. For the simple job of loading emeralds onto the trains and unloading them several hundred miles south, the merchants are getting fat on the labor and product of the Glikkun miners.”